Keeper of Faces

The pudgy cheeks were the most unnatural red during her first moments of life. I imagine she wailed at the tops of her lungs in her mother’s arms, and those dimples appeared. When her first steps would have become a confident run, her round cheeks nearly split her face in two--even as the little girl's features became more refined by the day. They flushed red when flying down her favorite playground slide just as they did when a teacher read the note she passed to a cute boy in her class.

Where the world saw one face, I saw another. I could feel my face tighten as her sweet beguiling smile left her unbeknownst to how cruel the world could be. Soon though, cheap makeup inevitably painted on by her friends covered up beautiful freckles. As most women did, she would look back at these years as defining how the world expected to see her.

She dutifully covered them on prom night with a careful hand, but the cheap alcohol, dancing, and feverish excitement wore down the painted face for one last night as the little girl with ruddy cheeks. Even as she laid her pencil down after her final college exam, everyone caught a glimpse of the now paled dimples. Her rare grin spread from ear to ear, and her freckles stood out proudly against ivory cheekbones.

Nothing changed for the woman's composed expressions behind a white veil, or a black one. In the best and the worst moments in her life--forced too close together by a stony fate--everyone around her would be struck by how her most defining feature would stay unchanged. Except for me. No amount of prosperity and tragedy stood a chance against generations of freckles and dimples.

We often believe that our experiences define us, but for her, I could see the light she was born with, and how the world covered it. I can see it. It reflected out for the world to see through blushing, dimpled, and freckled cheeks.

Enough. With a sigh, I pushed myself away from the desk and slid the pictures back into the folder. My job was not to see them for who they are, but for how they are to be remembered. But I couldn’t help it. I needed to see them for who they are because no one else did.

Now her red features needed an artist's hand--my hand--to capture the perfect facial expression. One of calm and serenity not of torment and agony. When she could no longer show the world what they expected to see, I was forced to choose between the beautiful soul and the images I was expected to imitate.

Clear as day, even her own smile was not enough for her to feel love. Everyone saw her loving expression, but never thought to look beyond a blushing teenager or a widowed bride. It's why she lay here on my table.

A mortician's job is painful, and I rolled my eyes and shrugged off the impending responsibility in the beginning. Twenty years later even the bottle of bourbon hidden in my desk doesn't make suicides any easier.

I glanced back at her pale face as I threw back the last of the bottle, those damned freckles glaring back at me. Her now pale cheeks held a burning complexity that no one would ever fully understand. Perhaps if someone thought to look a little harder, I would not be stuck with an impossible decision. Well, there is no decision. Not a real one anyway.

A woman with decades worth of experiences could be used to inspire change or passion. Her face alone could hold its own against the Helen of Troy. A face that cast a thousand ships. Her presence alone could inspire the lost to seek salvation, cause the adulterer to think twice, be the next inspiration to—

The sudden sounds of the front door chime startled me back to the cold slab in front of me. The family was here, and I’m behind schedule. I pulled out my small book of faces. The black cover is worn and decaying from both tears and rough hands, with flecks of cosmetic paint and debris falling toward the cold, antiseptic floor. My eyes watered as I knew what needed to be done. I methodically added her picture next to the others. Another face that the world would soon forget.

With a sigh, I picked up my paints and got to work.