Could You Love Me Like This?

Dr. Xander Murphy of the Pangaea Institute for the Unbeautiful stared at his own face in the mirror, running his fingers over the scar on his cheek that was not quite as noticeable under the short, scratchy beard he had grown in the last two days. It was the only reminder of the accident that could have ended his career, and the beard would cover it completely in five or ten days days’ time. Beckett had done a good job repairing the laceration, and his friend and fellow surgeon could be trusted not to tell anyone. For now he would simply have to be careful, using the basement-level back entrance that led through the morgue, taking the seldom used staircase in the east wing instead of the elevator in the atrium used by all of his coworkers, and wearing his blue surgical mask as often as possible. In the weeks following the accident, he had taken a leave of absence, claiming he had checked himself into a posh facility in New Washington that specialized in treating those suffering from PTSD. In reality, he had shut himself in his penthouse apartment with a bottle of bourbon.

In room 749 of the Pangaea Institute for the Unbeautiful, Z sat motionless on a small sofa, staring out the window of the minimalist hospital room where she had been confined after Max had decided that he didn’t love her anymore. Z had never imagined that she would someday become one of those women whose boyfriends or husbands had them committed to Pangaea after an injury or weight gain or the simple toll of time that caused a woman to look less youthful. While there were quite a few men who had found themselves in Z’s predicament, most of the residents of Pangaea were female.

According to the history books, society hadn’t always been like this. While some obsession with beauty and pressure to live up to impossible standards had always existed, it wasn’t until after the Great War of ‘72 and the disfigurements and genetic mutations caused by the radiation that humanity had begun to shun anyone whose appearance was a visible reminder of the ways in which the human form could inspire disgust or hinder attraction. As the survivors grouped together and re-formed a civilization amidst the ruins, those whose appearance had been shaped in some way by the nuclear bombs had found themselves at the fringes of society. Then President Byron Hilson had declared them a drain on the state’s resources and demanded that they undergo treatment in order to be reintegrated into society. It was then that the Pangaea Institute for the Unbeautiful was created, in hopes of rehabilitating those considered too ugly to be loved or even included in public life. While those committed in Z’s great-grandparents’ era were often hideously disfigured, Pangaea accepted all sorts of imperfections these days, from victims of car crashes and fires to those born with genetic defects to the overweight to women whose breasts were deemed too small or noses too big or skin too wrinkled by age. If humanity was to reclaim its place as a dominant force in the universe, some evolution was necessary, or so the prevailing ideology suggested.

That night, Xander was assigned to monitor the residents of the long-term trauma rehabilitation floor and create surgical plans designed to try to make them fit for social reintegration. While he felt pity for those assigned to the seventh floor, he hated this assignment, as these were the lost causes, and many of them died in Pangaea after months, years, even decades of unsuccessful attempts to repair their disfigured faces and bodies. Although Xander was widely considered the best plastic surgeon this side of New Washington, he wasn’t a miracle worker, and he hated accepting cases that could have no happy resolution. On the days he was assigned to the seventh floor, Xander drank a bit more bourbon than usual when he returned home to his penthouse.

As Xander entered room 749, the woman huddled on the settee wrapped her black cloak tighter around her body, turning to face him, the black cloth mask covering the lower half of her face making her expression unreadable. He could see the beginnings of a rather large scar running across the exposed portion of her face, and while one eye was brilliant and blue, the other was cloudy and sightless. The hospital allowed patients to cover themselves if they desired, and the woman had decided to obscure as much of her disfigured form as possible. Xander didn’t comment but instead reached for the medical chart hanging on the wall near the bed.

The chart was nearly blank, listing the woman’s identity only as Z. Although the records listed her age as 28, she had no date of birth, no address, no citizen identification number, and no next of kin. She had recently undergone multiple surgeries to repair severe damage to her face, arms, and torso, and one of her legs had been pieced back together with quite a bit of hardware. She had listed the cause of her injuries simply as a car accident when questioned. It was unknown where she had gone for the treatment that stabilized her and saved her life in the wake of the accident. A few days ago, she had been picked up at the request of a man listed simply as Max. She had remained mute since.

“Just Z, huh? That’s all I get?”

“That’s all that matters anymore. You’ll find everything that’s relevant in the chart. If we make this quick, I might not miss Vigil tonight. I’ve been looking forward to the season finale,” Z quipped, referencing a popular show about a masked superhero.

“You think Maya finally finds out Damien is the Shadow?”

“Come back at 9 and find out.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, Xander thought. He was trying to keep out of sight. No one would be looking for him here.

That night, Xander and Z started what was to become a tradition. He would join her for a nightly movie or show. They watched everything from superhero stories to classic films to goofy comedies. After the third night, Z even started answering some of his questions.

“What did you do before this?” He gestured vaguely to the hospital room.

“I was a teacher.”

“I can see that. You’re smart. What did you teach?”

“Mostly literature. Sometimes computer science. I was a double major.”

Xander grinned. “Impressive. How the hell does someone like you end up watching television in a place like this all day?”

“How does anyone? Did you know that Rosalie from down the hall was a concert violinist before her ex-husband decided that she wasn’t beautiful enough anymore? Or that Alexandra has a Ph.D. in physics, but she hasn’t worked since the fire?”

This conversation stayed with Xander for a while. He couldn’t imagine if no one cared that he had ever gone to medical school or that he was a gifted surgeon. It didn’t seem fair. Although he felt sorry for Z, he also admired her very much and began to look forward to their meetings. Once he had stopped at La Vie, a trendy new restaurant in town, on his way to work. For a second, he considered getting a table. Then he remembered how much Z loved to try new food. Instead, he ordered coq au vin and cherry and rose eclairs to go for two. On another occasion, while picking up his newly repaired laptop, he had decided to purchase an e-reader for Z with access to his entire electronic library. He wondered if she had ever read The Long Journey Home and what she thought of it. Just recently, he had been browsing an upscale department store for a couple of new suits. On his way from the entrance to the menswear section, he had passed through the jewelry department, where he saw a beautiful heart-shaped locket embellished with sapphires. It would be Z’s 29th birthday this coming Saturday. Without thinking, he asked the sales clerk if he could have it gift-wrapped.

The night he gave her the locket, Xander had asked Z a rather personal question. “It says in your file that you were in a car accident. What happened?”

“It was at the crosswalk on Capitol and First. I was walking behind a woman with a small child. A car ran the light. I didn’t even have time to really think. I pushed the little girl out of the way.”

Xander felt immense pride and sadness at once for her. “Smart and brave. Could you be any more beautiful?” Z hadn’t known what to say, but the silence seemed comfortable.

Another evening while sitting on the small sofa in Z’s room together watching Comedy of Errors, Xander finally asked Z all of the other things he really wanted to know. “So what’s Z short for?”

“Zinnia.”

“Pretty. Do you have a last name?”

“None that I want to go by anymore. My driver’s license said McPherson, but that was my husband’s name. Well, ex-husband, I suppose. I hear he has finally filed for divorce. Because I’m here.”

“What an asshole. How does a man leave someone like you?”

“Easy,” Zinnia replied, finally pulling back the cloak from her body and lowering the mask covering her face. Her arms and chest were covered in scar tissue. A long jagged line that had begun to fade from an angry red to a light pink tinged with white ran diagonally from her left temple to her jawline, and her face was dotted with other smaller scars. Although Xander was her doctor, she had never allowed him to see her like this before, and he hadn’t pressed her. He submitted proposed surgical plans to the board of directors of Pangaea, but he doubted they had even read them. The board didn’t pay too close attention to Xander’s work unless it was to be published in a prestigious journal or awarded a grant.

Xander had reacted without thinking upon really seeing Zinnia for the first time. He had known for some time that the feelings he had for her ran deeper than friendship. He instinctively reached out for her hand. Her breath caught and she smiled. Encouraged by her reaction, Xander pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her and smiling as she rested her head on his shoulder. He had shifted slightly after a moment, moving to kiss her, when she pulled back, avoiding eye contact.

“What is it?”

“Could you love me like this?” she whispered, her expression and her voice full of anxiety, thinking of Max and the day he had sent her here.

“How could I not?” he whispered, finally kissing her. After a moment, they broke apart, breathless. “To hell with this place. Come home with me,” he said.

Months later, Zinnia woke up to the smell of waffles and coffee, reflecting on how much her life had changed. She had left Pangaea that night with Xander, much to the surprise of everyone. The next morning, the board of directors had called to ask Xander if he was thinking clearly and to suggest that he return Zinnia to her room on the seventh floor. He had not only declined but had submitted his resignation. A few weeks later, Xander had decided to use some of the funds in his bank account to open his own clinic for those who needed and wanted his help. A young congresswoman had heard their story on the news and had introduced a bill to close Pangaea and end forced institutionalization of those considered “unbeautiful.” The bill was expected to pass in a few days’ time. The media hailed Zinnia as a hero, and she had been offered a teaching position at New Washington College. They were calling it a revolution, but Zinnia simply thought it was a return to normalcy. What really was “unbeautiful” anyway?