Skin Deep

20

A Jamaica Plain woman was found dead Sunday morning in her apartment on Payson Road. The case is being treated as “suspicious.”

The woman, Terry Farina, thirty-eight, was found in her second-floor apartment bedroom by a concerned friend and the building’s landlady, according to Cheryl Coombs, a Police Department spokeswoman. The friend and landlady called 911 after discovering her body.

Authorities refused to explain the exact nature of her death. All they revealed is that the woman died within twenty-four hours prior to her discovery. An autopsy is planned to determine the exact cause of death.

They have released a photo and a description of Terry Farina. She was five seven, and weighed one hundred and thirty pounds. She had red hair and blue eyes.

If the Farina death turns out to be a homicide, it would be the city’s thirty-ninth murder this year, seven more than last year at this time…

Dana opened the paper to a photograph of the woman on an inside page. Her age was listed as thirty-eight, but she looked younger in the undated shot. She had shoulder-length dark hair and a heart-shaped face with large eyes, a broad brow, a thin nose, and a short chin. It was eerie: except for the nose and brow, the woman could have passed for a younger version of herself.

According to Steve, someone had wrapped a stocking around her neck and snuffed out her life. Being married to a homicide cop for so many years did not mitigate the horror that someone could do that to another person. The woman had gotten up that morning, fixed her hair, dressed, made plans for the day, totally unaware that hours later she would die a hideous death. And here Dana was anguishing over her eyelids.

She folded the paper.

It was a little after ten when she finished doing her grades, wondering if it was the last time—a thought that made her a little sad. She would miss the kids. She still had another few weeks to give notice, but word had gotten out that she was considering resigning, because two students had left notes at the end of their exams, wishing her good luck but hoping she’d change her mind. One girl said that she was not only the best teacher she had had at Carleton but was her role model and wished she could take another course with her next year when she was a senior. The note was sweet but only added to Dana’s anxiety.

As she got ready for bed, she suddenly felt vulnerable. Maybe it was the Farina story and being alone in the house, but as she went through the rooms turning off the lights she felt an irrational fear rise up. When she and Steve were living together, the place felt safe, even with the constant reminders of the violence of life. Maybe it was Steve’s status as a cop that made it seem as if a protective field surrounded their home, especially out here in the proudly boring suburb of Carleton. But with Steve gone, the place felt cavernous and menacing, especially at night.

She was not interested in television and she was too distracted to read, so she put a Sinatra album into the CD player and poured herself a glass of Chardonnay. She turned the lights back on and settled in the family room. In a few minutes, she began to wonder what Steve was doing. Probably poring over crime scene reports. The more she wondered, the more she began to miss him.

He had supported her in nearly all of her major decisions—taking the teaching job at Carleton, sending job applications to pharmaceutical companies when she thought she had had enough. Even her decision to consider cosmetic surgery, in spite of his claim that he didn’t think she needed it. If it was something that would make her happy, he supported her. It was his guiding code. And he was steadfast in all but the inability to commit himself to having a family. Like a mental blockage, he simply could not get himself to make the move to parenting. Nor would he talk about it. As she stared at the phone, it struck her that no matter how much you think you know your partner—even after twelve years of marriage and five of courtship—there are small pockets of unknowns, little black holes in the soul where you cannot go. Where even he cannot go.

But the good news was that she had called Dr. Monks earlier in the day to say that she had made up her mind and wanted to get a lid lift, a nose job, and Restylane treatment for her smile lines. Her definitiveness apparently impressed him, because he said he could see her this Friday. That was an incredible break, thanks to pressure from Lanie.

The thought of ridding herself of her nose made her tingle.

She took her wine to her computer and went on Dr. Monks’s Web site. There was a photograph of him smiling, also shots of his office facilities. Below those was a list of all the professional organizations he belonged to and his medical training. Also a summary of awards for innovations in surgical procedures and his pioneering work in transplant surgery as well as commendations from cosmetic institutes all over the world—Sweden, France, Korea, the West Indies, and elsewhere.

A welcoming note explained how Dr. Monks and his staff were committed to excellence in surgical results and patient care. He offered advice on choosing a plastic surgeon, the necessity of getting second opinions and references, and the importance of finding someone with whom you felt comfortable. The site also asked if you were a candidate for cosmetic surgery—if you had the proper motivation to make the changes, stressing that cosmetic surgery could deeply impact a person’s confidence and self-esteem. There were links to television interviews as well as many impressive before-and-after photos.

Patient testimonials raved about the personal care and commitment shown by Dr. Monks and his staff. One woman said, “I am beautiful and you are brilliant.” Another thanked him for the great care he had taken. “You took to heart all my needs.” Another said, “You could not have shown more personal commitment to my appearance. You’re the best.”

Perhaps it was her cynical nature or catechism-class guilt, but she told herself that in spite of the mighty expertise and glowing tributes, she’d be his one failure and end up on awfulplasticsurgery.com, right under the split-screen photos of Courtney Love.

At around eleven o’clock, she climbed the stairs and got into bed.

“I am beautiful and you are brilliant.”

Let’s hope, she thought, and snapped out the lights.