The Old Face

“You took out my cheek,” June said.

Her mother enlarged the photograph.

“Only the shadow.”

“That's where my cheek goes in.”

On the screen, June's face had become smooth around the mouth. Her mother had filled the hollow beneath one eye and softened the ridges along her jaw.

“It's just an option,” her mother said.

June leaned closer. “You gave me a nose.”

“You have a nose.”

“Not that one.”

Her mother switched to the original. June's school collar was crooked. There was a bright blue bead caught in the fold beside her ear.

“At least let me fix the collar.”

“All right.”

The work took only a moment. Then her mother opened the order form.

“Two copies for us, one for Grandma.”

“Which one for Grandma?”

Her mother's hand stopped above the screen.

From the kitchen came the sound of the kettle. June waited. Her mother had told her often enough that Grandma found the change difficult, that she remembered things June could not remember.

“This one,” her mother said.

June watched her select three copies of the original.

“And delete the other.”

“June.”

“You can keep the one with the bad collar.”

Her mother looked once more at the smooth face, then deleted it. June stayed until she emptied the discarded-files folder too.