The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (11 page)

He examined it closely. I tried to eye it myself, pivoting my head to the side. My tattoo was masked somewhat by a large bruise but still legible in the red ink.

So Eden

“
My best friend and I got them together when we turned eighteen, only hers says, “So Nuilley”. She used her first name because her last name is pretty traditional.” I fluttered my eyelashes, blinking away my tears. “My father was outraged when he saw it...but it grew on him, and since it’s pretty discreet he let it go because I promised not to get anymore. Now do you believe me?”
A few tears still lingered in my eyes. I flashed the doctor an expression of
I-told-you-so
, feeling somewhat victorious.

The doctor nodded convincingly. “For now it will do,” he said, and handed me several more tissues. His response felt like a blessing in the moment. Holy crap, I was exhausted from having to fight to prove my identity.

“Thank you,” I emitted. My ‘thank-you’ reply covered all bases, thanking him for the tissue, but mostly because he surprisingly believed me. At least that’s what he said.

“I can’t help but mention, I agree with your father’s disapproval of tattoos, especially on a female’s body. Of course, you’re a today’s woman so, well, I guess times are changing.” He exhaled and shrugged.

Who is this man?
He spoke as if he was seventy. Going by his appearance alone, he couldn’t have been over forty.

He narrowed his eyes. “Personally, I don’t know any women who have tattoos. And the only man was this young fellow who repaired my washing machine. He had a coochy-coochy type of gal tattooed on his forearm.” The doctor drew in his lips, sucking in the air between his teeth and one corner of his mouth, making that hissing sound. “I think his name was Fred, a navy man. He seemed like a good guy.”

Great, no comment!

It was time to turn the tables. “By the way, what did you say your name was earlier?” I asked as I brushed any lingering tears away. Oddly enough, he didn’t wear a nametag advertising his credentials like most doctors do.

He answered with a prideful tone, “Doctor Tagorski.”

How interesting, his name was pretty similar to my mother’s maiden name, Tagor.
What are the chances of that?

Thank God at birth we take our father’s surname...Brielle Tagor would have been an awful name. I surely would have been teased growing up. Kids would have called me Tony the Tiger, tag her you’re it, and God knows what else!

“Nice to officially meet you,” I said, forcing a genuine smile, while feeling the pain in my head returning like an annoying, consistent telemarketing sales guru. “What kind of doctor are you, because I have a feeling you’re not a medical doctor?” I swallowed hard.

“You are very insightful, Miss Eden. I’m the Chief of Psychiatry here at Saint Pierre’s hospital, so of course, I practice internal medicine as well,” he confirmed, raising a single brow.

Of course you are, and if I don’t comply with you, you’re going to keep me here against my own will, right?

I didn’t say this out loud because I didn’t want to give any power to my words, or give him any ideas, either. How ironic. The theory that I was being held prisoner had come to fruition.

I had to know the doctor’s plans for me. “Are you going to release me?” I stared at him long and hard.

-10-

Tempers flared...Mine that is

He stared back at me long and hard, too.

“Brielle, I know you are in a hurry to get home, but as I said, I have concerns.” There was that nodding of his head again, too. “Let me take a peek at your stitches, let’s see how things are healing. The laceration I’m mostly concerned about is this one.” He pointed to the bandage slightly above my right breast, just over my heart. “It’s small but it’s in a precarious location and came close to your heart,” he said, and began slipping on a pair of surgical gloves.

“Close to my heart?” I gulped. “Hmm, that’s scary.” He nodded, preoccupied with business then flashed me a genuine smile.

I slightly lowered the neckline of my robe and watched him carefully peel back the dressing. He had a gentle touch. I had always thought it was customary to have a female nurse in the room, especially if the doctor is male. I guessed they were short staffed because of the terrorist attack. For some reason, I didn’t feel he would do anything inappropriate, and I let the thought go.

A blood stained layer of gauze fell into my lap. I looked away, glancing back here and there.

His hands moved over me with precision, removing the tape and the old compress. He managed to examine the wound and replace it with a new bandage without disrobing any of my private areas.

“Done,” he said, smacking his lips together. “You’re healing very well. You may have a small scar—don’t worry, it won’t be obtrusive or ugly.”

“Oh good.”

“You may like your new war wound, it’s the shape of an arrowhead, or maybe more like a heart.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure.” In no time he peeled back the clean bandage.

I anchored my eyes towards my chest. Wow...black stitches in the shape of an arrowhead. Although on second glance, it definitely looked more like a heart.

A memory side-blinded me by surprise, actually, two memories. The first was a vision of a heart, wait, two hearts. I could see them, vividly. They were carved into the trunk of a tree. Maybe it wasn’t a tree, but it was weathered wood.

The other memory was dark and painful. I recalled the scent of smoke, and voices hollering in the distance. A man was there on his knees, doubled over in pain.

Why did seeing my scar trigger these memories? What was the connection between my scar, the two hearts, and the wounded man?

Suddenly, I felt a heavy weight on my chest, causing my lungs to constrict. I fought against the heady sensation.

Breathe, breathe, breathe slowly
, I told myself then tried. It was too deep, too fast, and too shallow. My fingertips began to tingle, so did the end of my nose. A full on panic attack was on its way.

“I can’t seem to breathe,” I said, hyperventilating. My breath hinged in my lungs and tightened in the mid-section of my stomach, clamping down against my diaphragm. I felt hot and clammy. I wanted to run, to move, and to steal some oxygen from the air. Instead, it felt as if I had tripped and sank into the bottom of an endless pool. The atmosphere in the room shifted from cool and breezy to thick, humid, and wet. “I’m going to pass out.” I gasped for oxygen; it felt labored, like when you can’t get a satisfying yawn.

“You’re okay,” Doctor Tagorski said reassuringly, then pulled a brown glass bottle from his pocket and removed the lid. “Take a short breath,” he kindly ordered, waving the bottle under my nose.

I inhaled the vapor in through my nostrils. It smelled like ammonium, perfume, and had a medicinal scent too. It stung my sinuses, causing my eyes to water. My reaction to whatever was in the little vial was blood pumping. My cheeks flushed. Suddenly, I felt over-stimulated, alive, alert, and as if someone had zapped me back to life.

“What a rush,” I said, inhaling. In a few short seconds, I could breathe normally again.

“Yes, it can be. Your body has been under a lot of stress. We have been giving you a little something to sedate you to help reduce the healing time. The side-affects can cause some patients to feel a little jittery when they wake up. This should help counter-balance any groggy feelings you may be experiencing. Just lie back and think of nice thoughts,” he said. His voice vibrated like a single pick of a guitar string.

“What have you been giving me? I am allergic to so many drugs,” I retorted, astonished by their lack of precautions. My mouth remained agape. Surely I looked as if I were in a fly eating contest. There wasn’t anything, or anyone, at that point, who could stabilize my growing anxiety. “What was that stuff?” I said, rubbing my nose. My insides quivered and a feeling of paranoia washed over me.

He glanced at the brown bottle. “This...it’s smelling salts, it’s harmless. Over the last three weeks when you were in and out of consciousness, as a precaution, I made certain that your attending physician only gave you small doses of Phenytoin
.
It’s an agent that causes sedation so that you can heal faster. Don’t worry we have been monitoring you very closely.”

“Pheny what?” I didn’t like the sound of that. “Wait, what? Did you say I’ve been here for three weeks? You’ve been sedating me...for three weeks?” My mind raced out of control, shocked by the news. “I’ve been sleeping for three flipping weeks. Are you kidding me?” I had no idea I had been there that long, and in my condition I didn’t think to ask the specifics of how long I had been there. I just assumed it was an overnight stay. My heart flipped. Where the hell were my family and friends? Over three weeks I had been there, and no one was here to claim me. None of this made sense.

“Yes, or then some.”

“Oh Lord...are you serious? Why haven’t you told me this? I can’t believe that I’ve been here for three fucking weeks!” Oops! I dropped the F-bomb, but didn’t really care at that point. He did though. His eyes widened, and his jaw muscles vibrated. He was utterly shocked of my sailor’s tongue. “Ouch, sorry,” I said, flashing him an apologetic smile. “I need to get discharged...I’m fine now.”

“I don’t think—”

Without a thought, I spoke over him and blurted out, “Oh my God, my agent is going to
kill me.
I need to get out of here—my deadline is up.” At the time, I hadn’t realized that one of my short-term memories had come back.

I tried to sit, throwing the blanket back. Shock riddled through into my eyes. Jesus H. Christ, my legs were swollen and covered in so many shades of bruises. Red, gray, black and blue marks—some had faded to that nasty yellow color.

What exactly happened to me?
I had, had enough, being there for three weeks was bullshit! Everything was bullshit! In my opinion, this hospital acted incompetent. I must have been in some kind of ward for the homeless, or where they treated uninsured patients. Didn’t I have any rights? Could they administer medical treatments against my will, even now that I was coherent?

“Ms. Eden, I’m sorry, but you are far from fine,” he protested, pressing me back.

“Please get your hands off me. Now!” I bellowed, waving my hands into the air towards him. He immediately leaned out of my reach. “You don’t understand, I have a major deadline, and if I don’t have a good excuse for missing it...my agent won’t think twice about throwing me under the bus.” I inadvertently lied without a thought.

Jack was my agent. Wow, I had forgotten that, how funny, but suddenly remembered he represented me now. He would never truly betray me although he could be a bulldog at times, but not when it came to me. I rattled on, reinforcing my protest, hoping that the doctor would relent and release me. “I really need to get out of here, or I’m seriously a dead woman.”

“You work for a secret agent? And he’s going to kill you? What are you saying?” His eyes widened to the size of golf balls.

“What? No—he’s not a secret agent...but please don’t ask me about my project, it’s confidential. Where’s that phone? I need to call him
ASAP
. He’s probably going ape shit by now—if I don’t call him soon, I’m so dead—like dead, as in six-feet under.”

I grappled with the thin hospital robe, trying to hold it closed in the back and swung my legs over the edge of the bed to stand.

“You need to be still. Your body is in no shape to stand. Your injuries are not completely healed. Not to mention, I believe you are suffering from post-traumatic stress, and I want to evaluate you further.

“I don’t mean any disrespect. But, how can you give me a mental diagnosis without having done your so-called
‘evaluation’
first.” I added quotations around the word with my fingers. “Or even knowing what had caused my injuries? Seriously, I really need to go. Can I just get the sign-out forms now? I will follow-up with my family doctor—Christophe Therron, apparently he’s fairly renowned here in Paris.”

“Hmm, I’ve never heard of him.” He paused. “I’m sorry Miss Eden, but I cannot release you in your condition. In the interim I will try to contact your doctor. But, as I said, we will need to do a forty-eight hour evaluation before I can release you, so let’s just calm down and take this a little slower. I’m really concerned about you, aside from mumbling Hitler’s name in your sleep, and talking to people that aren’t in the room...now, you are saying someone is going to kill you.”

I shook my head, mentally dismissing half of what he was saying
.
“Um. Yeah—but no time for evaluations. If I don’t get out of here soon, like in today, you may as well consider me dead.” I sighed, followed by a half-giggle.

“So...is this person who is trying to kill you the man that came into your room earlier?”

“What? No. I told you, I don’t know him from Adam. Besides, no one is trying to kill me. Jeez.” For a doctor he wasn’t very quick.

Quack!

“You just said someone is going to kill you. And, well...since you lost your memory. How do you know
he
isn’t the man that is trying to kill you?”