The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (15 page)

I sat there with my mouth hinged opened.

“Yes. How could she not? Congratulations. I told you he would do it when least expected.”

Jane giggled, a surprisingly seductive dainty titter, waving her ring into the path of my eyes. “Yes, you were right.” She smiled softly at the doctor. “Here’s the medicine you ordered.” She reached out to hand him a small bottle and a few syringes.

More meds, no way.

“Just lay them on the tray.” Jane laid the supplies down. Then reached out her arms. “Give me a hug. It might be the last time you can hug me legitimately,” she said teasingly, but with a pointed edge. Her eyes darted towards me and without warning she wrapped her arms around Doctor Tagorski. He patted her back in a friendly way then stepped out of her reach. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asked me.

What was happening here? Why was she behaving so kind to me?

“I—I, yes, but I thought—weren’t you working last night?” I recklessly asked.

“No. Why? I’ve been off duty since, well, the last time I saw you dear, you were in no condition to judge the time of day.”

“No, you were here last night, or was it the night before?” My voice trailed off. I was feeling confused about the date. “Remember?” I studied her closely. “You were here.”

Jane shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. You must be confusing me with someone else.”

“No. I’m sure of it.  You and nurse Maryann, I heard you both in my room.” I retorted, bravely. Damn it, I just played my cards. Now she knew I was on to her.

“I don’t know what you are talking about—Doctor.”

“Ladies, what is this about?”

Nurse Jane leaned into the doctor; she placed her hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear. I heard every word she said.
Fucking psychopath.
But I couldn’t prove it.

“I think she’s having a mental breakdown of some sort,” she whispered, flashed back at me, and I noticed her wiggling her ring finger towards me. “Doctor, if you need anything else please be sure to let me know.” Jane pivoted on her heels and walked towards the door, adding a seductive swing in her hips.

“Thanks Jane. I look forwarded to seeing John and you at the hospital picnic this coming weekend. I will be with Katharine. She’s finally agreed to be seen in public with the likes of me.” He chuckled.

Jane flung around. “You’re going with Katharine? I mean, John won’t be able to make it, so I thought you and I could—well, I look forward to see you both there. I plan on baking those cupcakes that you like so much. I’ll be sure to share that recipe with Katharine sometime.”

“Thanks, we’ll talk later.”

“Be sure to tell John he’s a lucky man.”

Jane smiled brightly. “Ooh, he knows.” Before exiting she turned and batted her lashes at me. “Have a great day Miss Eden. Hope you are feeling better.” She grinned the sweetest smile in my direction.

This couldn’t be. Had I imagined her entire devious plan? I must have, or this woman was the best actress I have ever seen. Doctor Tagorski interjected my thoughts. For now I had to believe that Jane wasn’t ever here, and I had wrongly accused her. I supposed it was the drugs that had caused my delusions. Maybe I was a little paranoid after all.

“I’m going to give you a little something to help you relax for our session today. My hope is that it will aid in guiding your lost memories to the front part of your conscious mind.”

At that point, there was no sense arguing or tempting the good doctor, or even fate with my temper. That was if I didn’t want to end up in a padded cell.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Sodium Pentothal,” Dr. Tagorski said as he put on gloves and prepared a syringe.

Crap, not that. After my vivid dream about Jane it didn’t sound like my drug of choice
—how about a chocolate piece of cake or a glazed donut instead? They do wonders when I’m feeling out of sorts! I really needed a dose of sugar.

“Is it safe?”

He set the syringe down and pulled off the plastic gloves and tossed them in the trash. “Perfectly safe. It sometimes works as a truth serum, but I have found it mostly calms patients down just enough to help unlock any suppressed memories. It also depends on the dose, of course.”

That sounded familiar.

“Yes...but, I only want a little...is that okay?” I asked. My voice was shaky.

“I understand your concerns. I assure you that I only administer small doses during my evaluations. So that you know... it could make you feel a little drowsy, but with me here coaxing you along we shouldn’t have any problems with you falling asleep. Does this sound okay to you?”

Are you giving me an option? Hells no!
I didn’t think so! Before I could answer, he slipped on a fresh pair of surgical gloves.

“Sure,” I agreed nervously.

I watched him tied a rubber tourniquet around my arm. He then smacked the inside of my elbow, hard, until my vein popped out. Typically, the sight of blood never bothered me, but I couldn’t look after I saw the length of the needle.

Here it comes.
I turned in the opposite direction.
Damn!
That hurt like hell. It burned like an army of red ants biting at the inside of my vein. The potent concoction coursed through my bloodstream, hitting me fast.

Whoa! Feeling loopy! It’s working, Doc.

  Narrow shafts of light, almost small slivers of light, filled with colors of a rainbow flashed before me. Everything was melting and coming up psychedelic baby!

“I feel like I have four eyes like a spider,” I wistfully said then hiccupped and giggled. “Sorry, I don’t know where that came from.”

“Hiccups can be one of the side-affects.”

“Oh.” I giggled then hiccupped, again. “I’m kind of sleepy too.”

“No. You must stay awake. Stay with me, Brielle,” Dr. Tagorski said assertively. “You are doing great.”

“Yeah,
D-o-c-t-o-r.
Feeling good...over here,” I slurred.

He reared back and sat down in a nearby chair with his notepad on his lap.

“So, tell me about your life growing up in New York City, that must have been fascinating.”

Get ready for the show doc!
I giggled to myself, feeling no pain.

Should I have dared proceed into the vague imprints of my footsteps that led me here, here with this stranger tending to my demons? The drug was telling me I had no choice. I felt as high as a kite. Now I understood the words to
Hey Jude,
by
The Beatles.

“Let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin,” I sang out loud.

My body seemed to elevate as the drug tickled my brain. I opened my mouth and did as Dr. Tagorski had asked. My mind reeled like that of an old movie film being stripped away from its silver canister...my entire life flashed before my eyes. I spoke, and the words spilled out as if they were once written...the pages turned over one by one.

-16-

The Voices

And so I began...

As a child, I heard voices—static inside my head—as far back to the age of innocence. Despite always having the voices in my head talking to me, I’d never been diagnosed schizophrenic. I guess one reason I was never clinically labeled “crazy” was because there weren’t too many people that knew about the ambiguous voices that taunted me. There were only two people: my grandmother and mother. However, my mother never, really, knew the true extent of which the voices were with me.

The voices were my big secret and over the years, I had learned to keep them under control. Well, I had control over most of them.

I could feel a physical force drawing me backwards. I was in my childhood bedroom, and I was not much older than four years old. My mother was with me and the voices were there, too.

“Brielle, who are you talking to?” My mother questioned me.

“I don’t know”—I shrugged—“my friends,” I answered, as I carried on, spinning in circles like a little ballerina. My mother waved her hands in front of my face, trying to grab a hold of my shoulders.

“Stop spinning for a one second, Brielle,” she commanded in a firm, gentle tone.

“But, Momma…I am having fun with my friends.” I giggled, shaking my head from side to side.

Although my mother could not hear them, she knew something was wrong. An expression of concern clearly splayed on her face. I remember it as if it were yesterday.

“Brielle, there is no one in here but you,” Mom
said as her eyes scanned the room, gliding over the furniture.

“I know that—silly-dilly—they’re my invisible friends. Actually Momma, they are voices that live inside my head.” I touched my head, giggling, as I explained what seemed so natural and normal to me, grinning from ear to ear.
How was I to know talking to unknown voices was abnormal?

“No. Please sweetheart.” My mother hesitated then said, “There are no voices in your head. That is your own voice that you are hearing. The little voice in your head is nothing but your thoughts. It’s your conscious mind speaking.” She elaborately acknowledged. This was a lot to interpret at four years old.

“That’s a funny word, con—sic—ous,” I stuttered in great effort to pronounce the word. “What does it mean?” I stopped running in circles and stared up into her troubled mien.

She sighed, batting her lashes. “You are so inquisitive. And, you are one of the silliest little girls I know.” My mother’s lips quivered oddly as she said this, but still she teased me and tried to tickle me as a distraction from our heavy conversation. It was her way of making it fun, and to manipulate me into talking. I giggled in response. She explained, “The word conscious means that you are awake and aware of your thoughts. See baby, the voices that you hear are not your friends, it is your own voice.”

“What? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your friends—the voices—whoever—Brie, it’s your inside voice—like the voice you use when you talk to yourself. That’s all, baby. You will understand all of this someday when you are older.”

“I get it, Mommy. But, the voice I hear is not a little girl’s voice like mine. It’s a man’s voice...lots of men’s voices.” A puzzled expression splayed on my mother face.

“You hear voices of men...a man?” She asked, clearing her throat. She seemed even more concerned than she had minutes before when first discovering that I heard voices.

“Yep, lots of them,” I expressed, loudly. “Great! This means I am a man inside,” I gasped, simultaneously rolling my eyes and frowning due to this new revelation. As much as I should’ve been interested in my mother’s views on the voices that kept me company, I found myself distracted, wanting to move on from the conversation. I began jumping around. At the time, this topic was far too daunting for a small child.

My mother furrowed her perfectly manicured brows together and knelt down beside me. She was extremely beautiful—a natural strawberry blonde, she was the fairest of them all to me. Her lips curled upward at the corners of her mouth and looked almost like the tips of a rose petal when she spoke.

“You’re not a man inside,” she said, sharpening her stare. Her voice raised several octaves and took on a tone that was much more stern than what I was accustomed to. “Now stop this nonsense, you will understand when you are older.” The intonation of her voice contradicted her thin fragile frame, which itself was misleading when it came to her emotional strength.

When I reached an age of understanding, I felt my mother would have made an exceptional motivational speaker because her voice was so powerful when she wanted it to be. But my mother had other plans. It was once her dream to be a prosecuting attorney. Personally, I had my doubts that she could handle prosecuting someone as a career. It was so against her nature.

My mother was never rude nor did she speak indignantly to others. Prosecuting attorneys have to be brutal, and my mother didn’t have a mean bone in her body.

The way I have always seen it was, her gift was accepting people for who they are and doling out valuable advice to those she loved. My mother even offered unwarranted advice to strangers; however, she didn’t push her beliefs on anyone. I’ve always admired this about her.

Don’t get me wrong. She was not a push over. Still, I could never imagine her witnessing an execution, even if it was of a monstrous murderer. Such an event would eat her soul away, knowing a human being had died by sending a wicked bolt of electricity racing through cold-blooded veins to stop the beating of a black organ that passes for a heart. No matter the crime, my mother wouldn’t be capable of ending the life of another.

I recall it was 1995 when the state of New York tried to reinstate the death penalty; I was pretty young then.



Dr. Tagorski interjected. “Wait, Brielle, did you say 1995?”

“Yes I did,” I replied in a jovial tone. The drug he had given me had me feeling like I was on cloud nine.

He didn’t say anything, appraising me intently. In the thick of the silence, he sat
there wide-eyed for a moment too long.