The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (5 page)

“Enjoy the shit-eating feast, asshole,” I stammered, my own pithy words. I tried to laugh, but a lump snagged in my throat.

‘It is over’ rang through the silence of my mind as if to consummate the closure. The quiet void of the room sank around me, a pool of tears swirled in my eyes. The sorrow in my heart was greater than in my mind.

Fight it...damn it...don’t cry—don’t give in to the heartache.

I wiped the tears away with the hemline of my shirt.

The letter was riddled with such anger. Sighing deeply, I stopped second-guessing whether or not I should have sent the letter. More than likely, he probably would not even read it. I tried to convince myself of this. After all, what was the point of reading mean hate mail, right?

I closed my laptop, and my eyes scanned the vacant apartment, stopping at my six large suitcases that waited by the front door. The suitcases were filled with one year’s worth of carefully selected garments and designer shoes. Each packed meticulously. The insoles were stuffed with the finest tissue paper.

Everything was in motion, slow motion. The doorman rang. He was on his way up to my apartment to help with my bags. It was time—too late to turn back now.

The words single, freedom, and adventure spieled through my mind. That’s right, I thought to myself, my future was brighter than all I could have ever imagined. There was no looking back, I convinced myself. And, like the wind, I was off to embark in my new life in Paris!



To my knowledge, the affirmations did not work on my ex. He more than likely never ate shit, and as far as I knew he was still alive and well. Unfortunately, when you say or wish bad things on others, somehow as Karma has it, your words will potentially backfire, case in point, the last memory I had retained was being with my ex, and as it turned out I was the one near death.



So, I am in Paris!
I held onto that thought, it would be the one memory I was certain of —
if
...and when I woke up.

-4-

In the wake

A bright light darted back and forth between my closed eyes. I could hear voices. Some of them spoke in French, while others spoke in English, and some used a pretentious fake French accent. Not cute.

“Open your eyes, wake up, Mademoiselle.” Fingertips. Someone was peeling my eyelids back. How disturbing. I struggled to keep them closed.

Where would the dark prison in my mind take me next? One thing I knew was that the crippling pain had subsided, greatly. No, two things...I was in Paris!
Paris!
And, I was not dead. Okay, maybe there were three things I knew for sure.

When my eyes slowly opened, my head pounded with pain. My entire body felt as if it had been dragged by a team of horses and then trampled on for good measure. My limbs felt lethargic and weighted down. From beneath my lashes, I was startled to see bandages wrapped around various parts of my body.

My usual perfectly manicured nails looked messy and unkempt. The red fingernail polish gathered like pools of blood beneath my over-grown cuticles. The nails themselves were scuffed, ragged, and broken down to the quick. I mean way down. Not a pretty sight.

I ran the pads of my fingertips across old scabs that rested on the peaks of my knuckles. They looked as if I had just gone a few rounds with the Brad Pitt in
Fight Club
.

Apparently, I had lost.

I heard a breath that was not my own and turned toward the quiet movement of air. My eyes raked over the blurry image of a man. I could not see the details of his features, at least not in the moment, considering my light-headedness.

Straining my eyes, I collectively focused on him. His movements dispersed like water and oil; however, his white shirt with five metal buttons trailing down the center of his chest stood out like shiny pennies in the bottom of a sparkling pool.

I rubbed my eyelids, detecting a thick layer of a gooey Vaseline substance. It certainly was not an expensive spa cream. I blinked several times hoping it would remove the sticky residue. To my chagrin this added no relief, it had seeped into my eyes, only making matters worse.

His dark hair with gray streaks weaved in and out of my sight. I continued to blink rapidly, causing my eyes to water. My vision began to clear. Within a few minutes, his entire image manifested. He stood just a few feet away from my bedside.

I considered him rather attractive. He was fairly tall, lean, and distinguished looking. I would have guessed him to be in his early forties, but his eyes were shrewd, making him look much older. Wiser, keen, and highly intelligent.

In one hand, he held a clipboard and in the other a pen. He flipped indolently through attached pages, absorbed and unaware of my observation. When he noticed me intently staring at him, he lowered the metal clipboard to his side

“You are awake, finally,” he said, leaning into the path of my eyes. I scanned his face. There was something vaguely familiar about him. Perhaps, I had seen him before. I summed it up as just one of those familiar faces.

“Hello,” I managed to say in a raspy whisper. My esophagus constricted, which caused a coughing spell.

“Would you like some water?”

“Yes, please,” I answered automatically, lifting my head, holding waves of nausea at bay.

What happened to me?

“I’ve been really worried about you.”

“You have?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“I’m confused. Who are you?”

“Your physician. Don’t you remember me?”

Remember? Physician?

Startled further, I had not even remembered being taken to the hospital and or why.

“I have been checking in on you often. You are quite an interesting young lady.” I detected a cheeky sarcasm in his tone. The sound of his voice did not ring any bells. Although he had a fatherly intonation, I didn’t recognize him. He was not dressed like any doctor I have ever seen either.

“Sorry...I don’t remember you,” I said, forcing a smile and then closing my eyes. I tried to fish him out of my memory but came up blank.

“It’s okay. We had only spoken briefly. Actually, I did most of the talking, and you stared through me. I do not blame you though...considering.”

I followed his voice around the room, sensing his every move. I listened to the sound of his footsteps clicking against the floor, and the water trickling into a glass. He continued to drone on about my condition, which only raised my blood pressure.

I momentarily closed my eyes in my best attempt to tune him out. I wished it could have been as easy to shut off my hearing. At that point, I would not have minded suffering from half of the conditions that Helen Keller had. Deaf, mute, and—I won’t go there.

From the inclined position of the bed, I turned toward the only window in the room. A delicate slice of light streamed through an outdated rolled-down shade. There was a dilapidated metal screen attached to the exterior of the window. From what I could see outside it was early morning, dark sky and raining hard. The sound of the rain culminated a sense
 of loneliness and abandonment. What a surreal feeling it was to wake up in a hospital, especially in another county, completely alone.

“So where am I?” I inquisitively asked a rhetorical question. It was obvious where I was. “I mean, what hospital is this?” I added under my breath, “Jeez, my head is killing me.” Eyes cinched, massaging my temples with both palms, I lightly applied pressure. The pain was unforgivable!

“Easy...you have stitches. Do you remember what happened to you?”

I coughed, clearing my throat to speak. “No,” I said, stretching my neck in his direction as he made his way back to my bedside.

“Here, drink this, slowly.” He handed me the glass of water.

“Oh, thank you. I’m so thirsty.” Immediately, I sipped down the water. What a disappointment. It was lukewarm and not what I expected. I rolled my tongue over the roof of my mouth, repulsed by the taste of the water. “Can I please get some bottled water?”

“Bottled water? I do not—”

I chimed in. “Never mind. Thanks anyway. I guess this will do.” I took another sip of the lukewarm water and almost gagged.

A distressed look crossed over his aging yet handsome face. “Our water supply is not fully restored. I apologize. The well was severely damaged by those nincompoops.”

Nincompoops? Gangs!
I assumed.

“Oh...it’s okay.” I knitted my brows together, braving down another sip. I wondered if the water could have been contaminated.

Woman dies at a local hospital, not from falling into a well, but from drinking water from it.

“Miss Eden, the hospital has been trying to locate your next of kin. It has not been an easy task.”

“Why?” I asked, grimacing, when doing so my lips tightened. They felt extremely dry as if they would split.

“So they can visit with you...we thought you would want them to know—”

I interjection, “Yes, of course, but there’s no reason for them to travel so far now. I’m feeling better. Well, all but this headache.”

“I understand,” he said then added, “shouldn’t you allow them to make that decision? I am sure they would want to be here for you.”

“Yes, I’m sure they would want to be, but even so, it would take hours for them to arrive—they live in New York City. By the time they book flights, I’ll be home,” I said, feeling puzzled. A panic-stricken thud hit against the inside wall of my chest.

Am I going to die?
I was afraid to ask. I didn’t understand the urgency of my family having to travel all the way to Paris.

He sighed deeply. “So you’re not from Paris, but New York?” His pitch heightened. “That explains a lot,” he said with a meaningful edge.

“No, I mean yes. I’m from Manhattan, New York,” I affirmed.

“This certainly puts us off course, New York, uh. That is not what you have been saying in your sleep.”

“Oh, gosh, I sometimes talk in my sleep, or, so I’ve been told. I’m not sure why I would say—”

He interjected. “Yes, you sure do.”

“I’m sorry about that.” I could feel my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Hoping I didn’t say anything inappropriate.

“No harm done. We have learned quite a bit about you.”

“Oh crap—I can only imagine.” I short laughed.

He appeared to bite his tongue. Under his breath, I thought I heard him say, “Language.” He then asked, “Do you have any family here in Paris?”

“I don’t think so, but my memory is still a bit fuzzy, maybe...”

“Well, Miss Eden, at least you know who you are, some people wake up and don’t remember anything, let alone
who
they are.”

I nodded, and blinked at the same time, trying to digest everything he was saying. “Yes, I understand. I’m glad I’m not that bad off,” I said, managing to smile.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. When you arrived, you were in terrible condition, with a significant head injury and other obvious traumatic injuries. Short-term memory loss can be expected—considering all you must have been through. We are just grateful to see that you are conscious now and stable. We will do some simple memory tests to see how much you remember. But there’s no hurry. We don’t want to rush you into trying to remember everything at once—it is a process and it can take months.”

I didn’t like the tone in his voice—it sounded as if he had a long-term plan for me. Still, what had I been through? Did he know? Perhaps it was a good thing I’d lost my memory?

“Everything is so jumbled. I don’t remember much at all. When did you say my memory would come back?” I blinked, trying to clear my mind.

He shook his head. “I didn’t. There is no telling when—in all honesty, your memory may never come back. As I said, it is just something that time will tell and, perhaps, long-term therapy.” He moved in closer to me and softly said, “Try to relax. We will figure this out together.”

“What’s to figure out? You said it would take time, but either way I don’t think I need therapy.” I certainly didn’t want anyone probing into my psyche. I had too many secrets stashed away. I needed time to catch my breath and process my thoughts. “I’m certain that I’m fine for the most part.”

Obviously, trying to change the subject, he went straight into asking me who was it that I had been talking to before he entered the room.

“No one,” I responded offering a smile. “Why?”

“Really? The nurses said it sounded as if you were having a full-blown conversation.”

“No, I haven’t had any visitors,” I replied, feeling a bit confused. “This is the first time I’ve been awake—since—unless I forgot that too.”

“Well, I didn’t think so, but perhaps...” He paused suspiciously. His eyes flashed across to the bedside table and mine followed, stopping on a black rotary phone.
How antiquated,
I thought. He continued, “Perhaps, you woke up and called someone, and your right you don’t remember.”