The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (8 page)

“Yes. Are you sure he is not a friend of yours, or...maybe someone that might be looking for you?” he asked probingly. His wrinkles deepened at the outer corners of his eyes.

“No—why? What is the big deal? I’m really confused. One minute you said no one saw him. Now, you think he’s a friend of mine, and even if he was, but he’s not—wouldn’t he have to check in at the nurse’s station before visiting me? If so, well, then evidently, he snuck into the ward somehow—or maybe I imagined him. I don’t know—all I know is I’m just a patient here. Why all the questions? I kind of wish I never mentioned him.” I inhaled a deep breath of air, gathering oxygen to my brain.

I felt extremely uneasy about all of the contradictions that were flying around. He had just finished reassuring me that no one had entered the ward, and I accepted that, why didn’t he? Then he bombarded me with a thousand questions. I smelled a rat. It was time to play dumb, a diversion I had mastered and used when necessary.

I could tell by the shrewd mien on the doctor’s face he felt challenged. “Miss Eden, I just thought he was—”

“No. Besides, he didn’t say anything at all, remember he doesn’t exist,” I sarcastically replied.

What the hell!

At that point, I felt it was best not to elaborate on what the man in question had said. I am not sure why I felt this way, but I did. The hospital and the doctor’s demeanor were raising the hairs on the back of my nape.

The intruder seemed particularly concerned for someone he was visiting. I actually wished I had not fainted, and then I would have known more. Perhaps the man needed my help, or he was trying to send me some kind of message.

“Well, I understand your frustration, but we have a strict visitor’s policy to uphold—Miss Eden, we like to keep track of who is going in and out of here, and we strongly disapprove of random visitors wandering the halls whereas disturbing other patients. Some of them are worse off than you. If this man was a visitor of yours—he
 needs to get approved first,” he chided, raising his brow. I did not appreciate his accusations, or his chastising tone.

“I understand that. But, I don’t know him. Remember, I’m the one who told you about him.” I tightened my lips. I could feel an upward pull in my chin, quivering. This involuntarily happens when I would get pissed, or if I am being wrongfully accused of something.

“Okay, that is settled then. Maybe, he was someone that entered your room by accident. No harm done. You certainly seem to be feeling better”—
ticked off more like it, and he knew it
—“I’m going to order a few more tests. In the interim, why don’t you try to relax? Let me just finish here, and I will leave, so you can take a nap.” He patted me on the shoulder and jotted down a few more notes.

The sound of a woman screaming at the top of her lungs caught my attention. Her cries were muffled and far away, but close enough to hear that she was hysterical.

“Oh my God, should you check on her?” My eyes widened as the horrific screams grew closer.

The doctor’s eyes flicked from me toward the door. It was as if he had anticipated what was to come next, or more like who was to come.

Suddenly, the door swung open. A heavy-set, brute of a nurse entered. What caught my eye first was her pitch-black hair pulled up into a severe bun. It was so tight and slicked back, resembling a sheet of molded plastic instead of hair.
Move over Cruella de Vil!
I would not want to go head to head combat with this nurse. Her shoulders, breasts, and ass filled the doorframe and her muscles flinched beneath her garments. The woman looked like a dude in a dress. She was panting, hard.

“Doctor, come quick,” she said in a deep husky voice, doing her best to tame her panic in my presence.

“Right away, Selena.” The doctor practically ran from my room.

-7-

Parchment paper

I continued to ponder the situation about the mystery man who entered my room. Maybe I could stand this place if he returned to my room. I wouldn’t mind if he reappeared wearing nothing but a stethoscope. What was it about him, other than his mesmerizing sex appeal that caught my attention, and why couldn’t I purge him from my brain?

Who was he? Then it occurred to me, maybe, he didn’t stumble into my room by chance at all. Perhaps he was trying to warn me. The thought of it caused me to shudder.

Suddenly, I had a propensity to find out who the intruder was. I loved any kind of mystery. Plus, it had always been my nature to over think the reality of situations and to stir things up.

Something didn’t feel right about this place; something did not resonate well with me one bit. The mysterious intruder and what he said confirmed it. It was time to turn the tables and ask a few questions of my own.

By the time the doctor had returned, I had been served dinner by the domineering nurse. I devoured most of my meal within five minutes. In the interim, I reread the poem several times that he had given me earlier. Racking my brain.

There wasn’t much else to do, besides counting the tiles on the ceiling and watching time go by on the industrial looking clock that hung upon the wall. The sound of the hands ticking began to feel like Chinese torture.
Tick-tock-tick-tock!
Fuck, It was riding my nerves. In no time, I had become pretty restless, despite my injuries.

“Miss Eden...I heard you had a nice dinner?”

“Yes...it was pretty good.” I offered a smile. It was noon, and I had already eaten dinner. What else was I going to do with the rest of the day? I had to get out of here. This place was worse than torture. I was bored out of my mind, and startled every time I heard the girl in the room next to mine, seething venom, who I assumed was at the nurse.

The doctor sported a friendlier smile this time around. Perhaps he had a better lunch than mine. “I am bearing gifts. Here are a few books I thought you may enjoy...sorry, they are written in French, but the scenic pictures are nice.” He placed the books down on the side table.

I would take anything at this point. I had never been one to sit still in one place for very long. A restless soul stirred within me.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I said, paused then added, “Doctor, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Such as?”

I bit my bottom lip, twisting them into a pucker then asked, “Did that man commit a crime? Are the police looking for him, or something?”

“The man?”

“Yes, you know—the one that snuck into the hospital.”

“Not...that I know of,” the doctor nonchalantly replied. His eyes fixed downward as he checked my blood pressure, which I thought was typically a nurse’s job instead.

“Hmm, okay. It’s just you seemed pretty worried about him and all—I thought maybe he had attacked that woman who was screaming earlier.”

“Shhh, just a minute.” I could tell he was counting out the beats of my pulse.

“Okay, but if that man attacked someone, I think I have the right to know,” I spurted out quickly.

The doctor wrapped up his stethoscope and looked at me intently. I had never liked it when someone intently stared at me.

“Miss Eden, I am going to level with you. I want you to know I do not think ill of you, but you kept mumbling Hitler’s name in your sleep...and well, this raises questions of concern.”

Buzzing nervously between my words, I replied, “Huh? What does that have to do with anything? I’m not sure why I’d dream about Hitler, but...” My tone sounded as if I was guilty of something, but who would blame me; the doctor treated me as if I had committed a crime. I cleared my throat. “Other than...I studied about him—you know it was required in school, and I did my thesis on his life in college.”

Why am I explaining this to you?

“I see. Did you attended a college for girls?” he asked, rubbing his chin, nodding.

“No, it wasn’t a girls’ school,” I said, followed by a short-laugh. He was the most curious doctor I had ever met.

The doctor’s expression grew serious. “What kind of college would give courses”—he shook his head in bewilderment—“Who would want to study the behaviors of a man such as Hitler?” he said, raising his pitch. He seemed quite put off.

I answered in a harsh tenor, “Uh...the kind that wants their students to learn from what he did.”

Hello? What’s with the inquisition?

“This could change things here for you. I will have to report this to the authorities. If you are glorifying the actions of this man we—”

I interrupted rudely. “What the hell are you talking about?” I could feel my face flushing red-hot. “I don’t glorify him. Nobody I know supports anything
Hitler
did—why are you asking me this? My gosh, my grandmother was married to a Jewish man, although she didn’t practice Judaism—and, neither do I, but still...wha—what’s the big deal?” I snapped, raising my voice as loud as I could, which was just above normal. However, judging by my tone, he clearly offended me.

“Okay, calm down, or you are going to open a stitch,” he softly ordered. “You know, Adolf Hitler is classified as one of the most insane men who has ever walked the face of the earth.”

Yeah, no shit Sherlock! I studied him...remember?
I insulted him inwardly, feeling bereft by the entire conversation.

“Uh...I’m not sure where you’re going with this—er...ah...but what Hitler has to do with my medical treatment—I was probably just having some senseless dream.” I tightened my lips, fidgeting with the sheets, notably upset.

“Certainly...I hope that is the case, because if not I will have to report—” he said, poignantly and before he could finish I interrupted him.

“You’re going to report what, to who?” I bolted out automatically, and he essentially dismissed my question.

“Why don’t we change the subject for now?”

“Fine with me,” I relented and gave a stern nod of my head.

“Let’s discuss your life growing up in New York City and what brought you to Paris?”

“What for? I mean...I feel much better. Can I just get my things and go now?” This place was giving me the creeps.

“Honestly, our main concern is to make sure you didn’t suffer any long-term memory loss.” He tapped my head with his index finger in an endearing way. “Or any brain damage.” A long beat. “I have noticed there is something peculiar about you, and I would like to observe you for a few more days. If that is okay with you?” he asked although he didn’t punctuate his words as a question.

I was beginning to wonder if I had a choice. His offhanded description of me echoed in my ears.

“No it’s not. And, why would you say I’m peculiar?” I specifically asked in a curt manner, clearly insulted.

“I do not mean to offend you, it’s just...well, there is a matter of a few things I have discovered, giving me reasons to further evaluate your condition.” He was beating around the bush, as my grandmother would say.

“Why? Such as?” I asked, emitting a pitchy rasp. In my opinion, his sketchy evaluation was unwarranted.

“Why don’t we do this my way, and if you are feeling better afterwards, we can get you on your way. How about that?” He smiled, nodded, and slipped something out of a folder.

Still, I felt a bit unsettled by his evasiveness, but more than anything I wanted to get my clothes, my cell, and to get the hell out of this place.

I inadvertently picked at the scab on my lip while trying to read his disposition. Arms crossed in front of his chest—a sign of putting distances between us. Tapping his pen and nodding a lot when I asked questions, however, he wasn’t giving me definite answers. Verdict—he was up to no good. I sensed it was time to tread with caution.

“Okay,” I agreed, clearing my throat for the umpteenth time. I thought for a fraction of a second, recalling my life growing up in Manhattan, but as to why I came to Paris that memory was at large.

“Thank you, but before you begin, I have something for you,” he said and handed me a small note that was folded into a square.

I looked up at him, curiously. His eyes were hooded, deep-set, and the palest shade of blue I had ever seen. They radiated wisdom. The more I looked at him, the more attractive he had become. Go figure.

He was actually in pretty good shape for a man of his age. The lines deepened in the corners of his temples, tracing along his cheeks with every changing expression. He was educated, poised but had a solid, manly appearance, too. Think Clinton Eastwood. There was a significant element laced into his regard of me. Perhaps he didn’t mean any harm earlier. Doctors tend to be so brainy, insensitive, and unemotional at times.

Feeling somewhat in a semi-daze, my eyes shifted from his face to the crumpled note. And, the room shifted, too. Perhaps I wasn’t ready to leave quite yet. My equilibrium balanced on clouded thoughts as I carefully unfolded the fragile parchment paper, my pulse skipped unsuspectingly of what I would find.

“It was found in the pocket of your sweater.” He spoke slowly, almost too slowly, as if someone hit a slow motion button. It was actually quite eerie.

The edges of the delicate linen paper were bent and dirty, certainly it was old or at least it appeared to be. I stared hard-pressed at the tattered paper and focused on the prose. The penmanship, although nice, didn’t look like mine. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do with the note, other than read it. So I did, out loud.