The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (9 page)

My life is a spiral staircase made of icy marble. I feel as if am being followed by someone that I want to know. My fate unravels with each forward step...his footsteps hasten. He is near, watching me from the shadows. He is coming for me. The time is short. I will be ready when he arrives.

-1945 My love, find me...

“You write beautiful poetry, Miss Eden,” the doctor said, smiling sagely down at me. When he smiled, he had such a charismatic inner glow.

Where did that thought come from? He had to have been at least twenty years my senior.

“Thank you, but I can’t take credit for this—look, it’s dated way before my time.” I gingerly held the note out in his direction, so he could see for himself.

A puzzled expression registered on his face. He said, “I see, but—” then he hesitated.

It was dated 1945. Certainly, he did not think I looked as if I was in my eighties. “But, you’re right, it’s exquisite.” My voice labored, almost apologetically I said, “I wish I wrote it, but I didn’t...they’re not my words.”

Although the poem was beautiful and touching, I had no idea what the prose meant to the author who wrote it, or who that was. I concentrated for a moment on how I ended up in this place. Hell, I couldn’t even remember why I was in Paris. And, why the hell did this doctor want to know my life story? The last thing I wanted to do was talk.

I fought to shut down the war that ricocheted back and forth in my mind like a pinball machine. Why couldn’t I remember jack squat? I forced myself to decompress. My eyes fluttered shut for a moment as I held the poem to my chest. Feeling somewhat drowsy, I drifted into a corner of my mind, searching for what I had lost. My memories. I wanted them back.

The last thing I could remember was going to sleep and as usual falling slowly into a cloud of darkness. This was not unusual, because it supported the repetitive dreams that I have had for most of my life; there was always a thin misty haze surrounding me in my dreams.

The most recent dream I could recall was that I was caught in the center of a wind gust, and there was a lovely woman with me. She resembled a version of me, only older. Then came the shift, I was on the subway, and then I woke up here.

Perhaps I am dreaming now,
I thought. I am one of those people who have dreams within dreams. I find that these kinds of dreams are the most frightening ones of all because you believe you are awake, only to discover you are still sleeping. It is a scary feeling when you fight to wake up and when you do, you find that you are still trapped inside the dream itself. In hindsight it would have been a blessing.

-8-

Too many theories

The doctor placed his hand on my shoulders and consolingly patted me, or maybe it was a patronizing gesture. The way someone might when they don’t believe you, or they feel you are in a fragile state of mind. His touch jarred me back to the task at hand. Back to the poem that I knew I hadn’t written.

He then replied, “If you say you didn’t write it, then maybe you didn’t...it’s just...” He took my hand without removing the note and turned my wrist around so I could see the back of the paper. “Do you know what this means?”

I maneuvered the page completely around, revealing script I hadn’t previously noticed. I read the words to myself several times...

If I ever forget who I am, or who you are, please, remind me I am the woman that will love you for all eternity.

Brielle Eden...

I recognized my name, of course, but the words written on the note did not register. Disorganized thoughts scattered, albeit, I tried to make a cohesive connection between what was written and why my name appeared on the note. My mind was coming up blank. And, according to the message on the note I was afraid of that.

“This is you, right?” the doctor asked. “I mean, you’ve been responding to her name.”

“Yes, of course, that’s my name.”
If you ask me again, I will tell you the same
…that was what my grandmother used to say. When someone asked me my name, I always recited her words silently to myself.

“Are you sure your name is Brielle Eden?” he asked, raising a curious brow.

“Yes, of course...and if you ask me again I will tell you the same,” I quipped inadvertently.

“That’s almost original,” he said, followed by a half-hearted chuckle. “I have heard that phrase used once before. A young lady, who’s a friend of mine, says it all the time when someone questions the pronunciation of her name,” he said, pointedly. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” I was not feeling up to hearing about his friend, nor was I trying to be humorous. Not in the least.

“That’s nice...about your friend and all.” I smiled, struggling to sit up; the movement caused a rippling pain in my side.

“Oww,” I moaned. “But, I am not sure what this means,” my eyes shifted between him and the note.

“It appears as if you are worried about losing your memory, or you were at the time you wrote it. I would like to help you recover since that is actually the case now.” He looked down at me dubiously.

God, if he says ‘if that’s the case’ one more time I am going to scream. He must be trying to drive a point; he apparently thinks I’m a case. Certifiably nuts!

At that moment, the room began to swim. I gripped the note. How did I miss seeing this when I first opened the letter? I did not remember writing it at all, and I had no idea who had written the poetry on the other side either. I fixated on the doctor’s sincere eyes; doing so, stopped the room from spinning.
Wait...what if he’s the man that I wrote it to?
This was something to be considered.

I concentrated on his face harder. I felt nothing.

Fuck,
I had no memory of him before today.
Was he the man I had forgotten?
He wasn’t smiling, nor did he lean in to kiss me as one may do.
Is he my lover?
There was no way this was possible
!
Although there was something familiar about him, I couldn’t imagine he was someone I would date.

I thought long and hard...reasoning it all out. How did I get there? What was with all the bizarre questions? Was he trying to jog my memory of him?

Maybe he is my boyfriend, and because I didn’t recognize him, he is disguising himself as my doctor in order to save me from the shock of whom he really is. I had seen a familiar storyline in a true-life movie once before.

Then it dawned on me...

What if I’m having an affair behind his back with the man that entered my room? He did make my temperature rise. Maybe he knows I’m having an affair, and that’s the reason for all his questions about the other man. What should I do?
I can’t just ask him, can I? I need to get out of here and find Nuilley. She would know if I were having an affair. I tell her everything. How am I going to get out of here? Crap! He has barely left my side since I woke up.

I pondered this theory for a few seconds longer. It was an impossible scenario, knowing me, I would never cheat on anyone—despite if he were twenty years older than me or not. I abhor cheaters!

Then I had a second theory...

What if he and I had been dating, and I broke up with him and that enraged him? Then I started dating the man who appeared in my doorway. Afterwards he began stalking me, and he soon discovered I had found someone new. This caused him to go insane...then he beat me, drugged me, and has now taken me prisoner and that’s why he was so incensed about me mentioning Hitler’s name in my sleep. Maybe I compared his behavior to Hitler. That could surely tick anyone off. What if this isn’t even a hospital? After all, I had only seen that one nurse...maybe she’s being paid to guard me. What if he’s some kind of deranged sicko, and the other girl and I have been kidnapped? This could explain why she was hysterical. What am I thinking!

This theory was more outlandish than the others, but probable.

There was no explanation for any odd questions that didn’t pertain to my obvious injuries. Why was my name signed to the note, which I am certain I didn’t write? Why couldn’t I remember anything?

My mind continued to do mental gymnastics. It was evident I had retained most of my childhood memories; regardless the last year of my life had seemed to escape me. The only fact I could recall was I had moved to Paris with my best friend Nuilley, but beyond that my memories were vacant, making it very factual that I had, in fact, lost my short-term memory. But, how that occurred seemed to be a mystery to everyone. Several more likely scenarios entered my flustered thinker.

What if I had witnessed the man who entered my room murder someone? Then he tried to kill me, but I escaped. And the doctor is working with the police to help me regain my memory because they want me to testify against him in court. God, and now...I am in a
witness protection program!

I began to hyperventilate. I worked myself into a real lather.
Breathe. Breathe.
I needed to think more rationally.

Brielle,
I scolded myself,
you are not writing one of your mystery novels right now. This is your life, but good content for a later date!

Then the most sensible explanation came to me...

Okay, he’s probably just my boyfriend who happens to be a doctor.
I suddenly remembered Nuilley trying to set me up with a few of her doctor friends.
I suppose I accepted the opportunity. All of this makes perfect sense now. The reason for his questions about my personal life is to help me remember things on my own. The man in the doorway wasn’t any one I knew—just a random visitor. That must be it. How thoughtful of the doctor to put his feelings aside in order to make things easier on me. I am sure he wants me to remember him naturally. He must really care for me,
I thought.

This seemed like the best theory of them all.

Just go with it.

I felt a pang of sorrow that I didn’t remember him. Of course, I only felt this for his sake, not my own. It was all becoming clear to me. It was a gallant act of love that he was standing by my side. It hadn’t appeared as if anyone else had. After all, he has been my only visitor.

I wondered for a moment where Nuilley was, and why she hadn’t visited me yet? He probably didn’t want my friends to see me in this condition. I imagined how awful it must be for him that I have forgotten our lives together. My condition must be killing him. I flashed at his hand resting on the bed rail so close to me, yet so far.

I placed my hand over his and asked him timidly and sincerely, “You, am I suppose to
r
emember, you?” My voice cracked. By chance, I also wrinkled my nose, how unappealing that must have looked like. “Did I write this to you?” I buzzed, trying to sound cheerful and happy about my revelation. Regardless, I mentally held my breath, praying that none of my theories were true!

“Ooh no. We have never met before,” he replied, smiling broadly. A wry twinkle flashed in his eyes. Amused, perhaps flattered, that I thought he was the man I had forgotten. It lightened the mood just a little; however, I didn’t find anything amusing.

“I am sorry. I thought, well—” I quickly retracted my hand. How embarrassing! I didn’t have the strength to explain my faux pas. I couldn’t cloud my mind, for the second time, with elusive thoughts.

Just because none of my theories panned out, it didn’t change the fact that the handwriting on the note wasn’t mine. Something did not add up. I couldn’t let go of a few nagging questions. Who wrote the note, why the hell did they sign it with my name, and why was it dated 1945?

“Brielle, the note was the only item that we were able to identify you by.”

“Identify me,” I buzzed, in a low voice. “Are you saying that no one knows I am here? I thought you had contacted my family already? So I’ve been lying here, and nobody even knows I’m here. Oh my God, essentially I’m a
Jane Doe
. I don’t understand, you said—” My heart constricted.
Why isn’t my family looking for me?

“Your name is...
Jane Doe
?” the doctor asked, with a look of confusion loomed his eyes.

“No. It’s Brielle Eden.” I sighed heavily.
What is wrong with him?

“Then, why are you calling yourself Jane Doe?”

“Huh? You know—that’s what they call an unidentified person. At least, in America they do,” I said, trailing to a whisper. No sooner did I say that, and before the doctor spoke, it dawned on me what had caused the confusion.
Jane Doe
was probably a term only used in America.

“Okay. That’s a term I am not familiar with,” he said, humbly. 

I felt bad that I had internally questioned his keen acumen. However, you would think any doctor in an English speaking, forwarded country would have known the term. Obviously, this wasn’t the case with my doctor. I inwardly rolled my eyes at myself.
Oh hell!
There were Americans who didn’t even know that Joe Biden was the Vice President, so how could I have expected a doctor in France to know what
Jane Doe
meant.