As I Fade (One Breath at a Time: Book 1) (13 page)

“
Okay, calm down, before you open your stitches,” he softly ordered. “You know, Adolf Hitler is classified as one of the most insane men to have 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 does Hitler have 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?”

“
Why? I mean...I feel much better. Can’t 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 evaluation 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 don’t 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, in 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 afterward, then we can get you on your way. How about that?” He smiled, nodded, and slipped something out of a manila folder.

Still, I felt a bit unsettled by his evasions, but more than anything I wanted to get my clothes, my cell phone, 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 definitive 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’d 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 Clint Eastwood. There was a significant element of kindness laced through his regard of me. Perhaps he hadn’t meant 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, almost afraid of what I would find.

“It was found in the pocket of your clothes.” 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 intently 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.

My life is a spiral staircase made of icy marble. I feel as if I 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, come to 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 didn’t 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’d 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 steel bearing in 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’m 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, that would have been a blessing.

-9-

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 do when they don’t believe you, or if 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...

You called me your comet and that day I will never forget. I haven’t thought of anyone but you, since. I’m crazed with thoughts of you. The days drag on quietly and the nights stand still; when I close my eyes you enter each and every one of my dreams. I’m embraced by the truth that no matter what I know...you love me. 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 that I didn’t recall writing—forgetting him was exactly what I was afraid of.

“This is you, yes?” 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 her name. I always recited her words silently to myself to keep the memory of her alive.

“
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 inadvertently quipped my grandmother’s saying aloud.

“
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 wasn’t 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’m 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 it, 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 didn’t 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’ve dated.

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?

I pondered...

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. Because it
would
shock the hell out of me if he were my boyfriend!

I had seen a similar storyline in a true
Lifetime
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 thought about that theory for a few seconds longer. It was an impossible scenario because, knowing me, I would never cheat on anyone even if he were twenty years older than me. 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! Maybe I compared his behavior to Hitler. That would surely tick anyone off and that’s why he was so incensed about me mentioning Hitler’s name in my sleep. He thought I was referring to him. What if this isn’t even a hospital? After all, I’ve seen only 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 his odd questions that didn’t pertain to my obvious injuries. Why was my name signed at the bottom of the note, which I was 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 of those, the last few years of my life were gone—of course, that was how many I assumed I had lost.

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 clear that I had, in fact, lost my short-term memory. But how that occurred was 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 must 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! If this were the case why wouldn’t they just tell me? Maybe they’re afraid I will protest; and I would, if my life was in danger. I couldn’t give up my entire family! But this would certainly explain why they’re not here, too.

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

Brielle,
I scolded myself, just as my inner muse scolded me too.
You are not writing one of your mystery novels right now. This is your life—reality—but good content for a later date! Non-fiction content!

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 anyone 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 had forgotten our life together. My condition must be killing him. I glanced at his hand resting on the bed rail so close to me, yet so far.