As I Fade (One Breath at a Time: Book 1) (15 page)

“Yes...it is—it’s unbelievable, sure...but, I can certainly prove who I am,” I asserted. “I have my passport and birth certificate at home. I can have one of my friends run me there to get them. I’ll come right back. I have no reason to steal this girl’s identity. I want this mystery solved as much as you do...okay?”

He studied me with suspicious eyes, but hesitated to speak.

“Okay?” I repeated.

Judging from his expression, it appeared that he still believed I had stolen the deceased woman’s identity. And, since I couldn’t remember much, like where I lived, I sensed it would be a problem if I couldn’t reach Nuilley. Where was Nuilley? Why wasn’t she out looking for me? This wasn’t like her. Maybe she had left France; perhaps she’d gone back to the States to visit her mother and stepfather, and I had forgotten that too. That had to be the answer; otherwise, she would have found me by now.

Nuilley was the type that would have demanded that the authorities conduct a massive manhunt if I’d been missing for more than 24 hours. She would have raised major hell until they did. I supposed she didn’t know I was missing yet. You usually have to be MIA for more than 48 hours before any one considers you a missing person. I hadn’t been gone that long.

There was an oppressive silence in the room. Outside was a different story. I could hear a plane in the distance, it was getting close fast, flying overhead. The engine sounded whiney and low to the ground; too low. I wanted to mention it, but hesitated to speak in the same manner he did. We were at a stand off.

The doctor’s eyes traced along the ceiling, following the sound of the plane’s motor; obviously he was concerned about how low it was too.

I tried not to look at him. It was time to put on my best poker face and hide any nervousness that registered in my eyes. I needed to remain confident and bold on the outside. Internally, my stomach twisted uncontrollably. I was perplexed by the entire situation. On top of losing my memory and having my identity questioned, which was surreal enough, the plane had pushed my nerves to the edge. Why the heck didn’t we have CNN on, or whatever news channel they watched in Paris? I wondered if we were going to get bombed. I think the doctor did, too.

I pressed my lips firmly together
. Speak Doc!
And remarkably he did, but not until after he pulled his eyes from the ceiling. He shuddered when the plane’s engine dissipated into the distance.

“
I’m trying to believe everything that you are telling me. It’s just the similarities between you and the deceased Brielle Eden, are far from coincidental. You have to understand the position this puts the hospital in. This news comes as a shock to us as well. I can only imagine how you must feel. I empathize with your situation, but if you can’t prove who you are, I’ll be forced to report these additional findings to the local authorities. From there...well, who you truly are—let me just say it will be out of my hands from there. I’m sorry, but I’m left with no other choice. I hope you understand,” he informed me.

I detected a sincere tone in his voice. However, it was not the answer I hoped for. My tears released into a quiet sob. I needed to get out of there. Maybe even out of Paris for a while, too. I had no idea where this situation would lead.

His forehead furrowed, marring the line between his brows. He handed me a few tissues. I tried to ignore the flicker of uncertainty that lingered in his keen eyes. This was not easy. His mouth began to move, but his words caught. Yet, his gauging eyes and silent thoughts had spoken louder than words ever would. He still didn’t believe me and that was obvious.

“
Wait.” I perked up, sniffling between my words. I felt terribly alone, isolated and accused of obscured mysterious crime that I knew nothing about. “I believe I have something that can prove who I am,” I gushed as tears poured from my eyes. They were long overdue. It had been such an emotional day. He looked at me curiously when I pulled the gown down and my hair off to the side, revealing the back of my right shoulder. “See?” I pointed to my one and only tattoo.

He examined it closely. I tried to eye it myself, pivoting my head to the side. My tattoo was masked somewhat by a large bruise but still legible in the red ink.

So Eden

“
My best friend and I got them together when we turned eighteen, only hers says, “So Nuilley”. She used her first name because her last name is pretty traditional.” I fluttered my eyelashes, blinking away my tears. “My father was outraged when he saw it...but it grew on him, and since it’s pretty discreet he let it go because I promised not to get anymore. Now do you believe me?”
A few tears still lingered in my eyes. I flashed the doctor an
I-told-you-so
expression, feeling somewhat victorious.

The doctor nodded convincingly. “For now it will do,” he said, and handed me several more tissues. His response felt like a blessing in the moment. Holy crap, I was exhausted from having to fight to prove my identity.

“Thank you,” I said. My ‘thank-you’ reply covered all bases, thanking him for the tissue, but mostly because he surprisingly believed me. At least that’s what he said.

“
I can’t help but mention, I agree with your father’s disapproval of tattoos, especially on a female’s body. Of course, you’re a today’s woman so, well, I guess times are changing.” He exhaled and shrugged.

Who is this man?
He spoke as if he was seventy. Going by his appearance alone, he couldn’t have been over forty.

He narrowed his eyes. “Personally, I don’t know any women who have tattoos. And the only man was this young fellow who repaired my washing machine. He had a coochy-coochy type of gal tattooed on his forearm.” The doctor drew in his lips, sucking in the air between his teeth and one corner of his mouth, making that hissing sound. “I think his name was Fred, a navy man. He seemed like a good guy.”

Great, no comment!

It was time to turn the tables. “By the way, what did you say your name was earlier?” I asked as I brushed any lingering tears away. Oddly enough, he didn’t wear a nametag advertising his credentials like most doctors do.

He answered with a prideful tone, “Doctor Tagorski.”

How interesting, his name was pretty similar to my mother’s maiden name, Tagor.
What are the chances of that?

Thank God at birth we take our father’s surname...Brielle Tagor would have been an awful name. I surely would have been teased growing up. Kids would have called me “Tony the Tiger,” “tag her you’re it,” and God knows what else!

“Nice to officially meet you,” I said, giving a genuine smile, while feeling the pain in my head returning like an annoying, consistent telemarketing sales guru. “What kind of doctor are you because I have a feeling you’re not a medical doctor?” I swallowed hard.

“
You are very insightful, Miss Eden. I’m the Chief of Psychiatry here at Saint Pierre’s Hospital, but, of course, I practice internal medicine as well,” he confirmed, raising a single brow.

Of course you are, and if I don’t comply with you, you’re going to keep me here against my own will, right?

I didn’t say this out loud because I didn’t want to give any power to my words, or give him any ideas, either. How ironic. The theory that I was being held prisoner had come to fruition.

I had to know the doctor’s plans for me.

* * *

In the meantime, Nuilley Lambert, paced back and forth, stabbed the end call button on her cell and hit redial. “Hello you’ve reached Brielle Eden. At the tone please leave me a message, and I’ll call you back.”

“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck! Why the hell won’t you answer your phone? Seriously! What is the problem?” Nuilley belted into the phone. “I swear to every Goddess that ever lived, if you don’t call me back soon, I will never call you again.” She hit the end call button again and hit redial again.

-11-

Tempers Flared

“
Are you going to release me?” I stared at him long and hard. He stared back at me long and hard, too.

“
Brielle, I know you are in a hurry to get home, but as I said, I have concerns.” There was that nodding of his head again, too. “Let me take a peek at your stitches, let’s see how things are healing. The laceration I’m mostly concerned about is this one.” He pointed to the bandage slightly above my right breast, just over my heart. “It’s small but it’s in a precarious location and came close to your heart,” he said, and discreetly waited for me to expose the wound.

“
Close to my heart?” I gulped. “Hmm, that’s scary.” He nodded, preoccupied with business then flashed me a genuine smile.

I slightly lowered the neckline of my robe and watched him carefully peel back the dressing. He had a gentle touch. I had always thought it was customary to have a female nurse in the room, especially if the doctor is male. I guessed they were short staffed because of the terrorist attack. For some reason, I didn’t feel he would do anything inappropriate, and I let the thought go.

A blood stained layer of gauze fell into my lap. I looked away, glancing back here and there.

His hands moved over me with precision, removing the tape and the old compress. He managed to examine the wound and replace it with a new bandage without disrobing any of my private areas.

“Done,” he said, smacking his lips together. “You’re healing very well. You may have a small scar—don’t worry, it won’t be obtrusive or ugly.”

“
Oh good.” I exhaled nervously, hoping he was right.

“
You may like your new war wound, it’s the shape of an arrowhead, or maybe more like a heart.”

“
Can I see it?”

“
Of course.” In no time, he peeled back the clean bandage.

I anchored my eyes towards my chest. Wow...black stitches in the shape of an arrowhead. Although on second glance, it definitely looked more like a heart.

A memory blindsided me. Actually, two memories. The first was a vision of a heart—wait—two hearts. I could see them, vividly. They were carved into the trunk of a tree. Maybe it wasn’t a tree, but it was weathered wood.

The other memory was dark and painful. I recalled the scent of smoke, and voices hollering in the distance. A man was there on his knees, doubled over in pain.

Why did seeing my scar trigger these memories? What was the connection between my scar, the two hearts, and the wounded man?

Suddenly, I felt a heavy weight on my chest, causing my lungs to constrict. I fought against the discomfiting sensation.

Breathe, breathe, breathe slowly
, I coached myself. It was too deep, too fast, and, at once, too slow and shallow. My fingertips began to tingle, so did the end of my nose. A full on panic attack was on its way.

“
I can’t breathe!” I gasped. My breath lodged in my lungs, and tightened the mid-section of my stomach, clamping down against my diaphragm. I felt hot and clammy. I wanted to run, to move, and to steal some oxygen from the air. Instead, it felt as if I had tripped and sank into the bottom of an endless pool. The atmosphere in the room shifted from cool and breezy to thick, humid, and wet. “I’m going to pass out.” I gasped for oxygen; it felt labored, like when you can’t get a satisfying yawn.

“
You’re okay,” Doctor Tagorski said reassuringly, then pulled a brown glass bottle from his pocket and removed the lid. “Take a short breath,” he kindly ordered, waving the bottle under my nose.

I inhaled the vapor in through my nostrils. It smelled like a ghastly mixture of ammonia and perfume, and also had a medicinal scent too. It stung my sinuses, causing my eyes to water. My reaction to whatever was in the little vial was blood pumping. My cheeks flushed. Suddenly, I felt over-stimulated, alive, alert, and as if someone had zapped me back to life.

“What a rush!” I said, inhaling deliciously clean, fresh air. In a few short seconds, I could breathe normally again.

Doctor Tagorski looked puzzled for a moment, and then hesitantly said, “Yes, it can be. Your body has been under a lot of stress. We have been giving you a little something to sedate you to help reduce the healing time. The side-affects can cause some patients to feel a little jittery when they wake up. This should help counter-balance any grogginess you may be experiencing. Just lie back and think of nice thoughts,” he said. His voice vibrated like a single pick of a guitar string.

“What have you been giving me? I am allergic to so many drugs,” I demanded, astonished by their lack of precautions. My mouth remained agape. Surely I looked as if I were in a fly eating contest. There wasn’t anything, or anyone, at that point, who could stabilize my growing anxiety. “What was that stuff?” I said, rubbing my nose. My insides quivered and a feeling of paranoia washed over me.

He glanced at the brown bottle. “This...it’s smelling salts, it’s harmless. Over the last six days when you were in and out of consciousness, as a precaution, I made certain that your attending nurse only gave you small doses of sodium pentothal.
It’s an agent that causes sedation so that you can heal faster. Don’t worry we have been monitoring you very closely.”