Felicite Found

Félicité Found

Julia King

©
Copyright 2013 by Julia King

T
he Jump

A piercing scream sounded in Pierre’s ears, shocking him out of his thoughts and diverting his attention down the cobblestone bridge. Threads of a white, tattered dress hanging from the petite frame of a blond-haired girl fluttered in the bitter breeze. The movement caught his eye as she jumped off
Pont Neuf
.

Pierre scrutinized the people walking past the scene; they did nothing to help, didn’t even look in her direction. It was as if she wasn’t there at all. He shook his head and blinked a few times, wondering if he really
had
seen her fall.

Pierre’s heart hammered hard against his chest—fear for the girl rippled down his spine. He
pounded across the bridge in the direction of where the girl had leaped. When he reached the spot of her fall, he searched the water below, panting for air, eyes darting left to right. He spotted her head bobbing up and down in the dark, murky water. She was being swept away with the River Seine’s swift current. Without a thought, he climbed on top of the stones and dove in after her. Sharp pains like stabbing needles shot through his body as he splashed into the frigid water. After surfacing, his breath came out in halting gasps that misted in the air around him. His muscles grew tight as the cold worked its way through his body. Despite the agony, he searched—eyes bouncing back and forth—for the girl.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her being pulled by the current to the river’s edge. A high pitched shriek had come from her direction as her head smacked into the wall. Relieved he had done a lot of swimming over the years, he willed his limbs to thrust him through the heavy current, adrenaline pumping in his blood.

He reached where she had hit her head and then dove under until he spotted her limp body being pulled along with the muddled flowing river. Grabbing her, he brought her to the surface and wrapped his arm around her petite torso. He pushed through his cramping limbs, focusing on getting the girl and him to safety. Finally, with a last driving effort, he grabbed onto a low dip in the river wall; the muscles in his arm strained as though they would tear apart. He hoisted her up onto dry ground and then himself, giving them an escape from an icy death.

Pierre traced the raw, reddened rash that circled the pale flesh of her neck with the tips of his fingers. Then feeling for a pulse, he patiently waited for the beats to register with his fingertips but felt none. Instinctively, he began pumping chest compressions, followed by puffing air into her mouth. Again and again he pushed to make her heart pump. With each thrust, thoughts clouded his mind, wondering why the girl would have jumped. She was too young to die. Then, to his horror, a cracking branch-like sound resonated from her chest. He knew he had broken ribs, but he didn’t lessen the pressure.

He bit his lower lip hard—growling—until he could taste the rusty flavor of blood seeping into his mouth. Wiping his mouth clean on his shirtsleeve, he placed his frozen lips onto hers and blew. After a minute of more compressions and giving her air, she coughed up river water and fluttered her eyes open. Pierre breathed out a huge sigh of relief.

The girl scrambled away from him and clawed at the sidewalk beneath her until she reached the wall. “Whoa, wait!” Pierre called out. “I’m not going to hurt you.” It dawned on him that she must be confused—first jumping off a bridge and then waking up to a strange guy slobbering all over her mouth. She pressed her back against the wall, wrapped her arms around her legs, and rocked back and forth, whimpering like a frightened animal.

“Hey, now.” Pierre approached her and rested his hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay.” She jerked away from him. He let his hand fall limp to his side.

“Stay away from me,” she croaked. He crawled a pace back, holding his hands palm up.

What in the world?
He thought as his teeth chattered.

She shivered as bits of crystalline ice formed on her blond locks. Speaking in his native tongue of French, he said, “We’ve got to get inside, to a doctor or something.”

The girl sat in silence, only tilting her head to the side, giving him a view of blood dripping from the crown of her forehead. The spot had swelled almost to the size of a golf ball. If he didn’t get her to the hospital soon, she could go into shock or worse: hypothermia. He might, too, so he had to do something to get her to trust him. And fast.

“My name’s Pierre Rousseaux.”

She scooted away even farther, grasping at the stone wall behind her. Pierre didn’t know if she were trying to escape or arm herself with a weapon; either way, she wasn’t succeeding.

“Hey, I know you have no idea who I am, but I’m a good person, I promise. I won’t hurt you, okay? You can trust me.” With calculated efforts, he inched closer to her. “Please, I just want to help.”

She shook her head and scowled. The girl clutched her side and whimpered as tears rolled down her pale cheeks like rain drops on a pane of glass. Her head rose for a brief second to look at him and then bowed toward her chest.

“You really need to see a doctor,” he urged. “Please, I can help you.”

With slow movements—still holding onto her side, she crawled to him, keeping her face down, but her eyes narrowed, searching him. Pierre placed his hand on her shoulder as a sign of friendship when she arrived by his side.  

“Okay, let’s get up now.” With a slight nod of her head, she let Pierre ease her up until she stood. Taking short strides, they made their way over to the steps up to the road. As they ascended the stairs, she groaned and leaned most of her weight on him. He laced his arm around her waist, helping her up. When they arrived at the top of the steps, a car zoomed past and then another and another. The girl screamed, heavy sobs following her outburst.

“What . . .” she stammered. “What was that?”

“Uh, a car,” Pierre said. Thoughts bounced around his head, wondering what was wrong with this girl.

The girl eyed the busy street as more cars raced past them and then started to quiver as though she were having a seizure. She hid her head by Pierre’s chest. He didn’t know what the devil could be freaking her out. All he knew was she needed help for sure.

Within seconds, her body fell limp in his arms. He shook her and patted her ashen cheeks, attempting to make her regain consciousness. Inside, he was freaking out and wondering just how he was supposed to help a girl that was so out of sorts. It took a full minute for her eyes to blink open, but she continued to cling to him, burying her face in his wet coat. She sobbed, tears flooding from her eyes. After a few minutes her cries slowed, but her forceful grasp on him didn’t lessen. He rummaged in his pocket for his cell phone to call the police, but as he pulled it out, water dripped from it; it was useless—dead.

The only alternative to getting her to a hospital was a taxi. He flagged one down until it came to a stop in front of them. They filed into the back seat. The girl glanced around the car with fright, still grasping hard at Pierre’s arm. He wondered if he would be without an arm before they reached the hospital; it could fall off by how tight she was holding on.

“Are you kids crazy?” the taxi driver huffed out as he leaned over the passenger seat to peer back at them. “You’re soaked! Don’t you see what the weather’s like? It’s February for heaven’s sake.” The man shook his head with worry etched across his
stubbled face.

“Uh . . . she fell into the Seine,” Pierre explained as he patted the girl’s knee. “I had to get her out.”

The taxi driver’s eyes widened as he turned back to the steering wheel. He revved the engine. “Well, lucky you were around. At least there are some good Samaritans left in the world. I better get you two out of the cold.” He stuck a toothpick in his mouth, chewing on it. “Where are we off to?”

“The nearest hospital and fast.”
A calming, cool sensation swept through his mind regardless of the desperate situation. Maybe law enforcement would be the perfect fit for his future career.

The taxi sped down the crowded street, weaving in and out of the congested morning traffic. Pierre found his arm stretching around the girl’s shivering body. She sighed out a lungful of air, and her muscles relaxed against him. Oddly enough, he felt comfortable with her—whoever she was.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he said, rocking her back and forth with gentle sways. “What’s your name?”

She bent her head toward Pierre and gazed at him for the first, not blinking once. As he caught sight of her eyes, a booming surge of shivers prickled up his chest and neck and then down into his arms. He had never seen such beautiful eyes in all his life. They were the shade of aqua blue with diamond-like specks around the edges. They pulled him into their watery pools, entrancing him. It took her gentle, yet, anguished voice to pull him out of his stupor. He worried he had offended her by his dropped jaw and quite possibly his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a lazy dog.

“My name is . . . it is . . . I do not know what my name is.” She sniffled as her head fell into her shaking hands. “Please, Monsieur, tell me what my name is.”

Has she lost her memory?
Pierre thought as his forehead furrowed. He squeezed her hand, not wanting her to panic. “It’s okay,” he said as he tilted her face with his free hand. He gazed into her eyes and smiled. “You’ve got to be confused, you know. You hit your head really hard.”

Within minutes, the taxi pulled up to the curb outside of the hospital adorned with curved-framed windows flanked by French flags and a rod iron gate in front. Pierre peeled some wet Euros out of his wallet, and tossed them on the passenger seat of the taxi. “Keep the change.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” the driver grinned. “Thanks for the tip, kid. Get warm, you two.” Pierre nodded, anxious to get the girl to a doctor. He didn’t even realize just how much money he had given to the taxi driver—a lot more than the short drive was worth.

Ten minutes later, a doctor and nurse arrived to examine her. The girl clung to Pierre’s arm, which made him think she had no plan of surrendering his limb back to him any time soon.

The short, balding doctor introduced himself as Doctor Thomas DePaul and proceeded to ask what had happened. After getting Pierre’s side of the events he said, “Would it be all right for us to talk to her alone? It might be . . . helpful. I’ll have a nurse make sure you’re okay. We don’t want you to get sick, either.” The girl tightened her hold on Pierre when he stood to leave.

“I’ll be right outside.” He pumped her hand a couple times. “I won’t leave, okay?” Her eyes swept around the room as though she was a trapped animal—darting from the bed she sat on, to the medical instruments on the counter and then to the doctor and nurse. At last her striking eyes fell on Pierre. She nodded and let go of his arm. Pierre backed out of the room, offering her a reassuring smile.

Pulling his cell phone out, he remembered it was reduced to wet scrap. He tapped on his—luckily for him—waterproof watch and knew his mom would still be asleep. He hated to disturb her. His best friend, Luc, never made it to school on time, though.

Luc to the rescue, I guess.
He laughed and shook his head and then stepped over to the cluttered nurse’s desk. “Excuse me. Can I use your phone? My cell isn’t working.”

The brunette nurse lifted her head
up, youthful brown eyes glittered with life as she looked at him. “Yes . . . of course,” she stammered. She glanced down at a pile of papers on her desk and then back up to Pierre. “Is that your girlfriend in there?” she asked as her cheeks blushed pink.

“Never met her before.”
He knew the question was about to come. Embarrassment prickled up his neck.

“Oh,” she said, biting her lip. “Sorry to be so bold, but in that case, can we do something sometime?”

Shrugging, he answered, “Uh, I’m only seventeen. Sorry.” This had happened so many times that he had his refusal line down pat. Women always thought he was older than he was and attractive, for that matter. He didn’t feel that way at all, only average at most.

“Oh.” Her face turned as red as an apple. “I didn’t realize. Here you go.” She pushed the phone toward him and returned to her work. The poor nurse fidgeted in her seat and bit her fingernail as though she wanted to be anywhere else but there.

“Thanks.” Pierre wished he could take this conversation somewhere else to lessen the nurse’s embarrassment, but there was nothing to be done, so he dialed; his hands shook with every push of the buttons from being frozen to the bone.

There were only four rings when Luc’s mother answered. “Hello, Madame Broussard, is Luc there?”

“Sure. He can never get out of the house on time, Pierre,” she laughed in her I’m-annoyed-with-my-son way. “Here he is.” His cell must have been lying on the counter, most likely to be forgotten by the ever so scatter-brained Luc.

“Hey, Pierre.” Luc coughed as though he was choking—munching noises could be heard in the background. “Are you checking up on me? Seeing if I’m running late . . . again? I’m totally coming,” Luc joked.

“That’s not it,” Pierre said in a hushed voice. “I need your help. I’m at the hospital.”

“What?” Luc shot out. “The hospital?”

“Don’t be so loud. Your mom’s gonna hear.” The last thing he needed was Luc’s mom getting worried. Anyway, this wasn’t
that
big of a deal. He patted his body: nothing was broken or bruised. He appeared perfect other than not being able to get warm. It was the girl who wasn’t doing so well.