Murder in the Bastille

jarring, and then a distant thudding.

Voices boomed over a static-laced loudspeaker and something wet rubbed Aimee’s cheek. She swatted it.

“We’ve stabilized the bleeding in your brain, mademoiselle,” a voice said.

“What do you mean?” At least that’s what she meant to say, but her words slurred. She couldn’t focus. Everything seemed steamy and gray, blanketed by fog.

“Good thing your friend brought you in. Any longer and you wouldn’t have made it.”

“But where am I?”

“L’hopital Saint Antoine. Alors! The neurosurgeon repaired the nasty vein wall in your brain that had collapsed.”

His words faded and blurred.

“You have a venous malformation,” he was saying. “Congenital, not something you’d ever know you had. But pressure on your neck caused the vein to blow.”

She’d dropped out of pre-med at the Ecole des Medecins but remembered brain hemorrhages. “What do you mean. . . . I’ve had brain surgery?”

“It’s all done by threading the catheter up to the collapsed vein and embolizing it. No cutting. Count yourself more than lucky on this one!”

“But doctor. . . .”

“Shhh . . . take a little nap,” he said. “This will help the pain.”

She felt a prick in her arm, then icy cold.

Later

“STOP IT OR YOU’LL throw up again.”

The dense grey fog shifted. “Rene?” Aimee asked.

“Who else?” he said.

She had to get up, get out from under this dark heavy thing.

“Take the blanket off me, Rene,” she said. “Please, it’s too dark.”

No answer. She reached out to pull it off, but all she felt was skin, arms . . . short arms.

“Rene!”

“Quit moving,” he said. “You’ve puked your guts out on the linoleum, which deserves it, and on me, who doesn’t.”

“Desolee, but I can’t see where you are,” she said.

A pause.

“Take it easy,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. Her fingers traveled his arm to his shoulders.

“You’re on a gurney. Stay still.”

“Where are we?”

She felt his large, warm hands grip hers.

“In the clinic at l’hopital des Quinze-Vingts, Aimee.”

“But that’s . . . that’s,” she said, struggling to sit up, “the eye hospital. . . .” It was too dark. She couldn’t see. “Take these bandages off my eyes, Rene.”

Silence.

She felt her eyes. No bandages.

Footsteps stopped in front of them. “Monsieur Friant, is this Mademoiselle Leduc?”

Rene must have nodded. “Please help us escort her to Dr. Lambert in Examination.”

That would be hard since she towered over Rene, a stocky dwarf of four feet. “I don’t need anyone’s help,” she said. “I can walk!”

“Stay still.”

But she sat up, then didn’t know where to turn, not even where her feet were when she thought she’d stood up. All she knew was she’d landed on something hard and slippery and then she threw up again.

When they’d cleaned her up, she promised herself she wouldn’t cry. In the dark fog where all she knew were sounds and textures, at least, she resolved, she wouldn’t let them see her cry.

Tuesday

“MADEMOISELLE LEDUC,” SAID DOCTOR Lambert, “there’s a knot on your head the size of . . .”

Aimee reached and missed. Felt her spiky hair, then air. Then tried again. This time she hit it and winced. “A large grapefruit?”

“Close enough,” he said. She felt the examining table shift with the weight of someone. A smell of antibacterial soap, the crinkle of what she imagined was a starched lab coat. Then a cold, metal disk on her chest. She shivered.

“Doctor, I can breathe,” she said, pushing it away. “Please, do something about the darkness.”

She felt air on her cheeks, heard the slight tinkle of a loose metal watchband. The room seemed filled with gray light. She saw nothing but little static swirls on the inside of her lids that made her dizzy.

“Any shadows?” he asked.

She felt a breeze in front of her.

“No. But you’re waving your hand in front of my face, aren’t you?”

“Don’t treat this like a quiz, mademoiselle,” he said. “You must feel angry. I would, too.”

She wanted to say that anger didn’t quite cover it. But after all, he was just doing his job.

“When will I see again?” She hoped her panic didn’t come across in her voice. “Why can’t I see?”

“We’ll run tests, analyze the fluid buildup, see if the pressure on your optic nerve dissipates.”

Aimee took a deep breath. “And if the pressure continues?”

“Complications occurred after the procedure in l’hopital Saint Antoine,” he said. “Let’s talk after the tests.”

Complications? He sounded young. . . . What if he was an intern? Or some medicastre, a quack?

Would she ever see? Or would she be stuck, depending on others, the rest of her life? She tamped her fear down, tried to make sense of the future.

Her business was at stake. Not to mention her life, her dog, and her apartment. She’d lose everything if she couldn’t pay her bills. The little windfall she’d gotten in the Sentier had been eaten up by the contractor and plumber. Every time they opened a seventeenth-century wall, they’d shaken their heads and held out their hands.

“Doctor, no offense, but I’d like more explanation. Perhaps I could talk with the specialist or department head?”

She felt a distinct pinch on her arm. Hard. From the level of where Rene’s arm would rest.

“No offense taken, Mademoiselle Leduc,” the doctor said. “But that’s me.”

Was that a glimmer of amusement in his tone?

“We specialize in trauma-related optic injuries. I manage the department,” he said. “Your partner specifically requested me. Had you brought over from surgery in Saint Antoine. Highly unusual, but I consented.”

“But Doctor, will I be blind . . . ?” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say forever. Not as a prognosis. She’d never even used the word forever in the same breath with a relationship.

“Let’s get you back on the gurney for an MRI and CAT scan.” He must have leaned forward, because she smelled espresso on his breath. “Anger’s essential to your recovery, mademoiselle. Don’t let up.”

His warm hands helped her onto a gurney.

“I’ll meet you there,” said the doctor.