Fugue State (11 page)

Alexa floated the rest of the way through the window and to the surface of the water. The rear of the car continued to sink slowly. Bubbles rose from where the front of the car was submerged. The front windshield shattered after the collision, and water covered both the hood and the driver-side window.

Among the bubbles in the water, the unconscious body of the obnoxious cab driver bobbed along in the river. Alexa eyed the body. She held nothing but dislike for him, but she had to help him. She judged the distance to the shore and the current of the water.
I’m an awful swimmer, but I should be able manage that despite the current.
She swam to the cabbie and tucked his neck and shoulders under her right arm. She made slow, gentle strokes until she reached the bank of the river.

A small crowd had formed along the shore. Onlookers helped Alexa pull the driver’s body out of the water and onto the pavement. She shouted to the crowd, “Ambulance!” in the best French accent she could muster. The words came out breathy. She knelt by the cab driver. His chest didn’t rise. She turned and surveyed the eyes of the French patrons, silently pleading with them. She wanted one of them to step up and take over. No one moved.

Alexa grunted in desperation. She worried about liability, malpractice, and lawsuits. Rule number one in medicine — a physician should never render services outside of work, especially in emergency situations. Unlike other individuals who are protected by Good Samaritan clauses in emergent cases, physicians can still be held liable. It was a similar type of loophole that the prosecution had tried to use to hold Alexa responsible for Jamar’s death. Alexa remembered the bitter taste of Portia Willis’ lawsuit and silently thanked Jacob Appleby for his ability to make the charge go away with a meager settlement.

This isn’t the United States; this is Paris
.
The lawyers don’t act as such vultures in France. That’s an American thing
. Her eyes made a final search for a hero in the audience before starting basic life support.

She pounded his back to try to clear some excess water from his lungs, and then she flipped him supine. She laid two fingers on the man’s carotid artery and felt for a pulse.
Maybe. No. Nothing.
She placed one palm on top of the other on his chest and began heavy, rhythmic chest compressions at the standard rate. She knew CPR to two rhythms: “Staying Alive,” by the Bee Gees
,
and “Another One Bites the Dust,” by Queen. Her BLS instructor had mentioned that everyone held superstitions as to whether the song that was chosen could influence the outcome of the CPR attempt. She upheld the superstition and chose the Bee Gees
.

She felt a snap once, twice as she compressed the man’s chest. She winced as his ribs cracked under the force.

She looked down at the man’s gaping mouth, full of stained yellow teeth and amalgam fillings and considered mouth-to-mouth.
No. Not yet
. She closed her eyes and continued with compressions, humming the beat to herself. When she reopened her eyes, she saw his blue tinged lips and had no choice but to proceed with a couple of rescue breaths. She pinched his nose, tilted his head back, and covered his mouth with hers. She exhaled two long deep breaths into the man’s mouth and felt his chest rise. A small amount of residual river water seeped into her open mouth, and she could still smell the cigar when the air poured out of his lungs.

After a second breath, she felt for a pulse. Nothing definite.
Come on! Dammit!
She continued with compressions, but started to fatigue. Another rib snapped.
He’s dead,
Alexa
, a sour voice crept in from her subconscious. She cranked up the volume of the song lyrics playing in her head to drown out the voice.
Press harder. Your hands are becoming limp
.

In the distance, a siren rang out. It grew louder. Alexa continued compressions until the emergency medical technicians pushed her aside.

“I broke some ribs,” she stated, and walked away. She spoke English and doubted they understood her. As she broke through the crowds, she overheard one of the medical aides.

“
Je sens un battement de coeur.
”

They feel a heartbeat!
Relief swept over her as she let out a meager laugh.
Perhaps saving this life can make up for one I took.

A police officer came forward and questioned her briefly about the accident. It wasn’t a very official investigation. He spoke to her mostly in English. He asked if she was American and if she had lost her passport and identification, and directed her to the American Embassy where she could get assistance. He handed her a piece of paper that would serve as documentation that her identification was lost in an accident. Then the officer left her.

A second man approached Alexa. She thought he was another cab driver. Perhaps a friend or colleague of the man she saved. He didn’t seem that interested in the other cabbie, however, and he didn’t look French.
Czech, maybe?

“I saw it,” the man said in broken English. “You save him. You did good. You American?” She nodded. “American with money, no?” She froze in the awkward moment. “You lose your things?” The man motioned to the water where the car sank.

“Yes. I lost my passport, my wallet, even my phone.”

“You go to Embassy now?”

She nodded again.

“You have money. I have friend, cousin. Can get you passport easy. Fast.” He managed a dull finger snap that sounded like a thud. “Not like Embassy. You can be — anyone you want.” He made a motion with both hands to convey infinite possibilities. “His card.” The man handed Alexa a piece of paper the size of a business card with hand written information on it. An address and a name. That was all.

Alexa accepted it. The man nodded and smiled. “You save him. Very good.” He walked away.

She stood alone on the street in a small puddle where the water collected at her feet. The ambulance containing the cabbie drove away as the crowd thinned. She looked down at the card and knew what it offered her. His words repeated over and over again in her head.
You can be anyone you want.
She couldn’t help but succumb to the irony of the proposition. She had left Austin to start a new life, in a new place, and become a new person.
Fugue state. I can change my identity and forget Dr. Alexa DeBrow forever.
The forever part seemed to echo in her mind
.
In order for this to work, she’d have to disassociate from her former life altogether.

CHAPTER 14

A
lexa pocketed the business card and walked the Parisian streets back to her hotel. The desk clerk recognized her and gave her a new room key.

“Miss DeBrow.” He passed her the key with a deep nod that turned into a half bow.

She accepted the key with a quick “Merci” and wondered whether or not she wanted to stay Miss DeBrow. She considered the possibilities, as well as the possible legal infractions.
Fraud. Unless I legally change my name, this is fraud. It’s against the law. And I’d be living a lie.
Her moral compass worked to sway her toward the straight and narrow, while her heart heralded other fantasies.
Do I care if it’s wrong? Do I really care? I deserve this. I deserve to start over, a second chance of happiness. I can be anyone I want
. . . . With her heart and her head pulling her in different directions, she came to a standstill. Yet something about the timing of the offer seemed too good to pass up. She thought about the debit card tucked away in her luggage.
I have access to cash withdrawals. I have time to decide whether or not to go to the embassy.

She rinsed the Seine’s stink from her hair and her skin and prepared for a night of dancing with Serge and a couple of his friends. She slipped on a red chiffon dress with a deep V-neck and a flowing skirt that opened wide for twirling. She completed the ensemble with gold heels. The light and energy that emanated from Serge warmed her insides like smoldering embers. A bright red lipstick served as a tangible reminder of the passion that Serge evoked and her longing for the touch of his lips. She yearned to seduce him, but she was secretly afraid to lure him in. A spritz of expensive French perfume, and she was out the door.

She met Serge and two of his male comrades at a restaurant that stayed open late into the night and featured a jazz band until five a.m. They danced and drank wine and danced some more. Alexa twirled, and her skirt flew high, teasing the onlookers enjoying their late night cocktails. Luscious long tanned legs and exposed thighs, Alexa watched with pleasure as the eyes of the male patrons widened.
I have never behaved this provocatively. It feels amazing!
She watched Serge’s finesse on the dance floor and mimicked his encompassing rhythm. His hips vibrated with the music. He locked his hands on her hips, not at her waist in a gentlemanly fashion, but low on her iliac crests and pulled her pelvis close to his. He moved her body with his, as she grew accustomed to the choreography he possessed.

As she learned spins, lifts, and steps that worked together harmoniously, she learned to breathe in the music and open her heart to possibilities.
With so much energy pulsating through me, I feel alive again!
She embraced the feeling, and the dancing came naturally.

Serge dropped down to his knees and eased her leg over his shoulder; he stroked her thigh to the music. His hands fell to her lower back, and he scooped her body off the floor. Her other leg wrapped around Serge’s other shoulder, her crotch hovering inches from his lips. Serge spun Alexa around in circles while her skirt fell loose and covered her face. Her entire lower body was exposed; her lace white panties became a spectacle for all to see. Goosebumps of excitement rippled across her skin.
To be in the center of such an erotic and provocative scene
—
how invigorating!
Serge swung her torso to the side, and within minutes, she was in his arms.

The song ended. The phenomenal applause turned Alexa’s face crimson. So many eyes locked on her. Serge grabbed her hand and led Alexa outside into the street. She anticipated a late night make-out session in the alley, but she was mistaken.

“What happen to your leg?”

“Wh-a-at?” She stammered.

“You have scar. There on your thigh.” Without hesitation, Serge lifted Alexa’s dress and revealed the long scar across her left upper thigh.

The scar from Jamar’s knife.
“It’s nothing. A scar. That’s all.”

“What happen to you?” he questioned in his imperfect English.

“An accident. A long time ago.”

He furrowed his brow. “Does not look old.” He traced the scar with his index finger, following it all the way up toward her crotch.
Even when he touches that painful place, I tingle down to my toes.
She couldn’t resist the urge any longer. She wanted to give in to Serge completely — let him seduce her. Let him caress her body and make love to her. She had only given in completely to one person, Britt Anderson. But she needed to be touched by a man again. She wanted it to be Serge. She wanted to somehow take his energy and passion for life from him as he took a piece of her innocence.

One of Serge’s friends interrupted Alexa’s moment of intimacy. His hand pulled away, and her dress dropped to her knees; the two men walked away from her. They spoke French together for a good five minutes before she marched over and grabbed Serge’s arm from behind.

“Hey!” she remarked jokingly. “Forgetting someone?” She tried hard to sound coy. She wanted to remind him of the passion they shared.

But Serge’s attention rested on the new male friend. The man casually slipped his hand into the side pocket of Serge’s fitted white slacks. This man’s attempt to seduce Serge appeared stronger than hers. She watched his fingers outline the contours of Serge’s package. Her mouth gaped as she stared at the spectacle. Without missing a beat, Serge put his finger to her chin in an attempt to close her open mouth.

“Victor and I will go have some fun at my place. What you think? Want to have fun? You join us?” While Serge’s questioning eyebrow intrigued her, Victor’s stone face negated Serge’s invitation. She tossed aside her desire for a romantic tryst with Serge, shook her head, and turned away.

“Another night, then?” he questioned from behind.

“Another night,” she mumbled without turning to face him.

She sulked as she walked the few short blocks back to her hotel.
How was I so misled? I don’t understand Serge at all.
She dissected the events of the evening. The men in the café were fixated on Alexa’s lace panties, except Serge, who eyed the scar on her thigh. Did Serge dance to gather the attention of the onlookers, rather than his partner
?
Was Serge’s dance to seduce Victor, not Alexa?
Is Serge bi-sexual?
He seems so comfortable with his sexuality, more than I could ever comprehend. It’s the same energy that drew me to him.
She furrowed he brow with the new information, and realized she was completely out of her element.

She decided to vault her lustful thoughts somewhere deep in her heart, where they belonged. Her first and last sexual encounter was with her darling Britt Anderson. It would stay that way indefinitely. She put a hand to her chest in attempt to soothe the ache for Britt that lurked within.

When she reached her hotel room, she placed her room key on the nightstand next to the handwritten business card the Czech man had given her. A new identity was a way to move on from Britt Anderson, a way to put away the past and move toward a new future. Her eyes scrutinized the writing on the card. The tops of the letters angled to the left, a characteristic of penmanship of left-handed writers.
Britt was left-handed.
She clenched her teeth together tightly.
Stop it!
she scolded. She didn’t want to forget him, but the memories hurt, so she tried to box him away somewhere in the back of her mind.