Fugue State

by M. C. Adams

  She could have subarachnoid blood forming along the surface of her brain, pooling within the sulcal grooves that gave the brain its lobulated configuration, or even intraparenchymal blood trapped within the brain itself. Small amounts of either of those two forms of blood were generally monitored, but left untreated. Although initially confused, she felt more oriented now, and she sensed her neurologic status had improved. I doubt I have a head bleed that would need intervention, she thought with a groan.

  When Jimmy walked back into the hospital room, Alexa rolled her face toward him. The minute movement produced earth-shattering pain in the back of her head and twinkling lights in her vision.

  “Just a scalp hematoma. You’ll be fine.”

  She repeated his words in her head with skepticism: You’ll be fine. When the nurse came in to discharge her, handing her a slip of paper with a follow-up neurology appointment, Thornton offered to take her home. Alexa agreed reluctantly. She wasn’t ready to call anyone to get her. She didn’t know what to say. Her story seemed surreal. She couldn’t even recall what she had told the police or detective Marcum.

  During the long car ride back to her condo, Alexa had started to doze when she heard Jimmy ask her, “Did he hurt you — you know, in another way?” His voice sounded troubled. “You don’t have to tell me. I know it’s not my place. It’s just — I want you to take some extra time away if you need it.”

  Half-asleep, Alexa was slow to respond. But when she did, she chose a fierce tone. “No. Jimmy. He smashed my head against the ground. He cut my leg. He beat me. I killed him. That’s the whole story.” Surreal.

  The car was otherwise silent until they arrived at the condo she shared with Britt. She stepped out without a word of thanks. Jimmy waited until she disappeared inside before driving away.

  Alexa passed the security guard with her head down, wearing only a pair of borrowed scrubs and hospital socks without shoes. Her clothes had been bagged for the investigation. Although exhausted, she chose to walk up the eight flights of stairs. Her heart thumped in her ears with every step. She forced her numb mind to think. Britt. What do I tell him?

  Britt was in Malibu, golfing and hobnobbing with the political elite in an effort to gain campaign support for an upcoming election, and wouldn’t return until late Monday.

  He’s so optimistic about his budding career in politics. I won’t mention it until he returns. His campaign for State Representative means the world to him, and I can’t interrupt his networking opportunities. Besides, the attack was in the past; she was ready to put it behind her.

  When her head hit the pillow, she failed to sleep. The nights’ events replayed in fragments, with Nine Inch Nails providing the background music. It was the first moment she realized Jamar would continue to haunt her. How naïve she had been to believe her nightmare was over.

  CHAPTER 6

  The flashbacks were commonplace. They passed in and out of her reality, forever blurring the finite constraints that separated past and present. She feared she had lost a part of herself in the past, and that ghost of herself haunted her and kept her from moving forward.

  Alexa sat on her bench outside the courtroom, watching Appleby’s feet as he paced back and forth. Jimmy Thornton approached him, and the two began an intense discussion.

  What are those two debating? Why must Jimmy always get involved?

  Her glare burned through the back of Appleby’s head. We need a new strategy before I go back up there. The last thing she needed was to make another critical mistake in the courtroom. Her biggest mistake of all was giving a statement to the police and the detective prior to consulting with her attorney. Appleby reminded her of that grave mistake time and time again. How could I have known I would need an attorney after being attacked in an alley?

  She realized onlookers were staring at her, and she sat up tall in attempt to look confident. She avoided making eye contact with the crowd. Appleby returned with good news. Given the new line of questioning, the defense was granted a recess until the following morning. Alexa sighed in relief.

  “We’re not out of the woods yet, sweetheart,” he stated. Appleby reached for her arm and led her to the car. They sat next to another on the cold black leather bench seat.

  Despite her better judgment, just once she needed to say aloud the real answer to Ms. Finkle’s question. “Jacob, you know the reason I didn’t try to save that man. I wanted him dead — for what he did to me.”

  Her confession cut through the silence of their typically solemn drive from the courthouse. He grabbed her wrist, and his nails pressed into her flesh. She’d opened Pandora’s Box and released Hell’s fury. Appleby’s eyes became daggers, his words authoritative and severe. “You can’t say that in the court room. I don’t want to hear you say that again. Don’t even think it. Not if you want to walk away from this.” He turned away and muttered something into the air. She thought she could make out the word fool in his words, but she couldn’t be sure.

  She moped with watery eyes, surprised at how much his actions managed to hurt her. So much for the truth. This is what the truth gets me. Back to hiding my feelings from the world and letting Appleby feed me lines in the courtroom.

  Jacob Appleby was an amazing attorney. But he wasn’t nice to Alexa, or tactful. He strategized. He behaved methodically. But he lacked compassion. She doubted he believed in her at all. She wasn’t sure anyone believed in her. Even her mother had asked, “Why did you have to kill that man?”

  “So he wouldn’t kill me,” she responded, half angry, half pleading. She waited to see if her mother’s eyes forgave her. Nope. Nothing.

  They stopped talking. She was convinced her own mother would have convicted her. The ulcer forming in her stomach made her wonder if it would’ve been better if she had died that night. Friends and family would have swarmed the funeral. Her eulogy would have been filled with cherished memories and heartfelt praises. Maybe that ending would have been easier, but she wasn’t ready to concede. Not yet. She had too much fight left inside her.

  More than once, she’d wanted to replace Appleby with a lawyer she could get along with; but she needed to win. If he could win her case, it was enough. She accepted his patronizing reluctantly. They continued their drive in silence. Alexa didn’t want to talk to anymore. Except, perhaps, Smokey Joe. She needed a distraction from the day’s events. After parting ways with Appleby, she drove to the shooting range, Emilio Pucci skirt and all.

  Alexa smiled at Joe’s gruff “hello,” her little handgun tucked neatly into her Chanel handbag. There was an ease to their acquaintanceship that made Alexa feel more herself than she had in months. Thornton was right; shooting the .38 caliber helped her regain her confidence. She could feel the tension dissipate with the squeeze of the trigger. Four bull’s-eyes in a row! Her aim was impeccable.

  Joe grinned. “Pretty shot for a pretty lady! Now let’s mix things up a bit. I want you to learn to shoot with your left hand as easy as your right.” He challenged her with basic military tactics that served as a much needed mental distraction. During the training, her mind felt sharp again. They worked on multiple targets that day. Alexa aimed and fired. One, two, three shots quickly and without hesitation. She preferred a two-handed stance, but Joe often pulled one hand away. Eventually, she even became comfortable using only her left hand.

  They chatted after the lesson ended.

  “Do you enjoy teaching me as much as I enjoy learning, Joe?” Her lips pressed into a faint smirk.

  “Shooting was the one thing I wanted to take with me after Vietnam.” He snorted. His eyes shuffled around on the floor, but they eventually rose and met hers. “War is insufferable. No man should see or do those things.” He shuddered. “It messed with my head. Post-traumatic stress disorder, they called it.” His eyebrows rose, and his words slowed. “Caused nightmares and such.” Alexa broke away from his stare.

  Although they never discussed her situation, both local media and a few select national news channel
s covered her trial. Joe had to be aware of her dilemma. Was this his attempt to empathize? She didn’t care for his attempt to comfort her; she refused to discuss the matter. She liked her complacent experiences with Joe. He made her feel safe — a feeling she couldn’t risk losing.

  “Thanks, Joe. How can I repay you?”

  “No need.” He waved his hands in the shape of an X and shook his head. “Unless you cook?” He cocked his head slightly.

  “I’m afraid not. But I know great take-out.”

  She indulged his appetite with a filet from Jupiter’s off Pleasant Point, with asparagus, garlic mashed potatoes, and an apple crisp in return for the day’s lesson.

  Alexa followed her shooting session with two hours of sweaty kickboxing alone in her underwear. She found the solitude encompassing. In those silent moments of the night, she longed for Britt the most. The place she lived now was so different from the homey condo they had shared for the duration of their nine-month engagement. They had chosen to move in together before the wedding. In the media frenzy, conservatives ridiculed the decision. When Britt’s candidacy fell under attack, she moved out, trying to separate him from the scrutiny.

  She lost her ability to connect with him. She couldn’t be passionate. She couldn’t interact with him intellectually. The qualities that made them amazing together crumbled.

  Alexa left the love of her life in the whirlwind of panic that followed the attack. Feeling as though her life had ended, she refused to take Britt down with her as she spiraled into Hell. The future politician deserved better. She left to protect him.

  That night in her dreams, Alexa relived the day she ended her engagement. She picked Britt up from the airport after a business trip. It was a simple gesture, an expected gesture earlier in their relationship. They shared a lukewarm embrace, and then stopped for coffee outside their condo. Over coffee, Alexa slid her ring across the table, and she told him goodbye. Britt held the same blank expression he’d worn for months. He held her one last time. He held her tight, but his arms felt cold.

  As in life, her dream was replaced by a nightmare. As she followed Britt out the door, she realized something was off. She only saw the back of his head, but he looked different. Is that Britt? She touched his shoulder, and he spun around. Some of the features resembled Britt; his lush brown hair, his square jaw, his high cheekbones.

  Those aren’t Britt’s eyes. This man’s eyes were dark as night with yellow sclera. She watched the man’s features transform into those of Jamar Reading. To her horror, he rose in size and stature. Now towering in front of her, he grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her over the ground into the park across the street. The park was surrounded by a black iron picket fence. Jamar threw Alexa’s body onto the sharp tines at the top of the fence, piercing her back with the pointed metal and skewering her belly button. On cue, she screamed. The screams continued as she woke.

  It was only midnight.

  The satin sheets were damp with sweat. She grabbed a blanket and used it as a towel to soak up the moisture on her skin. She headed to the medicine cabinet and composed a concoction of sleep aids to get her through the night.

  The musical tone of her cell phone startled her. His name didn’t appear on the screen, but she knew that number by heart. As much as she had tried to erase him from her life, there he was, staring her in the face. Britt Anderson.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Britt.” She said the words out loud once to herself, and then once more into the phone.

  “Alexa.” She wanted to drown herself in the strong, pure sound of his voice. “How are you holding up, doll?”

  His simple terms of endearment nearly melted her heart of stone. “I’m fine, Britt,” she lied. She couldn’t bear to ask how he was doing. She didn’t want to know how he was getting along without her.

  He digressed to happier times. “I was thinking today of that night we went to the Hope benefit together. It was the first time you met my father.” He spoke with a slow, comforting drawl.

  Yes. The night you announced you would run for State Representative.

  “You were so beautiful that night, dressed in gold sequins. Every eye watched you from the moment you walked in. Every man wished you were his. I think even my father wanted to steal you away from me. That was the night I knew I wanted to marry you, so no other man could have you but me. I guess that was selfish of me.”

  She held the receiver in silence while she recalled the night. She had worn a champagne-colored Sue Wong cocktail dress, covered in intricate gold beading. Britt wooed her with Texan charm, telling her over and over how he would love her forever. He held her close and kissed her until she had to break away for air.

  What would it have been like to be a politician’s wife? Her heart winced at the thought. How could such a happy memory harbor such pain?

  Yet, she couldn’t help but indulge them both a little while longer. “I knew I wanted to be your wife the weekend we stayed at your parents’ cabin. That Saturday morning we spent filling out a crossword puzzle together on the porch. We were wrapped up in blankets and immersed in our espresso. It was so perfect, sitting there next to you, watching the mist rise from the valley. I figured if that was the most exciting thing that ever happened in my life, I would be perfectly content.” Her words trailed off. The magic of those moments had slipped away, exposing their harsh reality, and Alexa scolded herself for her indulgence.

  “Are you content now, Alexa?” he pressed.

  She instantly regretted her choice of words. “I’m fine, Britt,” she lied again. The truth had become too much to bear.

  “And the nightmares?” he continued.

  “I’m getting used to them.” She was a terrible liar.

  “I’ve been thinking about this, and I want you to try something, doll. I think it will help you get over the nightmares.”

  Her free hand grasped a stray lock of hair that she spun into a knot. She didn’t want him to help her with this. She didn’t want him to enter this world of pain, yet he continued.

  “The next time you wake up, I want you to relive that nightmare, step by step. Only this time, I want you to change the details. Create your own ending. Make each nightmare end so that you win. Imagine yourself stronger than him, faster than him, smarter than him. Imagine that he is weak; imagine that he is afraid of you. Know that he can’t hurt you anymore, Alexa. You won. Don’t forget that.”

  Holding the receiver, rocking back and forth, with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she feared she resembled one of the psychiatric patients from the third floor of the hospital where she used to work. She’d acknowledged more than once that she might benefit from being committed. Perhaps after the trial, she thought.

  She reached for another blonde lock to defile. She let Britt’s words permeate her brain, one neuron at a time. Damn, he’s smart. She wanted to tell him how smart he was and how much she respected him; how much she loved him and missed him. She missed his touch, his kiss. She missed the sex. She couldn’t remember their last intimate moment, and she’d give her right arm to have one more night with him. Instead, she thanked him solemnly.

  “You’ll make a great politician.” I only hope I haven’t ruined your chance in politics.

  “Promise, Lex, that you will think about our happier times together before drifting off to sleep,” he begged.

  “Of course, Britt.”

  “Good night, Lex.”

  “Good-bye, Britt.” She hung up the phone and repressed the finality of her closing words with a drawn out sigh.

  She thought about the three weeks they spent together exploring Europe last year. Her thoughts settled on the little French café they visited in Paris for espresso at midnight. They had been arguing over something. Perhaps it was the time Britt had suggested they head off to the red light district in Amsterdam. Alexa had been appalled by the idea. She wasn’t sure Britt had any real interest, or if he was just trying to rile her up. He seemed to enjoy trying to aggravate
her.

  Their discussion was interrupted by the Norwegian accent of their waiter. Alexa figured they must have been the only Americans to venture to Paris and be greeted by a Danish waiter. Alexa found the waiter’s accent humorous, and the argument faded.

  “I don’t know any Danish words.” She pointed to the small flame of the tea light on their table and asked, “What is the word for candlelight?”

  The waiter replied, “Levende lys.”

  Alexa repeated the words one syllable at a time. “Levende lys.” The lovely words sounded like a lullaby as they rolled off her tongue. She thought about them and stared into the little flame that sat in the middle of their table. The flame was a thing of beauty and power, yet it could be extinguished with a single breath. The perfect light shined bright and pure. Like a halo atop an angel’s head, she equated that intangible purity with goodness. Her mind caressed the beautiful words and tucked them away in her memory.

  That night, she and Britt returned to their French chateau and made love by levende lys. In the morning, Britt proposed over breakfast in bed with espresso. Yes. She missed Britt Anderson.

  Alexa wiped away tears of remembrance from each eye. And after taking the proper combination of sleep aids, she dozed off again around four o’clock in the morning. She slept for three hours without a nightmare.

  Alexa told Britt about the assault before any of her other loved ones, and she let him break the news to her family. She waited four days to tell him; she waited until he returned from Malibu. For four days, she tried to develop a plan that never materialized. She was showering when he returned home. He walked into the bathroom and saw the stitches in her thigh. He saw the bruises on her abdomen and her cheek. His cheeks flushed with rage.