Fugue State

by M. C. Adams

  Alexa gazed into the distance. She saw a wooden pole with a light at the top about thirty yards in front of them. The pole stood about twenty feet tall.

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t wear those fancy clothes of yours tonight. You’re bound to get a little dirty down there.”

  The ground was covered with dew, and dirt and grass stuck to Alexa’s scrubs. She shuffled into position. He threw a total of twelve bottles into the air, one after another. Some went to the left. Some went to the right. She aimed at neon-green bottles and clear ones. She hit five of twelve, and only one was a clear bottle.

  “All right,” Joe sighed. “You can get up now.” He massaged his right shoulder before taking another swig of whiskey and walking out into the clearing. He set the remaining bottles upright in the field, spaced apart in a line that ran a good thirty yards. Nestled in the short grass, the bottles were visible targets from where Alexa had been shooting.

  “This one was a military drill. It frustrated the hell out of me, but it will be good for you.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, wiping away the wet grass and dirt that clung to her clothes.

  “You run parallel to the bottles and shoot as many of them as you can as you go.” He gestured with his hand the path she would take. “At the end, turn, switch hands, and shoot the remaining bottles as you run back. Continue like that ‘til they’re all gone.” Joe spat at the ground. “It’s harder than it looks. Good thing you’ve got your running shoes on. I’d hate to see you have to do it barefoot.”

  Alexa readied her stance, groaning to herself as she placed the handgun in her non-dominant left hand. She ran and started firing. One, two, three, four shots before she hit a bottle. The fiery explosion that resulted caused her to shuffle her steps. She fired more shots, struggling to steady her hand. Another bottle went up in flames. Alexa stumbled and fell hard onto the moist ground.

  Joe appeared at her side. “You all right? Lord, I didn’t mean for that.”

  “I’m fine,” Alexa spouted back, sucking the blood from her lip. Joe reached out to help her up. She shoved his hand away and stood. “I said I’m fine,” she repeated with an air of defiance.

  “Then start running,” He remarked with authority.

  She took out another bottle before she reached the end and turned around. With the gun now in her right hand, she felt more confident. She took out three bottles in a row. She still had several misses, however, and she had to turn again and shoot with the left hand. She hit another bottle before she had to turn around again.

  Only one bottle remained. She aimed at the bottle and squeezed the trigger several times with no success. Damn. After she passed the bottle, she turned and fired while running backwards. The bottle finally exploded into a ball of flames as Alexa tripped and fell, bumping her head on the soft ground.

  She lay there. Her chest heaved in spasms. Joe’s face hovered above her; looking down, he laughed heartily. This time, Alexa didn’t wait for him to offer assistance. She extended a hand. He grabbed it and hoisted her to a stand.

  “How’d it feel?” he asked.

  “I needed that,” she replied, still catching her breath. The field seemed magical as the sun inched its way over the horizon.

  Joe followed her gaze and nodded. “All right, girl. Let’s get you home.” He coaxed her into a worn-down, thirty-year-old Ford pickup truck so he could take her back to the Four Seasons.

  Alexa drifted off to sleep in the truck. She dreamed she was walking by the library downtown on a beautiful sunny day, with birds chirping and flowers in bloom. But her surroundings turned dark and cold. The flowers withered, and the air turned quiet as death.

  Jamar sprang out of a bush. Kensie appeared at his side. Before Alexa could react, a large piece of metal struck her left temple. Jamar and Kensie tied ropes around her neck and limbs. A switchblade knife appeared in Jamar’s hand, and he began mutilating Alexa’s pelvis.

  Kensie cheered Jamar on from the sidelines. “Do it to her, Jamar. Make that skinny bitch bleed.” Kensie’s eyes burned yellow like Jamar’s.

  Alexa awoke with a jolt, startling Joe so that he swerved to the side of the road and hit the curb, hard.

  “You okay?” he questioned.

  “Yeah. I’m fine,” she lied. Joe shook his head. She ignored what she feared was an attempt to talk about her feelings.

  When they arrived at her hotel, instead of saying goodbye, Joe said, “Someday you’ll learn to trust people again, Alexa.” His words rang in her ears like a prophecy.

  “I trust you, Joe.” She flashed a mouthful of pearls and reached over and gave his hand a squeeze.

  Joe watched her slip out of the truck and enter the hotel. He shook his head while continuing the discussion he wanted to have with her out loud. “Fine, my ass. Why walk around telling the world you’re fine when you want to tell everyone to go to Hell? Fine means leave me alone and let me sulk in my misery. I’ve been there.” His eyes focused on the revolving door she’d entered. “You must have pushed everyone who matters out your life if you’re celebrating tonight with an old man like me. No use trying to talk sense into you. Lord.” The sound of the stranger’s name from his lips startled him. He thought about his word choice before he continued. “Lord, help that woman face her demons.” Before he could utter an Amen, a large whiskey belch escaped his lips, and he drove away.

  CHAPTER 12

  Once upstairs in her hotel suite, Alexa plopped onto her king-size bed, spread her limbs across the bedding, and thought about her nightmare. Kensie had been one of Jamar’s victims, same as her; yet, Alexa couldn’t control the resentment she felt for Kensie. That woman had so many opportunities to fight Jamar, kill Jamar, or have Jamar arrested; yet she did nothing. Free on the streets, Jamar could hurt whomever he chose.

  That coward. If only she’d acted differently, I never would have been attacked. Alexa’s rage turned to hatred as her thoughts materialized into words. “That coward! She kept her pain hidden and secret, while I had mine splattered across newspapers nationwide.” Alexa doubted Kensie’s life fell apart the way hers had.

  Then she realized — that was what everyone had wanted from her all along. Her friends and family wanted her to be more like Kensie Phillips. They all wanted me to just let the rape happen. They wanted me to stay silent and be a victim, and accept my fate without fighting back. To say nothing, like it never happened.

  Alexa jolted upright and let the thought permeate her mind fully. No. She couldn’t accept it. Every cell in her body rejected the notion that giving up was ever an option. In her mind, only fighting back made sense. There were no options. From the moment Jamar attacked her, she knew only one of them would walk away that night. The other would be dead. It didn’t matter the consequences that followed.

  “I’m glad I am the one who walked away,” she whispered to herself. Then she downed her usual concoction of melatonin and Benadryl, and topped it off with a vodka soda. She slept for three hours before a nightmare disturbed her rest. It was another blur of the night of the incident. She did as Britt had advised and replayed the nightmare time and again, each time with herself as the victor. She did this until she was calm enough to drift back to sleep for three more peaceful hours.

  The next time she opened her eyes, warm rays of the morning sun greeted her. My first day of freedom. After ordering a large glass of orange juice from room service, she celebrated with a twelve-mile run through downtown Austin. After nine miles of running in a daze, twinges of pain in her left knee slowed her pace to a walk.

  She hadn’t made it a block before her stomach growled from its longstanding emptiness. She clutched the credit card she had shoved into her sports bra and sat down on the patio of a nearly empty little breakfast bistro. The waitress greeted her and then brought her a whole-wheat bagel with strawberry cream cheese and an espresso.

  The espresso had been an accident. She wanted to avoid caffeine, given her ongoing insomnia, but after inhaling the aroma of the coffee sit
ting in front of her, she couldn’t resist and slowly sipped the warm indulgence. She closed her eyes, deep in thought. I’ll have to leave the hotel soon. Back to the small apartment where my six-month lease is almost up. With no job and no ties to Austin after the wake of the trial, she was free.

  What now? I haven’t a single plan or schedule or anything. . . . Her mind reached for answers while she blew across the froth swirling atop her espresso. In spite of the six-figure attorney fees she had accumulated, she had some savings. My life is so screwed up. I’m screwed up. If only I could set the restart button. I could just go somewhere new and start over.

  Suddenly, two words struck Alexa with such magnitude and clarity that she dropped her coffee cup on the patio. She barely heard it shatter over her own thoughts.

  Fugue state.

  It was a psychological disorder that had fascinated Alexa while in medical school. The term described a rare condition in which an individual would abruptly leave their current situation, change their name, location, occupation, and assume a new identity. It had always seemed like such a romantic idea to Alexa, to forget the past and change the future by becoming a whole new person.

  But no one plans for that. It just happens, like a coping mechanism for stress, for people who are broken. A sigh escaped her. But I am broken! her subconscious begged, as she eyed the pieces of her coffee cup scattered by her feet. Fugue state is amnestic; you can’t control it. She toiled with her thoughts. That’s my biggest problem. I try to control everything. If only I could let myself lose control, my mind would be free to escape. Nope. I’m too decisive for that. If I’m going to start over, it will have to be a conscious decision. You deserve this. Embrace the idea of fugue state. Leave Austin and start anew. Okay, she conceded. But where will I go?

  The glaring eyes of her waitress interrupted Alexa’s pondering. The waitress carried a broom and dustpan. Her rumpled expression conveyed her annoyance at the mess Alexa had made with the coffee cup. Alexa forced an apologetic smile, and the waitress’s demeanor softened. “C’est la vie,” the waitress said with a shrug.

  The waitress answered Alexa’s question with her quoted French. I’ll go to Paris.

  She bid ado to the young waitress and used the three-mile walk back to the Four Seasons to plan for her move. She had left most of her furniture with Britt when they split. Her apartment had few residual furnishings. Alexa could easily sell her car and condense her extensive closet of clothes into a few trunks to bring with her. It was settled; she would move to Paris.

  When Alexa returned to the Four Seasons, a plain-looking man in a bad gray suit accosted her with a white envelope in his hand. His only words to her were, “Miss DeBrow, you’ve been served.”

  Alexa’s heart sank as she pieced together the man’s words. Served? No. The trial is over! Alexa couldn’t free her vice grip on the white envelope, although her fury tempted her to rip it into confetti. With her pulse already racing, she walked all the way up fourteen flights to her penthouse suite on the top. She texted Appleby: “911.” He called within minutes. Alexa blurted into the receiver, “I’m at the Four Seasons. I need you over here.”

  Appleby arrived at Alexa’s door within twenty minutes. Before he could utter a word, Alexa shoved the bent envelope into his hand.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  She shrugged, too cross to feign politeness. “Open it. I couldn’t bare it.” She sat, shaking; her head swam.

  He tore open the envelope and rattled off portions of its contents. The name of the other party was Portia Willis — not the family of Jamar Reading. It was a medical malpractice lawsuit. Appleby turned to Alexa.

  She remembered that name from years ago. “What? I’m being sued by Portia Willis?”

  Memories from her surgical intern year at the children’s hospital flooded her mind. She had accepted the care of Portia Willis, a two-year-old pediatric patient, described as a “train wreck” case by the intern that handed her off to Alexa.

  Portia had presented for an acute asthma attack and received oxygen and IV steroids in the ER. After a brief stint in the pediatric ICU, where she was intubated for hypoxia, she was later transferred to the inpatient floor, where she developed fevers and pus drainage from her IV site. Alexa assumed care when she placed the child’s central venous line and removed the peripheral IV. She placed the girl on IV antibiotics for sepsis and tapered her steroids.

  Post-op day one, Alexa went to examine Portia, and the child’s mother complained that her daughter wouldn’t walk. The child screamed when Alexa touched her, so Alexa ordered an x-ray. Portia had a broken leg — a pathologic fracture secondary to an underlying osteomyelitis. The blood infection had spread to her bones. Alexa ordered consults from infectious disease and orthopedics. That afternoon the child had a seizure, and Alexa ordered a brain MRI and a neurology consult.

  Every time devastation struck, she contacted Portia’s mother. Alexa gave bad news over the phone and face to face, time and again. An epidural abscess overlying Portia’s left frontal lobe, another result of the sepsis, had triggered the seizure. Alexa ordered a neurosurgery consult for the abscess. As the month progressed, Portia developed more complications. Her condition finally stabilized, and Alexa discharged the girl home.

  Alexa single-handedly arranged a family conference with Portia’s mother and all of the consult services that required follow-up appointments. She scheduled the follow-up appointments and wrote the necessary prescriptions. She set up home health for weekly dressing changes. Portia had nine follow-up appointments and eighteen prescriptions on her date of discharge. Alexa never saw the family again.

  Yes, Portia Willis, the train wreck case. But why would she sue me for malpractice? I did nothing wrong and was only an intern when I treated her. Alexa gave a summary of the details regarding Portia’s case to Appleby.

  At the end of her synopsis, he said, “This kind of thing happens a lot. People see your name on television, and they come after you for money. I doubt this case has any merit, but I’ll look into it for you.”

  That wasn’t good enough. “Make it go away, Jacob. I am not going back to court.” She turned away from him and expected him to leave her. Instead, he changed the subject.

  “I need to talk to you about something.”

  She feared he was about to mention the potential civil trial with the Reading family and refused to face him. She blamed him, somehow, for the second subpoena. “I can’t go to court again, Jacob.”

  “You should be thanking me, Alexa,” Appleby proclaimed while examining the empty glasses that lined her hotel nightstand. He picked up an empty highball and put the rim to his nose. “Vodka? Not what I would have guessed from you.” He put the glass back on the counter as Alexa rolled her eyes. He curled his lip in a mocking manner. “Thank me because there won’t be a civil trial. As it turns out, there’s no one to benefit from Jamar’s death. I had a DNA test confirm that his ten-year-old son is not his son, after all. He has no living family that I can trace aside from the older son who is in prison, and he is not in a position to file suit.”

  Alexa blinked twice in disbelief. Good news, indeed, almost too good. She wondered if Appleby had somehow arranged the outcome of the DNA test. His reputation of manipulation was partly why she’d hired him. “Thanks,” she mumbled, checking his demeanor for a flinch or tell that might insinuate he was lying to her. He remained as calm as ever. If you’re lying, Jacob, I wish I were as smooth with it as you are.

  “That’s not the only thing. I was approached by some of the media. They want to interview you, now that the trial is over.” His attention returned to the glass on the dresser. “They pay you, and they pay well, if you’re interested. It’s not the kind of thing they advertise.”

  Alexa fell deep into thought. She’d given Appleby most of her savings, and she would need money to get to Paris. “Who pays? How much?”

  “The major news networks. They pay anywhere up to twenty-five thousand for an interview, may
be more, depending on how much they want you.”

  You mean how much they want to torture me. What a difficult proposition to concede to, but she needed the money.

  “Okay. You make the arrangements. I want to do all of the interviews next week. You prep me. You assign the questions. Everything will be staged and rehearsed. I’ll give you ten percent of whatever I get.”

  “Make it twenty percent, and we have a deal.”

  “Fine, Jacob,” she agreed with reluctance, and shook hands with the devil himself.

  Appleby emailed Alexa her schedule. He crammed three interviews into one week. They traveled together. New York on Monday, Chicago on Wednesday, and San Francisco on Friday. They spent Sunday evening and Monday morning rehearsing. Appleby hashed out the details over breakfast.

  “Show them your sweet and innocent side. Never speak of Jamar. Don’t say his name. You are the young, scared, female victim. Don’t forget it.” She gave long and exaggerated head bobs of affirmation.

  “Then I quote statistics on rape, specifically those involving college students. I rattle off national counseling programs for rape victims and spout out classes where women can learn self-defense. I got it.”

  “No audience questions. No talk of the trial.”

  Now, she nodded in relief.

  During the interviews, trained professionals in padded suits taught self-defense techniques to audience members. The interviews were kept as light-hearted as possible, and overall, were much less painful than the trial she had endured. No questions were taken from the audience, no specifics of the trial discussed.

  At the end of the week, she and Appleby flew back to Austin together. After a few glasses of first-class wine, Jacob Appleby’s loose lips confessed his surprise that she ever went to trial for Jamar’s death.

  “Yours was a clear case of justifiable homicide. Usually, in such cases, you are arrested, but the charges are dropped. I don’t know why they felt a need to pursue the charges. Maybe it was that detective who wanted the charges to stick. Marcum handled the Kennedy case, too — that nineteen-year-old found dead. Maybe he was running out of time to close that case and hoped to get you wrapped up in it in a way that would work to his benefit.” His words ran together in a mellow sort of harmony that only inebriation could compose.