by Rina Kent
My attention falls on the framed pictures at the entrance, shadowed by the glimmer of light. My chest tightens. Invisible hands pry their way into my heart, squeezing and stealing my air supply.
My fingers reach for a frame under which is written ‘Mon trésor, Eloise’ in Maman’s French handwriting.
Her treasure. She called me her treasure.
In the picture taken four years ago, she had a big grin on her face while hugging me on my graduation day from nursing school. At least back then, she could smile without looking like a corpse. She could still walk and talk and sue the hell out of those scammy insurances companies that wronged her clients.
Then, things went downhill. From failed surgeries to relapses to seizures until her frail body had no fight left.
Until her heart came to a screeching halt.
No one calls me their treasure anymore.
It’s been six months since her death, but I still wake up hoping everything was a nightmare.
All I have left of Maman are these frozen memories. And numbness. Infinite numbness.
I don’t even cry anymore. None of my tears or screams or roaming the hallways like a stray ghost managed to bring her back.
A soft whine pulls my attention to the nudging at my long summer dress. My poodle, Charlotte, stares at me with huge dark eyes, her silver hair in desperate need of a brush. Or better yet, a cut and a wash. I might have forgotten about the vet appointment. And the appointment with my shrink.
I need to get it together. At least for Charlotte.
With a smile, I pick her tiny body in my arms and hug her. She makes little noises of satisfaction.
I sigh against her fur. “I’ll miss you, too, Charlotte.”
Time to do the ‘real life’ thing.
“See you tomorrow.” I set her on the sofa, and when she doesn’t respond, I translate it in French. No matter how much I trained her, she only barks in response when she’s talked to in French.
I pull a piece of paper from my notebook and scribble ‘Charlotte’, then I fold and drop it in an enormous glass jar sitting between the photo frames.
‘Write one thing that makes your day’ is the only coping mechanism I’m keeping from my shrink. Maman and I used to do this since my grandfather’s death.
For six months, Charlotte’s name is the only thing I’ve written.
I make sure her bowl is full of food, pick up my bag and keys and head to the front door. My head cranes to stare at the tall frame of my grandfather, posing against a helicopter. It’s an old picture of him during World War Two.
He was quite the looker. Sharp jawline and dreamy green eyes that Maman and I inherited. Papa was very popular with the ladies, but he only cared about his childhood sweetheart. He married my grandmother and built this mansion for her.
“Je t’aime, Papa,” I say. I used to always tell him that whenever I went out. After his death five years ago, I kept the habit by addressing his picture.
Papa, Maman, and I were a team. Now, I’m all alone.
But at the very least, I still have this house that contains endless memories of them.
Charlotte follows me until I close the huge wooden door with a cringing squeak. My dog continues watching me through the blurred window. She has an opening to go out, but she usually waits for me inside.
The scent of the sea fills my nostrils. It’s sunny outside, but all I see is grey. Summer is the season of fun and tourism in our southern French town, but all I feel is winter.
My two-storey, large house sits on a hill overlooking a rocky shore of Marseille’s sea. Time ate away at the paint, showcasing patches of stone. The oak forest, leading to the mountain, surrounds the property from all the other three sides.
The nearest town is a forty-five minute drive through unkempt roads and countless twists and turns amongst dense trees. After the war, my grandfather decided to become a recluse from humanity so he built this mansion as far away as possible from privy eyes.
That also made the place disconnected from civilisation.
One thing my grandfather got right about this location is the peace and quiet. Beside the waves crashing into the shore and the occasional seagulls’ shrieks, nothing disrupts my quiet.
I close the front gate, place my bag in the passenger seat of my old Range Rover, and hit the rocky road. As soon as I reach town, mismatched sounds filter in. People in their summer clothes and flip-flops crowd the streets. Our town is popular with other European nations, Americans and even North Africans. Tourists keep pouring in like a flood. My temples throb. I raise the volume of the radio to stop getting caught in the chaos.
I stop by the post office to collect my mail. Back in my car, I filter through the envelopes.
Notice from the bank.
Notice about cutting off water and electricity if I don’t pay the bills soon.
Notice about Maman’s non-paid medical expenses.
Seemed that my second name is debts. I extinguished all my work-related loans and had to take some additional loans from community services.
I never batted an eye when I took them or when I mortgaged the house to the bank. Back then, I had the hope that Maman would get better and we’d build our lives from scratch.
That hope withered away after every failed surgery until it faded to black with her death.
More flipping through the envelopes produces a letter that almost stops my heart.
With frantic fingers, I open the letter from the bank.
Notice of property confiscation in two months if I don’t clear my debts.
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard, a coppery taste fills my mouth.
Since the announcement of Maman’s death, I never thought the hollowness lodged deep inside me could get any worse.
My grandfather’s house is the last shard of reality I have left. Papa used all his architectural credentials to design and built it with his own hands. Ever since I was born, I only knew that house. Maman was also born and raised in the house. It’s the last thing I have of her. Of Papa.
Of life.
If it’s taken away, what am I still existing for?
An automatic smile plasters on my face as I do my rounds in the hospital. The scent of detergent in the nearly-empty hallway brings back the peace that was disrupted during my short stop in town.
People, in general, hated the hospital smell, but it brings me peace and familiarity.
Mrs Bordeaux tells me about her troublesome daughter-in-law as I change her bandages.
“If only I had a daughter-in-law like you,” she says. “So caring and kind.”
Believe me, you don’t want a broken person like me near you.
“You flatter me, Mrs Bordeaux.” I offer her as much of a genuine smile as I can muster and move on to the next patient. My movements are automated, and I catch myself zoning out from some patients’ chatter.
This is a lot worse than it’s supposed to be.
I became a nurse to take care of Maman and other people who were too weak to tend to themselves, but now that she’s gone, I’m losing all the passion I had for my job.
As I roll my cart through the hallway, my gaze falls on the medical supplies. How easy it would be to pick up a syringe, fill it with a lethal dose of Vecuronium bromide and just go. End this numbness once and for all.
Join Maman and Papa.
Only I’m too cowardly to kill myself. And I can’t leave Charlotte all alone.
Besides, how can I face them when I’m losing the house?
A finger taps on my shoulder, ripping me out of my suicidal daydreams. I stop the cart and turn around to meet Xavier’s boyish grin – despite being in his mid-thirties. His brown hair falls in curls on his forehead. His open white coat reveals a buttoned-up light blue shirt and khaki trousers. There’s always some hint of cigarette smell on him underneath the antiseptic. He doesn’t smoke so I’m not sure where he gets it from.
“How are you tonight, Eloise?” he asks in a warm tone.
Smile. Keep smiling.
It’s better to say I’m fine instead of explaining all the screeching chaos numbed under the surface.
“Come on.” He walks beside me. “I told you to call me Xavier. We’ve known each other for months.”
I nod. Although he’s only a general practitioner, Xavier did a lot to help Maman. He even visited us at home when she couldn’t move, but none of his efforts could fool death.
A blood stain catches my attention on his shirt’s cuff. I point at it. “That could be contaminated.”
He frowns at his bloodied cuff like it’s not supposed to be there. “I’ll change.” He touches my arm to stop and make me face him. “It must’ve been tough on you all this time. Do you need anything?”
I focus on the light violet colour of my uniform and bite the inside of my cheek. Then I glance up at him from beneath my lashes. “Is it possible to apply for another loan?”
“What for?” His brows furrow.
“I have… debts.”
“I’m afraid not. You still have overdue debts to the hospital after all.” His brown eyes fill with the pity that everyone has been giving me since I lost Maman.
I hate that look. I hate being put under the microscope. I hate that they expect me to burst down in tears any second.
I attempt to continue rolling my cart when Xavier blocks my path again. “Wait. How about I lend you?”
My fingers become sweaty with humiliation and disgrace. “No, thank you. I’m already indebted to you as it is.”
“I rented my house by the beach for the summer, so I’ll be making some extra money.” He puts his hand on my arm again. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
Slowly, I pull my arm from underneath his. “Thanks, Dr Leroux, but I’ll figure it out myself.”
“It’s Xavier!” He calls as I hasten my way down the hall and to the call room. The clock reads two a.m.
My colleague, Céline, is fast asleep in the tiny bed. Her red curls cover her forehead as she tosses to her side, mumbling something about Nora – her newborn baby girl. My heart warms. It’s been a faded dream of mine to have a daughter and be a mother like Maman was to me, but motherhood isn’t for me.
Céline’s been over the moon since giving birth to Nora, but it’s not always rainbows. Not only does she work night shifts, but she also has to take care of her daughter and married life during the day. She’s the closest thing to a friend I have, and I’m often tempted to touch her arm and ask for help.
Tell her that I’m barely existing, that I think about death more than about life. That every day is a chore I have to get through.
But Céline is leading a stressful life as it is. She sometimes bursts into tears from too much anxiety. I can’t add my useless problems to her burdens. So I let her sleep as much as possible at our night shifts. It’s the least I can do after all the support she’s given me during Maman’s fight with cancer.
I sit at the dimly-lit desk with a cup of instant coffee, mulling over Xavier’s words. Something he’s said piqued my interest.
Rent.
If I rent the second storey of my house, that’s hardly used anyway, I’ll get extra money to feed the bank aside from my salary. That way, there won’t be any confiscation of property.
I hate to bring a stranger into my family’s home – Papa’s legacy – but it’s better than losing it altogether.
With determination bubbling in my veins, I go through sites to check the pricing. Similar historical houses earn thousands of euros per month in summer. Thousands!
Mon Dieu.
How come I never thought of this before? It’s the perfect opportunity to save my family’s home and pay the rest of my debts.
I select a few pictures of the house on my phone and post them on the website. Once I finish work, I’ll also head to the estate agents in town.
The call button on the wall flashes red with an emergency.
Céline is still in dreamland. Since I don’t sleep anyway, might as well let her enjoy hers.
I finish my coffee in one gulp and rush down the hallway. Dr Bernard and two bloc opératoire technicians follow suit. Why didn’t Xavier come out? Did he miss the call?
The paramedics bolt through the double doors, rolling in a cart on which lies a large unconscious man. Blood gushes from his upper shoulder, filters through the paramedics’ hands, and drips on the white tiles.
I’m the first to arrive and the two paramedics are struggling to control the breathing mask. I hop on the cart, straddle the man’s chest, knees on either side of him without touching. I take the breathing mask from the paramedic as they roll the cart down the aisle towards Dr Bernard.
The paramedic recites, “Male. Mid to late-thirties. Gunshot. Sucking wound. Bradycardia. Pulse below 80. Found unconscious. First aids have been applied, but the bleeding won’t stop.”
A gunshot in France? Those only happen in films.
Dr Bernard barks orders to prepare the operating room. We all scrub up and join him. Although the patient loses a lot of blood, we have a stock of B+ positive and therefore, the operation goes smoothly.
Once we’re done, and we’re out of the OR, Dr Bernard removes his cap, his sleeked grey hair sticks to the side of his face with sweat. “I need to speak to the police. They must’ve arrived by now. It’s possibly some gangsters’ war.”
Our town is too peaceful for that. It’s more touristy than anything, actually.
“Check his vitals every hour,” Dr Bernard tells me as the OR technicians transport the patient to the recovery room. “No more morphine until further notice. I need to see the test results first.”
I wince. The patient will be in a lot of pain without morphine.
After washing up, I head back to the call room, my muscles tense with exhaution. That was an unexpected turn of events on a night shift.
Céline remains in a deep sleep. I shake my head and cover her with the little sheet. She’s lucky the chief rarely does any rounds at night.
An hour later, I roll my cart to the recovery unit. Police officers stand at the front like blocks of bricks. They check my cart before letting me in. They’re not allowed inside the unit. This highly sterile area is for those out of surgeries and it needs to be completely silent and clean. Besides, no one in the recovery unit can pose a threat. They’re all under anaesthesia.
In the sterilised area, I gather my hair in a cap, wash my hands again, put on sterilised papery scrubs, wear gloves, and stroll inside.
The beeping of machines, showing a normal heart activity, is the only sound in the room. The brightness will be uncomfortable for the patient once he regains consciousness, but it’s a necessity for the machines and our job.
Bandages wrap around the man’s massive chest from the middle to his shoulders, but that doesn’t hide his cut muscles. I inch closer like a curious kitten. I was so caught up in the surgery earlier, I didn’t notice them, but there are deep scars spread all over his torso and arms, covered by tattoos. Not intricate or one of those skull tattoos. No. They’re little birds. Countless birds weave from his torso to his thick biceps and forearms. They appear sporadic, but something tells me they’re not.
This man could really be a gangster.
I wonder what brought him to our peaceful town and who gave him such a nasty shot.
His face is strong; sharp lines cut into the finest details. His skin is a little pale but not in an alarming way. Mid-length blond hair splays on the white pillow. As I stand by his head, I notice a fading scar below his right ear. I wouldn’t have caught it had I not been gawking at him since I came in.
We don’t get many — if any — mysterious patients like him in our hospital.
I turn towards my cart, pull out the digital thermometer from its case, and decontaminate it with ethanol.
Before I can return to the patient, a strong arm encircles my waist from behind. My back flushes against a hard chest.
&nb
sp; I gasp. I didn’t even hear him wake up. With that amount of anaesthesia, he should’ve taken at least another hour to regain consciousness.
All the confusion evaporates when sharp metal is placed to my neck. A scalpel.
A raspy voice fills my ears and booms straight to my quivering legs in a broken French. “Not a word or I’ll cut your throat.”
3
Crow
I know a few things about pain. I suffered from a fair share. Inflicted a fair share. I’ve grown so accustomed to the sensation, it doesn’t faze me anymore.
But being shot is always a bitch.
A fog surrounds my head. I shake it once, twice, but it doesn’t go away. If anything, the fog thickens and dizziness assaults me.
I yank out the IV from my arm. It flops to the floor, a puddle forms around it. The hospital walls blur into a mismatched halo.
Fuck.
I have to escape from here before I lose consciousness again.
The nurse at my weapon’s end remains as still as a board. No movements. No sounds. Not even shaking. If anything, she’s slightly leaning into me.
Strange.
Even if my threat was somehow convincing – which is miraculous considering the circumstances — how come she’s not scared? She’s supposed to be trembling in fear.
My gaze narrows on the top of her brown hair tied into a neat bun. Nope. Not a bloody move whatsoever.
I don’t know if I should be amazed or irritated that she offers no reaction.
Pain shoots through my upper shoulder. I hiss, grinding my teeth. My throat is sour. Cold sends a shudder down my body despite the sweat coating my skin.
I need out of here. But first, “Morphine,” I grit out, keeping a somewhat steady hold on whatever sharp object I picked up from the cart.
The nurse continues her statue pose as if she didn’t hear me.
Another wave of dizziness almost knocks me down. The pain pulsing in my torso makes unconsciousness seem so near, I can sense the blackness shrouding my vision.
