Murder in the Bastille

Tuesday

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

Aimée 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.”

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

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

Complications? He sounded young. . . . What if he was an intern? Or some médicastre, 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 René’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.

She felt helpless all the way through the echoing corridors and during the elevator ride. The rubber wheels squeaked on what sounded like freshly waxed linoleum. “René?”

“Right here,” he said, from somewhere near her elbow.

“You should have told me if the doctor was a geek, René,” she said. “What does he look like, eh . . . glasses and overweight? Is he really any good?”

René made a sound she’d heard when he’d choked on a chicken bone once. “Look, Aimée . . .”

“Well, you’re right about the glasses,” said Dr. Lambert.

Why couldn’t the earth open up and swallow her?

“Sorry, my big mouth . . .”

“Excuse me, sir,” a deep voice interrupted. “Only hospital staff allowed from here on. You can return to see the patient in a few hours.”

Then she heard the ping of the swinging doors, felt the wheels wobbling. No more René.

Fear took over. She sat up, struggling to get off the gurney. They had to tie her down to the CAT scan table.