French Fried (15 page)

Someone was in
the room again. I kept my eyes closed, hoping they’d go away, trusting the guard would keep away nonhospital people. Not that I trusted the hospital. No wonder they kill so many patients. It’s not just the antibiotic-resistant bacteria. It’s the harassment. Here we are, ill and in pain, and they won’t let us rest.

All night they’d been destroying what little relief I managed to find. Once they wheeled me out to x-ray my head, the results of which, beyond exposing me to painfully glaring overhead lights, I’d never know because no one thought to speak to
me
in
my
language. In the comforting darkness of my room, strangers would intrude to hold my eyes open and shine light at my pupils. No warning but the quiet voices, then the fingers on my face and the light that stabbed my brain and left colored circles behind my lids. Then came the blood-pressure takers, who strapped cuffs onto my scrapes and bruises and pumped in air until the tears leaked from eyes still afflicted with ghastly round and colored apparitions.

Against the latest attack, I squeezed my eyes closed and hid my arms beneath the covers for protection, but this intruder spoke English and had a new errand. “Does madam need to vomit?” she asked. I said
no.
“Is madam just a bit afflicted with nausea?” she asked. What did she want? To stick her finger down my throat in an attempt to bring it on?

“No? Then I have for you an omelet. Do you feel well enough to eat?”

Without thinking it through, I opened my eyes, and then trembled with fear at what they might do to me upon seeing that I was awake and up to more tortures. But I did her an injustice. She wore a kindly smile and behind her was not some frightening medical apparatus, but instead a cart from which wafted the odor of eggs, cheese, herbs, and perhaps mushrooms.

“Come, let us see if you can sit,” she coaxed and slipped an arm behind my back. Sitting up was not so pleasant. My head whirled, and I did feel a bit queasy, but I wanted that omelet. I’d had nothing but sips of water since Sylvie’s picnic lunch. “Do you feel well enough to eat?” I nodded, a mistake. “You can have the killers for the pain now, as well as the omelet.”

Oh, thank God
, I thought and opened my mouth when she raised a fork full of golden eggs. Having borne children, I have been in hospitals where the food was disgusting enough to make you want to go home immediately. This omelet was so delicious that I could even forgive the nurses for speaking French, shining lights in my eyes, and bruising the bruises on my arms. The nurse fed me two more bites, and then, eager for more omelet faster, I took the fork myself.

“Très bien,”
said the nurse. “Can you swallow pills, do you think?” If they would drive away the pain in my head, which interfered with my enjoyment of the omelet, I would have swallowed pills the size of robin’s eggs. I accepted a pill, washed it down with water, and went back to breakfast. Ah the mushrooms, so earthy, and the cheese, which had melted in the most delightful way, flavorful and not stringy.

“Do you think your chef would give me the recipe?” I asked, feeling so much better that I remembered my professional responsibilities.

The nurse’s eyes twinkled, and she said, “If for me you will swallow one more pill, I will ask. No one has ever requested a recipe here. She will be amazed.”

“No one has ever enjoyed an omelet here more than I,” I assured her and swallowed the pill so that I could continue eating while the dear, sweet nurse left to get me the recipe.

I was halfway through the meal when my door opened to reveal, not the lovely nurse, not my husband, whom I vaguely remembered visiting last night, not even the inspector, but the person I least wanted to see—Albertine Guillot, bearing flowers. She clicked over to my bed in her high heels and informed me that I looked much better. Then she offered me the bouquet, and I sneezed, my mouth full of half-chewed omelet, which sprayed out onto the flowers and Albertine’s hand. I was so embarrassed that I forgot she was a primary suspect and handed her my napkin.

“I see that you are allergic to my flowers. There is no need to apologize.” Splattered as the flowers were with omelet bits, she plopped them hastily into my water pitcher, then went into my bathroom, carrying my napkin, to wash her hands. Now I had no water and no napkin, for she did not return the latter when she pulled up a chair and sat beside my bed. “Please do go on with your
petit déjeuner
, dreadful as it must be. You no doubt need your strength.”

I resented her saying that my breakfast was dreadful, but before I could protest, she said, “I must apologize for my harsh words last night. I had no idea how deranged you were from the fall.”

Deranged? What was she talking about? I may have been a bit fuzzy on what had happened the night before, but I certainly was not deranged.

“I have had many calls this morning from people you have met, saying that you told a policeman they were trying to kill you. Also Jason explained that there have been unfortunate and frightening events, of which Adrien and I knew nothing. I cannot explain them, but I can assure you that no one in the department is trying to kill you. They have all said they thought you were enjoying your visit and their company. Have you not been received hospitably? Of course you have.

“And if you are resentful that Adrien and I were not here to welcome you, surely you can see that we had to visit my mother, who seemed to be seriously ill, and may, I am told, experience more pain in the future. Therefore, I cannot understand why you would say my mother has syphilis. She is an old and respectable woman.”

“Look, Albertine,” I broke into her lecture, “first thing, the inspector asked who knew I would be in Catherine’s stairway, and I provided the names of those I could remember. I didn’t say I thought they were trying to kill us, although who knows . . . Well, he’ll investigate. And secondly, I am not deranged. I was certainly in pain, but—well, they’ve finally given me painkillers, and I feel much better.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said Albertine, “which still does not explain why you would say—”

“Thirdly, Gabrielle told me about your mother. I’m sorry. It must be terrible for her to have suffered so many years from such an—ah—embarrassing affliction. I thought penicillin cured it.”

“My mother does not suffer from an embarrassing affliction, and at the risk of offending you, I do not believe that Gabrielle said my mother had syphilis.”

“Well, to be perfectly accurate, she said your mother had the
foul pox.
I know it has many names—the French pox, the English pox, the—”

“My mother does not have a foul pox,” said Albertine indignantly. “She does not have a pox of any kind. She had a childhood disease when she was a girl, which evidently leaves a virus in the nerves that can reappear years later as a rash attended by burning and agonizing pain, but it is
not
syphilis.”

A childhood disease? A foul pox? My mind was functioning better than it had last night, not surprising considering my pain and how irritating everyone had been. Could Gabrielle have meant a
fowl
pox? In other words,
chicken
pox? “Your mother has shingles!” I exclaimed.

“Are you insulting my mother again?” Albertine gave me the same mean look she had given me in Sorrento when her dog and I clashed. “Shingles are something on a roof, are they not? Is the word slang for—”

“No, no,” I said hastily. “Shingles—it’s the same virus as chicken pox. It was a misunderstanding. A language problem. No wonder Gabrielle and Sylvie seemed so casual about your mother’s illness.” I started to giggle. Then I apologized between giggles while she stared at me as if she thought I was—well, deranged. I did feel somewhat light-headed and lay back on my pillow. “I do apologize, Albertine.”

“I would find your apology more convincing if you weren’t laughing,” she replied.

“I know. Maybe I am, as you said, a bit deranged. I’m certainly sleepy. Every time I managed to doze off, they came in and woke me up in some painful way.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “They did the same thing to my mother. Hospitals are terrible places the world over, and unfortunately, your doctor says you must stay another day, which means that you will not be able to accompany us to Avignon, but you’ll find the train very comfortable when you are ready to make the trip, and Adrien has promised to change the schedule in whatever way is necessary to accommodate Jason if he wishes to stay here with you.”

Where was Jason? I wondered. Had I said something to offend him? Surely he wouldn’t leave me here in Lyon by myself, at the mercy of malicious medical people. “At least the food is good,” I said, trying to be brave.

“Well, I hope you are still able to tolerate it when you are in good enough health to judge it reasonably,” said Albertine.

I never set
an alarm clock, even in different time zones, because I awaken automatically. Of all days to break my pattern, that was not the one. I’d planned to be at the hospital by seven, but I could tell by the light that I’d overslept. I could only assume that yesterday’s stress, the late-night phone calls to angry faculty members, and the credit card problem had exhausted me more than I knew.

Frustrated and still worn out, I dressed and bolted a quick breakfast, proving that kiwi fruit, eaten too rapidly, is not a good idea, especially accompanied by three cups of strong coffee. I even took a cab to the hospital, where a floor nurse connected me with Carolyn’s doctor. He said she was feeling better, had eaten a hearty breakfast, and was responding well to pain medication. However, I shouldn’t think of taking her from the hospital today. They wanted one more X-ray of her head and antibiotic treatment for her scrapes. “We can only guess what was growing in that lightless passage,” he said seriously. “Perhaps even toxic mold.”

“Thank you,” I replied, thinking that I might well be absent from the presentation of my own paper. I could instruct Mercedes to give it for me, although I doubted that she’d be able to answer questions that might arise. And she had her own poster to present, although on a different day. Wondering if Carolyn was in a more welcoming mood, and what the private room was going to cost me, I knocked hesitantly at my wife’s door. The doctor had mentioned how fortunate she was not to be in a ward, as any other unidentified patient would have been, except that the hospital had fewer patients just now, the flu season having not yet hit.

Since there was no answer, I opened to door and peered in. Carolyn’s bed was empty. Rushing back to the nurse, I demanded to know the whereabouts of my wife.
Have our enemies kidnapped her?
I wondered in a burst of paranoia.

“Ah, the X-ray of the head,” the nurse replied cheerfully. “You are the husband? Yes?”

“And where is the guard at her door?” I asked.

“With the patient gone, he goes for café. Yes?”

“What if she were attacked during the X-ray?”

“How would the attacker know where to find her? I have told no one of her departure.”

I returned to the room, where there was still no guard, but I did find my wife. “Where have you been?” she asked reproachfully. “I was here all night being battered by mean people and now all morning, and you didn’t even visit. I was beginning to wonder if you’d gone off to Avignon with the Guillots. Or maybe you’re just here to say good-bye before you leave.

“I wouldn’t do that to
you
, Jason,” she added bitterly. “It’s obvious what comes first with you. Chemistry. So fine. If you ever have to go to the hospital, I’ll take a trip to write about food.”

I sighed. “I was here last night. Don’t you remember? You told me to leave,” I reminded her.

“I did?” She looked puzzled.

“And I’ll admit to oversleeping for the first time in my life. I was on the telephone half the night.”

“Why?”

“Well, there was your credit card to cancel,” I began, fearing how she’d take the calls from the Lyon faculty.

“What am I supposed to do without a credit card?”

“It was stolen, Carolyn. You don’t want someone charging on your card, do you?”

“Actually, I remember thinking of that yesterday, but I’d forgotten. And the key. They must have taken our room key.”

“I used the chain last night. Simone is calling a lock-smith today. Thank God Yvette wasn’t the one I had to tell about that.”

“And Catherine’s key. I hope no one burglarized her apartment. I didn’t even get to see it.”

“Perhaps the inspector knows about Catherine’s apartment. How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” she replied. “They finally gave me painkillers after torturing me all night. You can’t imagine how horrible it feels to have a bruise squeezed by a blood pressure cuff, or a light shined in your eyes when your head is aching. Or to be dragged off for another X-ray when you’re finally feeling better after a nice breakfast.”

“I think they can’t give painkillers or let you sleep much when you have a concussion,” I remarked, as mildly as possible. I didn’t want to get in another fight with her. “The doctor says you may be here another day or so.”

“He did? Why didn’t he tell me? Now they’re giving me shots, but the shot people don’t speak English so I don’t know why.”

“You’re sure the doctor hasn’t spoken to you?” I asked, suddenly anxious. Could she be having memory lapses? Dear God, was her condition worse than he’d admitted?

“I talked to him last night. Before you came, I think.”

“Do you remember talking to the inspector?” I asked.

“Yes, and according to Albertine I accused a lot of people of trying to kill us. Probably one of them did, but he asked who knew I’d be climbing Catherine’s stairway, so I told him.”