eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781785354175 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Hunt, John Publishing |
| Publication date: | 09/29/2017 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 326 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
I was choking, coughing, heaving for air, and my eyes opened to a man bent over me. I wanted to say something but retched. No time to roll over, it covered my face and stomach. I felt it in my hair too, plastered to my face. That wasn't normal. The man held me while my abdomen contracted again. When I tried again to say something, I couldn't make a sound.
The man said in French — I was surprised that I understood — "Don't tire yourself, honey, you've made it. The ambulance is coming."
Why did he say "ma petite"? I wasn't a girl! His eyes were soft albeit pained and there was a sweatband around his balding head. I tried to ask questions but the sounds weren't correct.
"Rest," was all he replied.
A bustle of people and blinking blue lights then forced the man with the sweatband to move away and I was left staring at a young woman with a blue cap. While somebody put a mask over my face, raindrops tickled my forehead making me blink. I shut my eyes and hot pads were laid on my chest.
A male voice sighed, "This man's dead."
I had this impression they were talking about me, yet I was lying here smelling of vomit, and when I tried to ask questions, they were all too preoccupied with loading me on to a gurney and rolling me off toward the flashing lights. This was a mistake; it was the girl who needed to be saved. I tried to speak again but only high-pitched mumbles escaped the mask — and I was crying — I hadn't done that since I was a baby.
I willed myself to imagine that no one could be dead while a tinfoil cover was wrapped around me and I felt the gurney being lifted and loaded into an ambulance. I had to wonder whether this was a nightmare as the siren sounded and I looked up into the eyes of the girl in the blue cap.
"What's your name?" she asked.
I understood the French, she wanted to know my name, but such a simple question appeared very complex — especially since I knew I shouldn't understand French. "Jœnsh," I slurred through the mask.
"Repeat that, honey. Your name is Jœsh? Is that your first or family name?"
She was looking at me strangely. Why was I unable to pronounce my name correctly and why did it sound like I had a French accent? I tried to ask, "What happened," and made some slurred sounds while she went about wiping the vomit off my face.
"Don't tire yourself, you'll be alright," she said, just before the ambulance came to a halt. In a matter of seconds, I was rolled out of the back and through glass doors into a hall with people standing around. I wished they wouldn't stare. An intern then appeared with a flashlight in front of my eyes, disappeared, and I was rolled into a cubicle with white walls smelling of bleach. I turned my head to look at the different valves and bandages while more people appeared beside me to take my vital signs and stare at my face.
A nurse's face appeared in my line of vision. "We need to get you cleaned up and changed or you'll catch cold. But first, we're going to put a few stitches in that cut on your arm." She touched my face in several painful places. "Somebody really worked you over," she commented, before putting a cold liquid on my arm.
It was clear that I'd been hurt, I felt the pain, yet that wasn't possible. I was on the verge of panicking so I stared at the ceiling and its awful whiteness while the nurse continued to rub the painful place on my arm. The intern then came back, looked at me, said a few words before — the needle went in and I heard myself scream, shrill, foreign. Words were said again and when strong hands clamped my arm down, I opened my eyes to see it was the nurse. How could she be so much stronger than me? Something commanding was said, letting me guess what was about to happen, so I clenched my teeth as the needle went in again, and again.
The nurse stoked my forehead. "You were wonderful. Now, we're going to see if you can stand." She put her hand under my shoulder and I wanted to oblige so I sat up but I felt so light and supple that I hesitated. The nurse held my arm firmly, very firmly for a woman, and made more encouraging sounds.
I put my feet on the floor while the nurse held my shoulders — and I had to look up at her! The nurse was smiling reassuringly but I began to tremble, my legs to shake, and the nurse held me as if I weighed nothing.
"We'll have you sit," she stated.
My eyes stayed clenched shut while she coaxed me to into a wheelchair.
"The doctor said you can shower and change. It will make you feel better."
I didn't want to understand. I wasn't French. The wheelchair moved while she continued speaking but I forced myself to not listen. The wheelchair stopped and my eyes opened to a tiled room with a shower pummel on the back wall.
"Here, I'll help you," the nurse said, while she grabbed my wet shirt and pulled it over my head. Even if it was embarrassing to be undressed by a woman, why couldn't I stop trembling?
"Are you cold?" she asked, and threw a shirt that wasn't mine on the ground.
I shook my head, not at her question, but at everything happening. She then touched an elastic around my chest, removed a bra — and I jumped up to look in the mirror over the sink.
"Hey, easy!" she shouted.
I paid no attention. My eyes were on the face of the girl in the café, the girl that I should have saved. I had only wished to speak to her, or maybe — but not this! This was worse than rape. My knees buckled.
The nurse bent down beside me. "Everything will be fine," she kept repeating. "Here, why don't you get under the shower?"
I had no fight left. The nurse finished undressing me, guided me to the water and held the pummel while water ran between the breasts and thighs that weren't mine. To my chagrin, the nurse said, "Look how pretty you are."
She wasn't talking to me, I knew she couldn't have been talking about me, so my eyes closed tightly. I could feel the girl's thin arms around my chest, touching my back and squeezing those soft bulges on my ... no, on her chest.
The nurse made a sound and I opened my eyes to see her handing me a bottle of liquid soap, but then a slender-fingered hand reached out to take it. Although I felt the bottle's weight, those fingers weren't mine. I, Josh, had thick fingers with hair on them. Was I a ghost? Was the girl's ghost watching and judging me while I invaded everything that should have remained private?
"Allez-y (Go ahead)," the nurse said encouragingly, while she mimed rubbing the soap on her body.
It took all of my will-power to rub my hands over the girl's skin which was soft, sensitive and immoral to touch. The nurse then squirted some soap into that long hair falling round those thin shoulders and helped me rub it in. The girl's hair was so long it fell down to the middle of her back.
"You have magnificent hair," the nurse cooed.
I wished I could have reacted and denied that it was mine, but a lethargic numbness was settling in. I was handed a sheet that I stared at dumbly until the nurse told me to use it as a towel. It felt rough against my skin. No, this wasn't my skin, it was hers, so I began to rub harder hoping I could strip it off.
"Not so hard, dear," the nurse said, and put her hand over mine.
I stopped for a second to stare into the nurse's blue eyes. They were beautiful, just the sort that I should have liked, and I was standing there nude in front of her. Why did she leave me indifferent? I pulled the sheet around myself afraid that I might become aroused.
"Here, put on this instead," the nurse chuckled and held out a hospital gown. I took it but waited for her to turn her back before I slipped it on. When she turned to look at me, there was an amused twist to her lip. "Put your hair up on your head, it will be easier," she suggested.
I stared at her blankly wondering how to go about that. She shook her head, made me sit back down in the wheelchair and her hands began to stroke the long mass of hair that was tickling my shoulders and falling across my eyes. In a few twists, she had it on top of my head. "Voilà (There you go)," she said, with a smile.
"Merci," I uttered, as she opened the door.
The nurse's eyes lit up at the sound of my voice and she patted my cheek. "Let's go see the doctor," she replied. It then dawned on me that I had pronounced the French R perfectly.
*
The nurse left me on a paper-covered bed and my eyes stayed riveted to the ceiling because at every breath I felt the girl's breasts tickle against the loose hospital gown. If they were hers, they were beautiful. She had been magnificent. I couldn't stand the thought that she had died because I hadn't resisted her hand on my arm while she threw me into the spiral.
The curtain was pulled aside and a lean young man with glasses stepped in. He was businesslike, no words, only interested in the file. Then his eyes turned to me, a smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and I couldn't help noticing how sensuous they were. I turned my head away so I didn't have to look at him.
His fingers touched my chin and gently turned my head in his direction. Another finger brushed a painful place on my cheek.
"Would you please open your eyes?"
I stared into his brown eyes but got so embarrassed at the fluttering in my belly that I closed them again.
"Hello, I'm Dr. Lafarge," he said. "Do you mind if I examine you? And would you please keep your eyes open."
I opened them again but didn't dare move while he flashed his penlight in my eyes and he had me follow his finger. I felt a tingle at his every touch.
"So what's your name, mademoiselle?" 2 I heard the words, and then suddenly the meaning was lost. I knew I couldn't speak French — I wasn't her — and I shouldn't be having these emotions that were hers!
"Do you speak French?" he asked, looking me carefully in the eyes.
Although I understood, I willed the words to be foreign. Then, when I started to answer, no words would come to mind, so I shook my head.
"Do you speak English?" he asked.
Of course I spoke English, I began to answer, but stuttered. I no longer knew what to say or how to say it. My head shook. "I don't know," I finally stammered, with a French accent.
"Is your name, Jœsh?" the doctor asked. His English accent was much better than mine. Then he repeated in French, "Est-ce que tu t'appelles Jœsh?"
I was too confused to utter anything coherent, or think of a logical answer, because even though he thought that I was a young girl, he would see through this sham in no time. Embarrassed, I looked down at my hands — no, her hands, and saw the shine of nail polish. "I don't know ... I'm not ..." I squeaked, with a shake of my head.
"Can you remember your name?" he asked. "Vous vous rappelez votre nom?" he repeated in French.
I didn't dare answer. "I don't know," I repeated for safety.
"Who beat you? Who cut your arm?" he asked, and again translated into French, "Qui vous a battue? Qui vous a entaillé le bras?"
So the girl had been beaten before she fell into the canal. I touched a sore spot on my face. "Je ne me rappelle pas (I don't remember)," my mouth said, although it was a lie. I then realized that I had spoken French but couldn't fathom how the French sentence came to me. I didn't know why I was crying either, I never cried, and I felt all the more embarrassed because I couldn't stop.
"Were you abused sexually? Avez-vous été victime d'un abus sexuel?"
I looked at him open-mouthed. How could I have been? Then I remembered the girl — they thought I was the girl — my face turned red and I shook my head not wanting an answer.
"And you don't know how you fell into the water?" he said, more as a statement than a question. "Do you understand English or French better? Vous comprenez mieux l'anglais ou le français?"
"English," the girl's mouth answered — or was that me, Josh, speaking?
"Curieux (Intriguing)," he said to himself. He turned back to me. "We are going to keep you here under observation." A smile broke back through his professional attitude — I wasn't used to people smiling at me, especially not a tender smile which made my breath catch in my throat and which made me ... her, blush. I turned my head away. I didn't want to look at the doctor ever again. I wasn't like that.
His hand touched my shoulder. It felt large and powerful. "Ça va aller, vous allez voir," he said and translated, "Everything will be fine."
*
About half an hour later a gynecologist came to do some exams. If I had had any doubts before about my present sex, they were quickly abandoned. When another woman came with a camera and took some pictures, I tried not to think about who I had become.
A man finally arrived with a wheelchair, and although I was sure I could walk, he carefully helped me into it. Did the medical team not want me walking because I had been hit on the head? Had they diagnosed me as crazy? I was still wearing nothing but the hospital gown so I wrapped the sheet they had given me around myself while I was wheeled through the corridors and into the elevator. It felt like everyone was staring at me and I wanted to hide, to be elsewhere. Why hadn't I died?
It was disturbingly quiet on the second floor while the nurse on duty took my file from the man and said something softly. The words slipped past me and I began to ask her to repeat but my mind went blank. She smiled, patted me on the shoulder and pushed me down the hall to the sixth door on the right. After she had switched on the lights, I saw that there was another bed occupied by an elderly black woman lying on her back.
The nurse blocked the wheels before she helped me carefully out of the wheelchair. I was sure I could have done it myself — the girl was quite fit — but no, she was dead. I choked back a sob that the nurse didn't seem to notice while she had me lie down on the bed. It was all business to her and my pulse and blood pressure had to be taken. She then woke the black woman to take her vital signs. The woman sighed, looked at me, shook her head then glanced back at me just before the lights were switched off.
I lay there with my eyes wide open wondering at the rays of light filtering in through the blinds. Where had the girl's soul gone? I had never been one for the metaphysical and was utterly confused as to how I could find myself in this body. Yet the girl hadn't completely disappeared, something of her remained, because she had been the one who had made me feel strange things for the doctor. That wasn't me. Was her ghost watching me right now?
"I'm sorry," I murmured to the dark with a very clear French accent before I hesitated and looked for my words. "I did not want you do this."
I waited a while hoping that some sort of answer would come. Maybe I should try speaking in French because it was absurd for me to speak English when I stumbled over the words. Yet English was my mother tongue, French was hers, and I was still Josh! I refused to let her change who I was, to make me want those unnatural things, to control my action, and yet —
"— I wanted save you," I continued in a whisper. "This is your life. Can't you take back it?"
"And you should get some sleep, miss?" The answer didn't come from anything unearthly, but from the black woman.
Fear suddenly made my chest seize up. If that woman had understood me, she might guess that I was a sham, that I was impersonating a girl. I closed my mouth but the tears couldn't be stopped.
The woman must have heard my crying. "I'm sorry miss, I didn't mean to frighten you," she whispered.
Her accent was African but her English was clearly better than mine. I looked over at her and could see she had turned on her side and was watching me. "No, I'm sorry. I should not be here," I admitted. "I should be dead."
She was observing me through the dark as if she could see my soul. "You mustn't be reproaching yourself with things you can't prevent."
"I'm a ..." I had to search for the word "a fake" and it came out with an uncontrolled sob.
"No, miss, you are no fake. You are you." Her eyes seemed to glow while she spoke.
"Who are you?" I asked bewildered.
"I'm just an old woman who's had a stroke and who's talking to a pretty young girl."
My chagrin made my tongue slip and I admitted, "What if I am not the young girl you think?"
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "A Glance at My Other"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Bruce Randal Wilkerson.
Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.