The Keepers

by Dan Alatorre

  “The old woman is a special guest, so we must do as we are asked.” Dechambeau’s second cigarette was gone. He dropped the smoldering butt to the cold, metal floor and crushed it under his foot. “Conduct an interview, provide to me a preliminary report—and do it quickly.”

  “Fine, but why in the middle of the night?”

  Facing her in the tiny compartment, he swept a hand over his forehead and through his thick, salt-and-pepper hair. “Because an elderly woman who has been shot in the chest and who doesn’t sleep or require anesthesia, but who has nearly completely recovered from her injuries after only three days—that is quite an anomaly. When such a patient decides to speak, we need to be there to hear her.”

  Kitt shifted on her feet. “I don’t disagree, but you said she isn’t speaking, so who knows when that will be?”

  The elevator shuddered to a stop on the fourth floor. Dechambeau flipped the metal latch and pushed the creaky gates apart; the doors opened behind them.

  The hospital ward was old, its walls tiled halfway up, the way they did in America in the early 1900s. The flooring was a worn and faded linoleum, with cracks and tears; the doors to the rooms were trimmed in a faded dark oak. Nothing from this wing of the hospital appeared to have been touched in the last century except for the desk and computers at the nurses’ station near the far end of the corridor. There, a blonde woman in green scrubs sat alone in the sparse illumination of a single round, fluorescent light. Everything else around her was dark and still.

  Narrowing his eyes, the Chief of Medicine leaned toward his resident psychologist. “Dr. Kittaleye, our special guest uttered her first words about an hour ago. Now, go and see what she has to say.” He took another cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with shaking fingers, and slid the elevator gate closed. “And Madame Docteur, remember—you will discuss your findings with no one but me.”

  Chapter 3

  The two women sat at the nurses’ station.

  “I am glad they called you, Kitt.” Patrice handed Dr. Kittaleye the patient’s chart. “Did they tell you the situation?”

  Kitt raised an eyebrow. “They?”

  “He—Dr. Dechambeau.”

  “A little.” Kitt scanned the first page of notes on the chart. “Why don’t you fill me in?”

  Sighing, Patrice lowered her hands to her lap. “I am afraid I do not know very much, my friend. I have been watching the lady for three days. Aside from the tantrums, I have not much to report.”

  Kitt leaned back in her chair, peering into the patient’s room. “Is she awake?”

  “She is always—”

  “Right. Silly question.” Kitt pushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “She doesn’t sleep.”

  “Not that I have seen. But she puts herself into a trance. I believe it may be—how do you say? Similar? The same as sleep, for her. And what about you, Kitt? Do you still have the bad dreams?”

  “It’s just one bad dream. A guy in a black mask. I don’t know why, but he’s just so . . . ominous. It’s unnerving.” Kitt got up, looking toward room 431. “Okay, I guess I’ll take it from here. Anything else I should know?” She stepped toward the patient’s room.

  “The restraints are for her protection,” Patrice said.

  Kitt winced. “Restraints?”

  “Oui. I do not think she is dangerous.”

  “You don’t think so,” Kitt mumbled, glancing toward the patient’s door. “Great.”

  The room was dark, the only light coming from the display screens on the machines attached to the old woman on the bed. Kitt crept toward the patient. Thick leather straps bound her wrists and waist. Other than that, the woman appeared to be peacefully resting, her eyes looking toward the ceiling.

  Kitt cleared her throat. “Is it okay for me to come in, ma’am?”

  The elderly patient turned her wrinkled head toward the doctor. “Yes, dear. Please.” She lifted her shackled arms. “Forgive me for not getting up.”

  The old woman’s accent was slightly British. Kitt took the chair from the corner and pulled it a few inches toward the bed.

  “You’re an American,” the patient said. “I don’t think I knew that. But you mustn’t fear, Doctor. I won’t hurt you.” She patted the mattress. “Come. As Patrice has already mentioned, these horrible restraints are for my protection.”

  Kitt stood behind the chair.

  The old woman has good hearing.

  “If . . . if I take those off of you,” Kitt said, “will you behave? No tantrums?”

  Lifting her old head from the pillows, the woman looked at the thick leather straps. “If you remove these devices from me, I shall tell you everything you wish to know.”

  Kitt stared at the woman, the respiration monitors gently beeping by her bedside. “Okay.”

  Stepping to the mattress, the doctor unbuckled the restraint from the woman’s right wrist and let it fall to the side of the bed. When she wasn’t immediately attacked and mauled, she decided it was okay to remove the other restraints.

  “There.” Kitt took a step backward. “Is that better?”

  The old woman raised her wrists, examining the bandages. “Goodness. I look like I’ve attempted suicide. And after all I’ve been through.”

  “Did you? Attempt suicide?”

  “Dear, no. I’m here by mistake. An accident.”

  Kitt sat, holding the chart on her lap. “Would you like to tell me?”

  The old woman clasped her hands to her waist. “As I said, everything you need to know, Doctor.”

  Nodding, Kitt opened the chart and took out a pen. “How did you come to be here, ma’am?”

  “Alexandra—Bergman, to be precise. If you please.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Bergman. So . . .”

  Smiling, the patient cocked her head. “You’re young. Where are you from?”

  “New York,” Kitt said. “I studied at NYU and received a research grant to come to Paris, where—”

  “No. You are not from New York. Not originally. Dr. Djimoa Kittaleye. Hmm. Perhaps . . .” She looked Kitt over. “The coloration suggests Kenya, but I believe the dialect is from Uganda. Is that right?”

  Kitt put her hand to her arm.

  Coloration?

  Great. The old girl’s a racist.

  “You understand,” the patient said, “it is the dialect that gives you away, dear. Not your skin color. The Caucasians in South Africa—Johannesburg, Lesotho—most of their accents are the same as anyone else’s there.” The old woman smiled. “You emigrated as a child, is that right?”

  Kitt shifted on her seat.

  Rule number one: If a patient catches you in a lie, all trust is lost.

  “My parents moved from Uganda when I was eleven,” Kitt said. “But I have to admit, no one has mentioned an accent to me since high school.”

  “Your efforts to erase it have served you well. It’s barely there. Certain syllables, that’s all.”

  It was true. A lot of attention was paid to the nightly newscasters on the national broadcasts, who spoke in that clear midwestern U.S. voice. Not the gruff, often whiny, New York dialect, nor the honeyed sweetness of a southern Georgia drawl. A plain, unadorned speech that was hard for young Djimoa to copy, but that made her assimilation so much easier.

  “I’ve made you uncomfortable,” the old woman said. “I’m very sorry. I don’t always know what the customs outside of . . . well, what the customs elsewhere are. Forgive me.”

  Kitt fixed her eyes on the first page of the chart, not reading anything, keeping a non-committal look on her face.

  You didn’t make me uncomfortable—except see rule number one.

  She knows she made me uncomfortable.

  So, I have to admit it.

  Kitt looked at the patient. “It is slightly awkward to have my accent mentioned, but it’s okay. I . . . forget about it, mostly.”

  “One never forgets where one is from, Doctor. I know I won’t. Now, I believe you asked me how I came to be
in this hospital, is that right? I should like to tell you some things in that regard. Things that you may consider important.”

  “Do you remember what happened, Ms. Bergman? Do you know why you’re here?”

  “There was a car accident.”

  “Tell me what you can recall.”

  “Oh, nothing extraordinary. Running late for a business meeting, texting while driving . . . the car in front just stopped suddenly. I don’t know why. Anyway, to avoid a crash, it seemed best to swerve, and that put the vehicle directly in the path of an oncoming cement truck. Very big thing, that truck. Oh, and the sound of its brakes—absolutely terrifying, dear. But it was the right decision. I shall never forget the faces of the children in that car.”

  Kitt wrote quickly while scanning the pages in the chart. Dr. Dechambeau’s handwriting was present, as was his signature under his notes. Kitt sat upright. “How did you get the wound to your upper chest and shoulder area?”

  “The car accident.”

  Dr. Dechambeau had said it was a gunshot wound—and his notes repeated that assertion in the pages of the chart.

  Kitt looked over the notes, reading parts out loud. “Earlier, you indicated to a nurse—or someone—that your name was Francine DeMond and that you were hospitalized because you had a reaction to an anesthesia they used on you when you went to the dentist for a root canal.”

  “I suppose I did tell someone that information.”

  Kitt frowned. She made a note in the file.

  Delusional. Possible PTSD.

  Evasive.

  “You were not in a car accident,” Kitt said, “and you didn’t go to the dentist and have a reaction. You were shot. Do you remember?”

  “I know what happened to me. I’m not delusional—and I don’t have PTSD, dear.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s what you wrote on my chart.”

  Kitt glanced at the chart, raising it to hide the notes from her patient. “Someone informed the nurse that you thought you were here for some other reason.”

  “At the dental appointment, there was a reaction to the anesthesia.”

  Shaking her head, Dr. Kittaleye closed the file. “I’m sorry, that’s not right.”

  “If I agree I’m delusional, will you allow me to go to my little girl?”

  The young psychologist sat back in the chair, looking at the elderly patient.

  This is not likely a woman who has a young child.

  More delusions, possibly?

  Kitt pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “I’ve found that these talks are most beneficial when we are honest with each other, ma’am. Is that fair?”

  “It is, yes. I’m trying to be helpful. Perhaps when the sun comes up, we could stroll around the grounds and talk.”

  “No. You’re still recovering from your injuries. We can’t risk that.”

  “But my injuries have healed. Dr. Dechambeau said so. He must have told you.”

  The old woman’s face was emotionless, but Kitt sensed she’d wandered into a strange game—or been pushed, as it were, by the Chief of Medicine.

  Does she know what Dechambeau said, or is she putting it to me so I’ll admit something she doesn’t yet know? Something she wants to know?

  And by getting that piece of the puzzle, she assembles a bigger and bigger idea of . . . whatever she’s after.

  Special guest, indeed.

  “It may not be a good idea to take you outside,” Kitt said. “Paris is still very cold in February, and . . . well, to be honest, ma’am, I’m not convinced you wouldn’t try to run away. They’ve put you here for a reason.”

  The old woman sighed, turning away. “Then I should like to get some rest. Will you come and talk with me again?”

  “Will you be forthcoming if I do?”

  The old woman lifted her bandaged hands and gazed at the doctor. “I told you, I’ll reveal everything you need to know, Doctor Kittaleye.”

  Kitt stood, holding the chart in front of her. “And Ms. Bergman or DeMond or whoever you are, I will look forward to it—but only if we are honest with each other. I can’t help you otherwise.”

  “I understand. Please come see me tomorrow. Get your rest and catch up on the news of the world through your tablet computer. We shall talk after lunch.”

  “Tablet computer?”

  Another guess derived from a logical, generic assumption. Everyone my age uses a tablet. The old woman was good at this game.

  She gets people used to this, and they end up telling her things without knowing it.

  “All you young folks use them,” the patient said. “Nurse Patrice reads hers a lot out there. I can hear the page clicks when she scrolls and the tapping noise when she texts. She hides it in the drawer because Dr. Dechambeau doesn’t like the staff to use them at the hospital, but I don’t mind.” She raised her gaze to look Kitt in the eye. “Two o’clock, say?”

  “Two will be fine. You’re very interesting, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “But the games need to stop if I’m to help you. Is that fair?”

  “Completely, Doctor.” She turned her face to the wall. “Two o’clock. We shall speak more then.”

  * * * * *

  In the bowels of Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital, Kitt typed up her notes on her tablet computer, emailed them to Dr. Dechambeau, and sent a copy to the printer on the first floor. After scurrying up the stairs to retrieve it, she returned to the tiny apartment and shoved the printed copy into the case folder.

  Flopping down on the bed, she pulled her tablet off the desk, propped it up on the corner of the mattress, and found an American national news channel. Her heavy eyelids barely staying open, she rolled onto her side and stared at the screen, stuffing one of her thin pillows under her head.

  As the first rays of sunshine peeked through her tiny window, her lids grew too tired to keep open, and she drifted off to sleep.

  It was the jolt that woke her, like she had been sitting at a desk studying for exams and nodded off—the otoconia in the inner ear’s utricle and saccule engage, keeping a person from falling over while asleep. Kitt knew the sensation well, from years of late hours in the NYU library and even more hours writing reports during her internship.

  This was not that.

  Her eyes opened. She was still lying on her bed, fully alert, the voices from the tablet going on about a chef.

  A quick glance at the time told her it was barely after 11 a.m., but the fog of sleep was already gone. Kitt focused on the familiar newscasters, rewinding in her head what they’d just said.

  The name.

  They said her name.

  She sat up, leaning closer to the screen, as an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach.

  “. . . died tragically in a car wreck in Atlanta. The chef apprenticed in New York’s trendy Les Maisons under flamboyant TV personality and celebrity chef Girard Ruger, and she was slated to open her own restaurant in a few days, to grand fanfare.” The female host’s image was replaced by pictures of a wrecked Mercedes. “. . . sold out for months in anticipation of the grand opening.”

  The male host appeared, shaking his head. “Such a tragedy.”

  At the bottom of the screen, a headline scrolled across.

  Chef Alexandra Bergman killed in traffic accident.

  Kitt bolted upright. She grabbed the tablet with both hands, her heart racing.

  “. . . according to witnesses at the scene,” the female broadcaster said, “she swerved to avoid rear-ending a car full of children and instead hit a cement truck. Bergman was unresponsive at the scene and later died from complications during surgery. She was thirty-three years old.”

  Kitt tossed the tablet aside and jumped out of bed, grabbing her case file. She flung it open and flipped through the notes.

  The old woman’s story matched nearly identically to the restauranteur’s—but the chef’s car wreck happened several hours after the elderly woman told her the story.


  She dropped the file, staring at the wall, her mouth hanging open.

  What is going on?

  Could this be a repeated newscast? Somehow delayed, and the old lady knew ahead of time?

  Kitt picked up the tablet, closed the tab with the news, and opened a search engine. Typing “Alexandra Bergman,” she barely got the name entered before news stories popped up on the screen.

  The estimated time of death was within the last hour.

  The patient told me this story almost seven hours before it happened.

  Still clutching the tablet, she grabbed the case file and raced out of her apartment, rushing to the old elevator at the end of the hallway.

  Seven hours.

  What game is this woman playing?

  How could she know?

  How could she lie about being this chef? Why would she? And why would she pretend to—

  Kitt caught herself. As the ancient elevator motor whirred, she opened the file and read over the notes.

  “. . . here by mistake. An accident.”

  She didn’t say she was in a car accident. She let me assume it.

  Kitt flipped another page.

  I asked her name. What was her reply?

  “Alexandra—Bergman, to be precise. If you please.”

  So why did she lie?

  Or did she?

  The notes said the name, but Kitt concentrated on the actual conversation. It had been a bit different.

  “How did you come to be here, ma’am?”

  “Alexandra—Bergman, to be precise. If you please.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Bergman. So . . .”

  Kitt put a hand to her forehead, groaning. “She never said she was Alexandra Bergman. I called her ma’am and she said a name. I assumed she was correcting me and giving me her name.”

  So stupid.

  But still—not really a game. How could she know Alexandra Bergman would die after giving me that name?

  Or is the question, why did she give me that name? She had to think I might find out it wasn’t really hers.

  Kitt frowned at the elevator, banging on its doors. “Hurry up, you old relic!”

  If I thought the stairs would get me to the special wing, I’d take them. But in this old dungeon, who knows?