by Ciji Ware
Avery collapsed onto her pillow while Juliet fretted that any bad news could be even more upsetting than not knowing how the young man was faring. Clearly, though, either Juliet went on an intelligence-gathering mission, or Avery would injure herself trying to find a way to sneak down the hall.
“Tell me his name and I’ll see what I can sleuth out,” Juliet offered, adding with a wink, “and shall I say you’re his fiancée or something?”
Avery snorted and then winced from the pain it caused her arm and shoulder. “He’s eight years younger than me,” she answered, “and there was no romance between us at all, but he’s a hell of a good portrait painter and has been a wonderful friend to me from the day I walked into L’École des Beaux Arts.”
Avery’s eyes again filled with tears.
“So what’s his name?” Juliet asked, preparing to depart.
“Get a piece of paper,” Avery directed, her voice choked. “You can write it down and show it to the charge nurse to find him when you get down to the ICU.”
* * *
Juliet slipped unnoticed past the nurses’ station on Avery’s floor and sped downstairs. She was grateful to have previously spotted the sign indicating the location of the Intensive Care Unit at the far end of the corridor. Clustered outside that area were knots of people with anxious expressions, all speaking various languages in hushed tones. Juliet supposed each group was holding vigil until they had news of loved ones fighting for their lives inside the ICU.
Were they all victims of the shootings on Friday, she wondered, or was it the usual collection of tragic circumstances that could snuff out life from accident, sudden heart attack, or a deadly disease?
As she approached, a familiar figure came into focus—the person she’d practically run over with her suitcase when she’d made a dash for the hospital’s entrance. He had his arm beneath the elbow of a stylishly attired older woman with blondish-grey hair wrapped in a chic chignon anchored at the nape of her neck. Juliet couldn’t help but admire the woman’s trim figure clad in a classic, black pants suit, her neck artfully swathed by an orange, black, and gold Hermes scarf. Her eyes were luminous behind large, black-rimmed spectacles in the style of Jackie O’s sunglasses that had been fashionable a good fifty years earlier.
Both the elderly woman and her escort were listening intently to the words of a white-coated doctor whose attention was directed at another man and woman of middle years. Standing next to the quartet was a second elderly person with wispy, steel gray hair who leaned on a cane.
Juliet halted a few feet away, chagrined to deduce that the man she’d collided with was no arrogant doctor, but was someone who’d rushed to the hospital, just as she had, because of a sick or injured friend or family member.
The physician was speaking French and Juliet could see that Flight Jacket Man, as she decided to call him, was concentrating, laser-like, on the conversation, as if struggling to understand what was being said. The doctor then turned toward him and the woman in the elegant black pants suit. “I was just saying to the family,” he volunteered in English within earshot of Juliet, “that the young man is not doing at all well, post-surgery, and we’ve had to initiate a life support system.” He paused, and then added, “I must warn you that the outlook is bleak. We know, now, that he was shot fourteen times.”
“Oh, God, no!” murmured the woman whose elbow was still held firmly in her younger escort’s hand. She turned swiftly toward the woman with gray hair and spoke in rapid French. “Eloise, ma chèr amie, je suis terriblement désolé...”
Juliet recognized the empathy and sorrow laced in the woman’s words addressed to her “dearest friend, Eloise”—the part of the exchange Juliet comprehended.
The doctor then continued describing to the English speakers what he had just told the patient’s parents and grandmother: that despite a second surgery to remove more shrapnel and ease the swelling in the cranium, the shooting victim remained in very critical condition, having suffered devastating wounds to his upper torso and skull.
“I’m afraid your friends, the Grenelles, are faced with a very difficult decision.”
“About whether to keep Jean-Pierre on life support?” interrupted the tall figure in his American accent.
Juliet emitted an audible gasp that drew his attention. In the next second, the two exchanged glances—his of recognition, hers of dismay that the name she’d just heard matched the one she’d jotted down at Avery’s behest. “Jean-Pierre Grenelle.”
They’re speaking about the same young man Avery was with on Friday!
Meanwhile, the doctor nodded to the Americans, adding “We will continue to monitor him closely, of course, but...”
His voice trailed off. Juliet studied the look of sorrow infusing the faces of the Grenelles’ two family friends. The slight curve of the nose belonging to Flight Jacket Man reminded her of a young Yves Montand, the late, handsome star of classic French films.
He turned to the elegantly dressed older woman standing beside him. “I’ve seen these cases countless times, Claudine. It would be merciful to just pull—”
His companion cut in.
“I agree with you, of course,” she said, speaking in low tones with a warning glance in the Grenelles’ direction, “but this is a decision that only Eloise and her son and his wife can make. Perhaps they will ask us our opinion... perhaps not. Jean-Pierre is their precious boy and a superbly talented artist. Can you imagine what it’s like to be the ones to simply switch off a life with such promise?”
Meanwhile, the physician volunteered that he would keep everyone informed as to any change. Addressing the Americans, he added, “You have been good to stand by them all these long hours. Please forgive my brevity, but I must return to the ICU.” He inclined his head to include the assembled group and retreated through a pair of double doors.
Juliet stood frozen to the spot. Flight Jacket Man pivoted toward her and extended his hand. “I didn’t introduce myself before. I’m Patrick Deschanel,” he announced. “‘Finn,’ to my friends.” His direct gaze told her he’d instantly recognized her, just as she had him. She seized his hand as he gestured with his other toward his companion and Jean-Pierre’s family members. “This is my aunt, Claudine Deschanel, and our friends, the Grenelles.”
“I’m Juliet Thayer. I just got here this morning from San Francisco to be with my friend... who was also wounded in the attacks.”
“I do remember your arrival,” Finn said with the ghost of a smile.
For some reason Juliet continued to clasp his hand. It felt warm and comforting to hold on to something, even if he were a stranger.
“I owe you an apology,” she said, staring into electric blue eyes that seemed a startling contrast to Finn Deschanel’s tanned face and dark hair. Black Irish, she’d guess, mixed with French, obviously, with a name like Deschanel. “When I jumped from the taxi, I was in a tearing hurry to find out if my friend was alive or—” She halted mid-sentence, not wanting to distress the Grenelles any more than they were already “I-I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m really sorry. And I’m sorry that my suitcase ran over your foot.”
“It was my good one, so no harm done.”
“Oh, gosh! I’m so sorry. I was just horribly worried and jet-lagged and—”
“I’m joking,” he reassured her. “I’m perfectly fine.”
Juliet didn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed by Finn Deschanel’s teasing, so she let go of his hand. The others in his group were closing in on the two of them as if she were now a member of their circle. Finn’s slight smile faded as he made introductions to the Grenelles, who stood slightly apart from the Deschanels and Juliet.
“I saw your strong reaction when you overheard the doctor describe the seriousness of Jean-Pierre’s wounds,” Finn said. “Do you know him?”
“No. As I said, I-I’ve just flown from California to be with my best friend, who’s recovering from gun-shot wounds in the surgery ward.” She pointed in th
e opposite direction down the long corridor that stretched behind them. “Her name is Avery Evans. She... well, actually, she sent me down here to... to try to find out about the man in the ambulance with her. From what I just overheard, it sounds as if he’s the same person.”
Finn turned his back slightly, placing himself between Juliet and the others and spoke in an even lower voice. “Were they together Friday night?”
“Avery just told me that Jean-Pierre Grenelle was her dinner companion at some Asian restaurant that night. She said that he threw himself on top of her to try to shield her when the shooting began...”
“At Le Petit Cambodge?”
“Avery only said it was a restaurant near a hospital—but the ambulance brought them to this place, instead.”
Finn’s aunt had stepped forward to hear their conversation and was staring at her with a look of astonishment.
“Your friend and Jean-Pierre were both at Le Petit Cambodge Friday night?” Claudine repeated.
Juliet nodded. “Yes, I think that’s right. Avery and Jean-Pierre Grenelle are apparently friends from art school, L’École des—”
Juliet stopped speaking and fought back a wave of emotion that had begun to choke her. Avery would be devastated to learn that her poor friend was on life support and it sounded dire. She swallowed hard, waiting until she thought she could continue in a normal tone of voice. Claudine laid a comforting hand on her arm.
Finally, Juliet managed to speak once more. “Avery’s French isn’t great and I imagine she thought the American Hospital would be... well... better—that is, if she didn’t die first.”
Finn disclosed quietly, “Apparently, the hospital close to the restaurant was clogged with ambulances. The reason that Jean-Pierre’s injuries are so severe is that he was shot many times in his back and head. His chances of survival were probably never good, but we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Oh, no!” Juliet said barely above a whisper. “Avery said he smothered her with his body to protect her.”
“What is your friend’s condition, now?” Finn asked somberly.
“Avery’s been badly wounded in one arm and her shoulder. They’ve upgraded her from ‘critical’ to ‘serious,’ though, and the nurse told me that she’ll recover.”
“Well, that’s a blessing...” murmured the elder Deschanel.
Juliet turned to Finn and said in a rush, “My French is horrible. Could you please tell Jean-Pierre’s family that Avery considered him a wonderful friend at L’École. She’s been studying portrait painting in the same class there. He saved her life by knocking them both to the ground when the guns went off.”
“Mon Dieu!” murmured Finn’s aunt. Speaking French, she quickly translated the news of Jean-Pierre’s heroism to his three family members who were looking confused by the rapid exchanges that had just taken place in English.
Juliet’s gaze traveled from Claudine Deschanel to the stricken expressions of the Grenelles, and finally settled on Finn. His look of deep compassion enveloped and supported her like the steadying hand she’d seen him place earlier beneath his aunt’s arm. She pulled him to one side and spoke quietly. “How can I ever tell Avery that Jean-Pierre is on life support?” she agonized. “She’s been through such hell herself, and spoke of nothing else but how wonderful Jean-Pierre has been to her since she came to Paris. She’s still not out of the woods with her own injuries. As soon as I walk back in that room, she’ll demand to know what I found out.” Juliet looked beseechingly at Finn and spoke in a whisper to avoid upsetting the Grenelles even more. “What in the world can I say when I have to tell her that... t-that... his prognosis is so bad? It will be the worst, possible—”
“Shall I go with you?” Finn intervened.
For a long moment, Juliet simply stared at him. A virtual stranger was willing to help Avery when, by-and-large, Juliet’s own family had abandoned a former friend and colleague to her fate.
“Would you?” She felt another knot of emotion welling into her throat. “I’d be hugely grateful.”
Within seconds, the choking sensation had traveled to her chest, and she could feel moisture brimming her eyes. She raised her hands to her face as the first sob ripped from her throat. She felt a strong arm encircle her. Then Juliet began to weep, whether from jet lag, lack of sleep, or the tragedy of a brave, young French portrait painter clinging to life a short distance from where they stood outside the ICU. She leaned into the expanse of Finn’s leather jacket and dissolved into tears that she simply could not keep inside any longer.
CHAPTER 4
Juliet’s acute embarrassment over her public meltdown outside the ICU lasted the entire length of the hallway that led back to Avery’s hospital room.
“I don’t know what came over me,” she apologized.
“You’re exhausted and most likely in shock yourself,” Finn replied. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“But I still don’t know what to tell Avery about Jean-Pierre’s condition. How should I tell her?”
“Tell her as much of the truth as you think she can handle right now.”
“Given how fragile she is, I don’t think she can handle any of it.”
By this time they had reached Room 203. Avery’s hospital bed had been positioned so she could sit up at an angle. She was holding a small paper cup filled with ice chips. Her eyes widened when she noticed a complete stranger had entered her hospital room beside Juliet.
“Who’s that?” she demanded weakly.
“Avery, this is an American friend of the Grenelle family... Finn Deschanel. Finn, this is Jean-Pierre’s friend from art school, Avery Evans.”
Avery fastened her eyes on the newcomer and pleaded, “Have you seen him?”
“Yes,” Finn said with a slight nod. “He’s had two surgeries and he’s still under the anesthetic.”
Avery glanced over at Juliet and murmured, “Two? Oh, Jeez... that sounds bad.”
Finn added, “Like yours, his wounds from that kind of ammunition can do a lot of damage. The doctors are still assessing everything.”
“But will he be okay?” pressed Avery. “Eventually, I mean?” She jutted her chin in the direction of her own arm in its protective sling.
“We won’t know the outcome for a while, but Juliet told his family what a good friend he’s been to you, and sent your best wishes, which they deeply appreciated.”
Avery demanded, “Juliet, did you tell them he saved my life?”
“I told Finn and his aunt, who is a good friend of Jean-Pierre’s grandmother, and she told them in much better French than I could have.” She forced a smile she didn’t feel.
“I think it really helped the Grenelles a lot to hear how bravely he’d behaved under fire like that,” Finn volunteered.
Juliet was struck by Finn’s gentle approach to softening the blow that would eventually come down when Avery was stronger and could better bear the truth about Jean-Pierre’s life-threatening injuries. As he stood beside her bed, he had exhibited a kindness and empathy that Juliet hadn’t experienced since she couldn’t remember when. Here he was, wearing a military flight jacket, and yet he seemed so different from the hard-ass, cynical, game-playing macho men who’d been part of her life in the last decade. What was this man doing in Paris, she wondered? And why was his aunt also here and so amazingly fluent in French?
Before she could speculate further, Avery closed her eyes and Juliet hastened to rescue the tilted paper cup in her friend’s hand.
“Sleepy?” she asked.
Avery nodded. “At least J-P’s still alive. I was so worried...” she murmured, and then she began to breathe the even breath of a drug-induced sleep.
Finn motioned for Juliet to step out of the room and into the hallway. Just then, Claudine appeared at the other end of the corridor, heading in their direction. The closer she drew, the more troubled they could see her expression had become.
Finn almost appeared to stand at attention as if he would salute
someone. “What’s the matter?” he demanded of his aunt. “Has something happened?”
Claudine halted beside them with a glance at the room number over their heads.
“The Grenelles cannot bring themselves to detach Jean-Pierre’s life support. So they’re just sitting vigil outside the ICU. They told us to go home and await word.”
“Has the doctor said how long this could go on?” Finn asked in a low voice.
Claudine shook her head. “The doctor’s in surgery with another patient. The machine is breathing for Jean-Pierre and beyond that, it’s just a big question mark what happens next. Eloise won’t budge, and neither will Pierre and his wife, so I think we should do as they say and go home.”
“Really? Leave them here?” he asked, concern etching his features.
“Yes, I think we should,” Claudine replied with a weary sigh.
Juliet imagined that the older woman was feeling the long hours she’d been awake keeping her friends company, to say nothing of the horrific strain on everyone living in Paris that began the previous Friday and hadn’t let up.
Meanwhile, Finn had turned his back, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Juliet was startled to see the scowl that now clouded his face.
“The doctor described wounds as severe as any I saw in Kandahar,” he said, his voice sounding raw and ragged to Juliet’s ears, “and likely as fatal. The guy’s entire upper body and head have been ripped apart by heavy-arms fire. Why don’t they put the poor bastard out of his agony!” he declared, slamming one fist into his other hand.
Claudine’s look of alarm shifted instantly to Juliet, who gazed back at her with a feeling of both shock and compassion. Finn had just acknowledged he’d served in the U.S. military in the Middle East and undoubtedly had seen horrific acts of war—in stark contrast to the simulated carnage she’d witnessed in her brother’s video war games. The flight jacket he wore made sense, now.