by M. C. Adams
Alexa awoke, mildly shaken. She tried to remember the words from the poem “In Flanders Fields,” but she could only recall a few short verses of the poem. She recited the lines in her head.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row . . .
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Within moments, she was back asleep. The next time she woke, she grabbed a vodka soda from the stewardess. Charlie had splurged, upgrading her to first class, where the alcohol flowed easily. Alexa deplaned a little tipsy and grabbed a taxi to the Waldorf Astoria. She had already sent her x-rays to Dr. Huggins and underwent a phone consult, so she was scheduled for surgery the next day. She was anxious for Jeff to make her look whole again.
He met her in pre-op the next morning. She had already changed into her hospital gown when he strolled into the room in black scrubs and sneakers. He had put on a few pounds since med school, and his hair was thinner than she remembered.
“Hey! It’s been too long, Lex.” He smirked as he wrapped one arm around her shoulder and squeezed her tight. A Texan at heart, he still spoke with that alluring cowboy drawl.
“Hi, Jeff. It’s good to see you.” She smiled coyly at him.
“Damn! You haven’t changed a bit.” She blushed. She suddenly remembered she would likely be stripped down in the operating room, and it was possible Jeff was going to see her naked in the next hour. Perhaps she should have chosen an orthopod she didn’t know personally. Too late to change plans now.
“How’s work?” he questioned.
“I’m taking a break.” She lost the gumption to go into any details. Her hand went to the scar on her neck. His questioning made her nervous.
“Yeah, I heard you had a bad go of things. Sorry to hear that, Lex.”
God, it’s soothing to have someone show a little sympathy. That’s why she liked Jeff. Not only was he a smart guy; he also had a heart. She waited for him to ask, “What are your plans now?” But he didn’t. He stepped out and let the anesthesiologist put her to sleep.
She awakened in recovery a mere half hour after receiving the anesthesia and was discharged the same day. She went to recover in her hotel. The anesthesia made her nauseous, and Alexa vomited every hour on the hour, like clockwork. Unfortunately, the post-operative pain equaled the pain of the fracture Ivan caused. This was because Jeff had to re-break the healing fracture site in order to set the bones in proper alignment before fastening them together with a surgical plate and screws. He offered her different types of oral pain meds to soothe her through the first few postoperative days, but she declined vehemently. She already overindulged in cocktails. She didn’t want to add narcotics to the list.
She slept easily after her surgery, but awoke the next morning with pain shooting down her arm and toward her back. After twelve hours in bed, she needed to stretch her limbs and move around. She needed fresh air and a change of scenery. She paired the sling on her arm with leggings and sneakers and started walking the streets of New York City. She walked most of the day. Her clavicle throbbed rhythmically, and she paced her steps to the sensation, like timing her feet to music. Her mind drifted. I’ll be recovered in a few days. Then what? Where do I go? She wasn’t ready to face her family. She didn’t want to return to medicine.
The questions lingered as she made her way through Central Park, grabbed a quick lunch, and went to explore Fifth Avenue. Done with nature’s beauty, Alexa wanted something man-made. She wandered in and out of designer stores, admiring shoes and bags and jackets. She was captivated by the construction and the details.
An idea emerged. I can do this. I want to do this. My hands can create beauty . . . not bring death. The word made her shudder. No regrets, she scolded. She didn’t regret her actions, exactly, but she was conflicted over them. It would take time, and possibly a great deal of alcohol, to make a fresh start. She hailed a cab back to her hotel with the goal of finding a way to follow her new aspiration. A two-day Internet search and a few phone calls brought Alexa an answer.
She had a destination: Savannah, Georgia.
CHAPTER 37
Alexa packed up her things and headed to the Savannah College of Art and Design for two four-week introductory fashion design and sewing classes. She wanted to become like the designers she admired, sculpting beauty out of fabric. These short classes allowed open admissions, but she would have to apply with a portfolio in order to attend the full semester classes if she wanted to pursue things further.
She traveled light, and the transition was as simple as a one-way flight and a short-term lease agreement that were both settled the week before her first class started.
The sudden change of pace intimidated her. Returning to school was a bizarre concept. She would need new training if she wanted a different life. I can stay Alexa DeBrow and have a new start, she thought, happy with the compromise. She was moving forward without running away from the past.
She rented a converted old carriage house near downtown Savannah. Just one bedroom and one bathroom. It was small but private, and all she wanted. She hoped the historic setting with cobblestone alleyways and converted gas lanterns would be inspiring.
She recovered enough to set the sling aside for her first day of class. Her fifty-something feminine sophisticate instructor gathered information about the students and showed basic draping techniques. After class, Alexa stopped by to ask the teacher a few questions.
“Mrs. McAlister, would you mind giving me a list of materials that I need to purchase for working at home? The recommendations on the website were so vague, and I’m new to this.” She blushed.
“Of course you are new, my dear.” The instructor spoke with perfect enunciation and poise, her decorum equal to that of royalty. “This is a transition for you, no doubt. Was it a divorce that spurred the change? Or perhaps the children are school-aged now and you need a new hobby? I see it all of the time. It’s not a problem. I hope you get whatever it is you are looking for out of my classes. I can email you a list of the necessities. It is a pleasure to have you with us.”
Alexa invested in a brand name sewing machine, a serger machine, and a dress form. She acquired other accessories as time progressed. She learned darting and French seams, draping and bias cuts. She even got to know her classmates. Everyone was either younger or older than she was. Several were fresh out of high school or college dropouts of less than twenty. A handful of others were in their fifties, perhaps struggling through a mid-life crisis. She spent a few evenings at happy hours around town with a shy younger girl, Emily, and a fifty-something dynamic divorcee named Bernice. Neither woman knew Alexa’s former life, and she was content maintaining her anonymity.
One night out with the girls, a drunken sailor recognized Alexa. She overheard him talking about her with his friends. The overgrown, barrel-chested man spoke with a brash tone.
“That woman over there.” He pointed a stubby finger at Alexa’s face, a mere ten feet away. “She’s that man-killer doctor I saw on TV last year. Damned if they didn’t let her out to walk the streets with the rest of us.” His words cut like knives. The eyes at the sailor’s table turned in her direction.
Anonymity was short-lived. Rage inside Alexa made her want to lash out at this man. Her fingers itched for a gun. She stood to approach him, but stopped herself. Wow. I really want to hurt him. Acts of violence from her past tried to weave their way into the present. It was sobering to re-face her nightmares. No regrets. Don’t forget. She regained her composure and sat down. I will not hurt this man. I cannot hurt anyone else. Alexa wasn’t sure she believed her own weak promises.
“Is everything okay, Lex?” Bernice questioned, reaching a hand out for Alexa’s arm. Alexa eyed her friends with trepidation and watched the gang of sailors pile out the door into the street. The three women sat in uncomfortable silence.<
br />
Alexa took a deep breath and gathered her courage. Time to face the ghosts. “About a year ago, I was out with my girlfriends, like this. When I left, a man assaulted me on the way to my car. He tried to rape me; I fought back. I killed him.” She paused. “I stood trial for his death, but I was released.” There. She’d said it. Now they could judge her. She waited for a response.
Bernice spoke first.
“I was raped at sixteen, and once more at twenty-three. I only wish I’d had the nerve to kill just one of the bastards.” She lifted her glass and took a long swig of the bourbon she was drinking.
Alexa sighed in relief and turned toward Emily. She was certain the timid and quirky girl would disagree with her actions. Emily crumpled in her chair and put a hand to her face to cover her teary eyes. She looked up at Alexa and nodded her head repeatedly. With her chin quivering, she let out a mousy response. “I’m glad he didn’t hurt you.”
Emily pushed her bony hand across the table and wrapped her childlike fingers around Alexa’s. Emily didn’t condemn her. See. That wasn’t so bad, a boisterous voice inside her head claimed with pride.
“Next round’s on me,” Bernice offered, waving a hand at the waitress. The drinks accompanied more light-hearted story swapping, and it was early morning when the three parted ways.
Alexa slurped her liquor heartily following the moment of weakness until a warm alcohol blanket soothed the pain. She walked home in a drunken tizzy, stumbling into the trashcan on her way to the back door of the carriage house. The can toppled over with a bang. The sound was followed by another noise, the tiny mew of a small kitten curled up next to the building. Alexa could barely make out its shape in the shadows. She struggled not to see double. She reached down and scooped the little thing into her hands. It was so small and helpless — it needed saving. Saving a life — what a nice concept.
She took the tiny kitten inside. He was nothing but a small gray ball of fur. He spent his first night huddled up close to her in the bed. His body nestled along her healing clavicle, his little kitten paws stretched out over the scar on her neck. It was as if the animal knew where her injuries lay and was snuggling up next to them to soothe her. Indeed, the warm little body and kitten purrs were soothing. She drifted off to peaceful dreams.
Alexa spent most of her days at her sewing machine crafting new creations. When the four-week courses ended, she applied for a full term class in the fall. Each free moment, she spent painstakingly developing her own clothing collection. Using the techniques she learned in her classes, she created jackets, skirts, shift dresses, and an evening gown. Photographs of these pieces and a few additional sketches became the portfolio she submitted to Mrs. McAlister for acceptance into the fall courses.
As it turned out, the newly adopted kitten was partial to the operations of the sewing machine and sat at her side through most of her daily work. “You little gray ball of fluff, I’ll call you Gray. My Gray muse. My Gray mystery. Gray for a world that lacks black or white,” she whispered aloud. Her fingers nuzzled the soft fur on his chin as she wondered to herself. Was I a martyr for something I believed in, or did I stumble into that world of loathsomeness by my want of revenge? She buried her head into her furry friend’s side. Forever lost in my sea of gray.
CHAPTER 38
She used her muse for inspiration when she couldn’t find it on her own. His sleek physique inspired form-fitting attire, while his soft fur tempted Alexa to use fabrics that were equally pleasant to the touch. Her collection consisted of soft cashmere and wool blends, delicate silks, leathers, and lace she had purchased in France. She had created twenty-seven pieces thus far that were acceptable for daily wear. She wore an outfit from her collection to the coffee shop a few blocks away from her house. It was a black satin caplet over a billowing white silk top, and fitted, white-on-white textured pants. Alexa enjoyed a vanilla latte sitting alone at a table next to the window where she could admire the transparent reflection of her outfit. While sketching a design for a new white gown, someone approached her table.
“Lex.”
Oh, God. That voice. Her head turned in the direction of the familiar sound and her eyes instantly locked with the man next to her. Britt. Her heart jumped into her throat. She recognized the longing in Britt’s eyes, but there was something more that she couldn’t quite place. I’m dreaming. This is a dream. She blinked hard twice. The image didn’t change. Reality sank in, and for a second, the world stopped.
“I needed to find you, Lex. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you — I just couldn’t bear it anymore.” His lips quivered as he spoke. Britt! Her heart sang out, afraid to speak or move in fear of bursting the miraculous moment. Her pulse quickened, and her breaths became erratic. He wrapped one hand around her entwined fingers on the table. Alexa’s face contorted into an anguished pose, as the agony of his absence finally materialized in her expression. Hot tears streamed from her eyes. His grip tightened, and he moved closer to her.
Something about the way he moved caught her attention; it was unnatural. He glided toward her rather than shifting his body in his seat. Alexa furrowed her brow. Something’s wrong. His fingers reached up and wiped the liquid from her face. She pulled away and looked for an answer to Britt’s peculiar movements.
Britt is in a wheelchair. This is a nightmare. She blinked again. Alexa gasped when she didn’t wake up. “Britt —” she lost her words trying to make sense of the situation.
“Lex, you look amazing.” She got lost in his eyes once more. His eyes were wet, too, with tiny pools of saltwater forming in the corners. He pulled her closer, grasping her arms at the elbows. He was so close that she could feel his breath on her.
She spoiled the magic. “Britt, what happened?” They were the only words she could muster. She needed answers.
Britt’s face turned cold and empty. His voice became apathetic. “I ran in Boston, Lex. I ran the marathon. My time was great, but there was a bomb. . . .” His words evaporated.
Alexa understood the emotions she saw in Britt’s face. She recognized his loss and longing. How cruel. Something had changed Britt the way Jamar had changed her. “You were hurt?” She pressed.
He flinched at her words and his forehead wrinkled, revealing the lines of an older man. “I lost my leg, Lex.” He scooted away from the table. Lonely, shapeless fabric hung down where Britt’s left lower leg should be.
Somehow, I’ve pulled Britt into my nightmare. She fought to pull her stare away from the terrible thing and looked up to realize tears fell from his eyes, too. Oh, God. Her soul deflated. This was more than physically damaging. Britt was broken inside. He had been victimized. His personal freedom violated — like when Jamar attacked her. There’s something demoralizing about knowing someone has successfully destroyed your life. Oh, God. To be made so vulnerable — he must be very angry.
She remembered her need for vindication and shuddered. She couldn’t bear to talk about it any longer. She couldn’t stand to see the pain on his face. “How did you find me, Britt?” She regained some composure by turning the conversation back to their reunion.
“Jeff Huggins. He texted me that he saw you in New York. He said he operated on you. I was worried.” The old-man lines spread over his face once more. “I made him tell me where to find you, Lex. I needed to see you. I had to know you were okay.” He tried to turn the worried look into a smile, but his face looked twisted and irregular. His expression reflected his broken demeanor. “What are you doing here, Lex?”
Unprepared for the question, she stammered, “I — I’m taking some classes at a fashion school here. I don’t want to work in medicine, Britt.”
A faint nod confirmed his understanding. “I’m done with politics,” he offered.
No! Because of me? He didn’t win the election. No. His dull eyes said it was more than that.
“I can’t. Not like this, Lex.” Hands motioned to the chair beneath him.
“Oh, Britt! There’s so much to say. Can’t we go
somewhere more private?”
“I’m staying at little bed and breakfast nearby.”
She cast her eyes around the café and shrank away from the strangers’ glances. “Can we go there? I want to be alone with you.” A lustful twinge arose in her bosom with the thought of being alone with Britt, and a pink hue settled on her cheeks. She watched him fumble to scoot away from the table and out the door.
He rolled awkwardly down the street. They moved together in silence. Never would Alexa have imagined seeing Britt again and saying so little to him. There was something very solemn about their stroll, as if they were departing a funeral. A few more tears slid down her face. She mourned Britt’s missing leg and his lost pride.
He was so confident and boisterous, but now he hasn’t any passion for life. His head hung lower than she remembered. He seems apathetic. It’s heart-wrenching.
They waited until they were safe in Britt’s room to say anything to one another. Alexa watched him struggle to move from the chair to the bed. She reached out a hand, but pulled it back, knowing the independent man she remembered wouldn’t want help.
Once he was situated, she sat close to him and reached for whatever she could touch. Her hands caressed his thigh and shoulder.
Britt deflected her intimate touch. “Why did Jeff have to operate on you? Are you okay?” His eyes moved up and down her frame, looking for clues.
She lifted a hand to the scar on her neck. “It was nothing, really. A broken bone, that’s all.” She grew tense with emotion. Her face burned, and she cried in full force. “Oh, Britt. The things that have happened, the things I’ve done, you’d never believe. I can’t imagine how to explain it to you.” She’d never considered disclosing her actions, trying to justify it all to another human being. It’s incomprehensible.