Chapter 5

Paris, August, Friday—Present Time

The grumpy taxi driver I hired at the airport smoked as he zigzagged his tiny Peugeot in and out of traffic circles with a clear death wish. Finally, the taxi pulled up to a street corner and jerked to a stop. I paid without asking for change and stumbled out of the car, looking for a nearby bench as my motion sickness rose to a concerning level. With my head between my knees, I observed that the cobblestones of Paris were much dirtier than the cobblestones of Edinburgh.

I had met Pauline Girard in Guatemala in the Family Mission’s cafeteria. It was a humid, sticky kind of day, but she was painstakingly painting her nails while waving away flies. I had plopped down on the seat next to her and stared.

“Do you want to borrow some?” She pointed to three other bottles of nail polish in bright colors.

“Are you serious?” I asked, showing her my fingernails, which were black with several layers of grime underneath.

“But of course! I have enough.” She wrinkled her nose, likely from my smell. “Do you need some different color? Or soap?”

I had been determined to keep to myself since I left New York, and I was never much for making friends in the first place. But, somehow, she managed to make me depend on her for company within days. Unfortunately, Pauline was with the Mission barely long enough to fix everyone’s nails. She was there for the simple reason of worrying her parents, and apparently that didn’t take more than a few months.

Pauline’s family owned a luxury hotel in Provence, with a private beach on the Gulf of Saint-Tropez. During some sort of spoiled-rich-girl rebellious episode, she took off to Guatemala, following a crush on an American backpacker heading there. She was smart enough to dump him as soon as the airplane landed in Guatemala City and smart enough to negotiate the terms of her return with her overprotective family. She got a temporary job at the Mission designing malaria education pamphlets, and it took her parents several months, an apartment in Paris, and a promise that she could pursue her artistic interests before she agreed to quit.

As spoiled as she was, she was kind and fun-loving, and tended to gather the most intelligent and creative people around her. I had missed her greatly since she left for Paris, carefully wiping her tears to prevent mascara from smudging. We spoke at least once a week, and she wasn’t surprised in the least when I told her I was dropping by. Because nothing ever surprised Pauline.

As the nausea subsided, I got up from the bench and looked around. Pauline lived in a very charming square in the Marais, well hidden by several tall eighteenth-century buildings. A bistro was well-placed in the middle, filling the area with the smells of cheese, wine, and fresh bread. Her building was a smaller one, tucked into a corner in the back. A kitten sat by the painted front door to the building, looking at me between licks at its paws. Ella would’ve loved seeing this.

I walked through the door and up the stairs and was nearly knocked down by vigorous hugs and kisses from Pauline. She looked as beautiful as ever in a perfect bob and what was likely a designer dress, jewel blue and showing off every one of her curves.

“Pauline, this is gorgeous! You’re absolutely sparkling!”

“You’re in France now. You can start looking pretty!” She smiled and pointed at my oversized khakis. “But I cannot see your legs! We must go shop soon.” Then she gave me a concerned look. “Have you got a bite to eat? Scotland is not a good place for food. Let’s drop your things in my flat, and then we shall feast!”

An hour later, I stretched my legs lazily under a small café table, smiling at the curly-haired dog underneath the table next to us. The wicker chair was surprisingly comfortable and the wine cool and relaxing.

“Okay. Now tell me all about your ring.” Pauline took my hand and examined the ring, turning my finger slightly and letting the marcasite shine.

“Well…” I took a sip of wine. “It seems to have a story to go with it.”

“Like a mystery story, with someone dying or stealing it?”

“No, not quite that dramatic, but who knows? All I can say is that I bought it because I felt this strong need to have it. I felt as if it belonged to me.”

“Belonged to you? As in past-life-belonged-to-you?”

“No, it wanted to belong to me now.” I hesitated. “After I bought the ring, I had this dream. Except it felt very real—as if I were right there. Have you ever experienced dreams like that?”

“Yes, of course.”

“In my dream, I walked through a garden and saw a woman who said some words in what I think was German. Then we got on bikes and rode somewhere. I could see she was sad and needed my help. I also felt very guilty for some reason, as if I had hurt her in some way.”

“So, who were you in the dream?”

“No idea. I think I may have been someone she loved, since this ring has an inscription from a love poem, and I felt love toward her.”

“Wait, but you said you also hurt her?” Pauline gulped her Bordeaux.

“I’m not sure. I felt all these conflicting feelings. But I really couldn’t tell. I woke up all confused.”

“What did she look like? Ghostly?”

“Not at all! So beautiful! Her skin glowed, and her eyes were big and pretty. She had this very old-fashioned outfit on: a long skirt and light purple blouse and a hat. But I saw some brown curls of her hair underneath the hat.”

“So you think the ring has a memory of her lover?” Pauline asked.

“Well, the ring was on her finger. So it must be her memory. But maybe my brain got confused somehow and I’m seeing something that happened, but from a different point of view?”

“And what are you trying to find out here in Paris?”

“The ring was sold from a store in Paris, so I figured I’d come here and go to the store to check what other items they may be selling from this woman. Maybe I can find out more about her? I’m only curious, that’s all.”

“If the ring came from Paris, are you sure she wasn’t speaking French?” Pauline asked.

“No, not sure, but the ring has a German inscription, and it didn’t sound French at all.”

“So you came here not to only see your best friend, no?” She pouted.

“Oh, come on. You know I was planning to come see you soon anyway. What’s new with your gallery plans?”

“It is going very well. Almost finished the ceiling now. We must open for the fall. I think I might go to Madrid and New York soon to buy some new photography. I want our first show to be photography.”

“Oh, I love photography. Great idea!”

“Can I ask a question of you, though, my friend? Why are you here?” Pauline asked.

“What do you mean? I just told you. I have to find out about the ring.”

“We’re friends, right? You were supposed to go back to being a doctor a month ago. Am I wrong? What’s going on? Why were you in Scotland?” She leaned closer, eyes searching.

I hesitated a moment. She knew I had taken a break from the residency, but not why. “I was on my way back a week ago… I made it as far as the airport in Houston. But then I couldn’t bring myself to go back…” My eyes itched, and I wiped them quickly. I didn’t like to show anyone my feelings, not even Pauline.

“I know you never talk about it, but I can see you want to cry every time I ask about New York. What happened? Did you have a bad boyfriend? Is it your family? Why do you need to run away?”

“I’m not running away!”

“Sure you’re not! When was the last time you went home?”

“I’m going back in a week. Don’t worry.”

Our dinner plates arrived, and I ate with joy, soothing my hurt. The duck was delicious, and the steamy crusty bread was perfect for dipping in the sauce.

Pauline persisted. “So. You’re here for a week. Is this only an extra break? Sounds as if you needed to gather strength or courage.”

“I have to have a meeting with the dean on Friday. He is placing me on probation,” I mumbled.

“Oh, I am right.” She raised her brows and whistled. “I love when I’m right! What’s happened?”

I leaned back and rubbed my temples. Might as well tell her; she’d never give up asking. “I killed a patient.”

Pauline spit out her wine. “You did what?”

“Last January.”

“What do you mean you killed a patient?” she whispered, wiping the red wine stains off the table vigorously.

“Well, not with-my-hands killed her.” I paused. “She killed herself, technically. But it was because of something I said…or did…”

“Now you have to tell me the whole story. You say nonsense!”

“Fine. I was learning pulmonology, since you learn all different specialties as a pediatrician. Hailey was a sweet, frail, fifteen-year-old. She had cystic fibrosis, and her parents were going through an ugly divorce. She wouldn’t talk to a therapist, but somehow she opened up to me.” She reminded me of my sister, but Pauline didn’t know about my sister.

“What is this ‘cystic fibrosis’?”

“A genetic disease you’re born with. Your lungs are drowning in mucus all the time and your stomach can’t digest food normally. You have to take enzymes when you eat, and breathing treatments, and wear a vest that shakes your lungs and makes them expel the mucus. And still you get violently ill with deadly bacteria all the time, and your life expectancy is barely into your twenties. Unless you manage to get a lung transplant, but that only prolongs your life temporarily.”

“I can see why you’d wish to end your life. How did she do it?”

“She went home, walked into her closet, wrapped a belt around her neck, and hanged herself.” I emptied my glass of wine.

Pauline was pale as she asked, “And you think it’s because of something you said? Sounds as if her life was awful!”

“The parents filed a complaint. They thought I told her she was dying and it made her feel desperate. Which I didn’t! They thought this because her disease was very advanced. And she hadn’t been taking her medications, so her lungs were failing.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I’ve been going through what I said to her, every single day since it happened. Every single fucking day. I can’t figure it out. We talked about a boy she had a crush on. She wanted to go to the school dance with him, but she was worried her palms would sweat too much. Because kids with CF have a problem with sweaty palms. And I gave her advice about getting around that issue. And then we discussed changing some meds around so she’d be more motivated to take them and would be strong enough to go to a dance.”

“You describe someone happy.”

“Yes, but that’s what I remember. What if I forgot something I said that really affected her? Teens think differently.”

“Maybe she killed herself because her parents were getting divorced? They were happy to have you as someone to blame!”

“You think I was a scapegoat? Doubt it. They loved her.”

“People do evil things.” She sighed. “Well, you really tried to get her better, and you were only a resident.”

“There’s no excuse. I had a patient and I took on a responsibility. I should’ve sent her to get help. I should’ve realized that day how depressed she was. That’s what a physician does.”

“So, did the hospital blame you?”

“Not really. There was an investigation. Her parents couldn’t possibly prove that this was the hospital’s fault, so they couldn’t bring a case against anyone.” I stifled a sob. “I had to give a statement to the Education Committee and the Peer Review Committee. And they wrote in my file that I had ‘questionable clinical judgment.’ Because I did. I shouldn’t have missed this.”

Pauline covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Maya, this is horrible. Is this why you went to Guatemala?”

“Yes, I found a leaflet in a pub in the East Village for the Mission. I told my Residency Director I wanted to do a Global Health track for six months and he’d better let me go. I think he was happy to send me away. He never even verified that the Mission was a real place of work.”

“And are you ready to go back? What does this probation mean?”

I swallowed my pride. “I don’t know what it means. I was supposed to be back a month ago. That’s why they’re placing me on probation. I’ll have to do all this extra work, I guess. I really don’t know if I want to. There seems to be no point.”

“So you left and never wished for going back? Poor Maya.” She stroked my hand. “But this wasn’t your fault, right?”

“Yes, it was. It’s always my fault.”

“What do you mean ‘always’? Was this not the first time?”

“No,” I said. I wasn’t about to tell her about Ella. No one could ever know about Ella. It was my burden and mine alone. “I just mean that the residents always get blamed. And you understand? I really couldn’t go back to the hospital, facing the other residents and my supervisors, day after day, knowing that I let that girl die.”

“But you didn’t! This was just a mistake. Look, I don’t know what it is to be a doctor, but don’t they prepare you for this at medical school? You must learn that some of your patients will die, no? And this was not because you gave her wrong medicine. She was simply sick in her head; she was too sad!”

“Pauline, they teach you how to handle it if you make a medical mistake, but not this kind of mistake. I never learned what to do if it was my fault that my patient died and she wasn’t sick enough to die.”

“You’re talking to a queen of making mistakes, Maya. You deal with your mistakes by learning from them and trying to do better next time, that’s all.”

“My lessons were not good from this.” I looked away.

“Well, one day I think you will feel different about this.”

“I hope so.”

Back at my friend’s apartment later that evening, I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the soft pillow, soothed by the sounds coming from the TV. When I woke up a few hours later, it was dark and quiet except for the sound of my sobbing. I was covered in sweat. Hot tears were streaming down my face, burning my skin, and I felt enormous grief squeezing my chest. But it wasn’t for Hailey Reed, my patient with CF, or for Ella. I was crying for someone named Sarah. Thoughts were racing in my head about her being abused by her husband. The pain for Sarah was sharp and real. I remembered seeing her in an old-fashioned hospital room, bruised and depressed, telling me a story about her husband beating her. I wanted to protect her, but I couldn’t think of a way to do it.

I’ve never met anyone named Sarah.

What was happening to me?