Fugue State (6 page)

Yet, she couldn’t help but indulge them both a little while longer. “I knew I wanted to be your wife the weekend we stayed at your parents’ cabin. That Saturday morning we spent filling out a crossword puzzle together on the porch. We were wrapped up in blankets and immersed in our espresso. It was so perfect, sitting there next to you, watching the mist rise from the valley. I figured if that was the most exciting thing that ever happened in my life, I would be perfectly content.” Her words trailed off. The magic of those moments had slipped away, exposing their harsh reality, and Alexa scolded herself for her indulgence.

“Are you content now, Alexa?” he pressed.

She instantly regretted her choice of words. “I’m fine, Britt,” she lied again. The truth had become too much to bear.

“And the nightmares?” he continued.

“I’m getting used to them.” She was a terrible liar.

“I’ve been thinking about this, and I want you to try something, doll. I think it will help you get over the nightmares.”

Her free hand grasped a stray lock of hair that she spun into a knot. She didn’t want him to help her with this. She didn’t want him to enter this world of pain, yet he continued.

“The next time you wake up, I want you to relive that nightmare, step by step. Only this time, I want you to change the details. Create your own ending. Make each nightmare end so that
you
win. Imagine yourself stronger than him, faster than him, smarter than him. Imagine that he is weak; imagine that he is afraid of you. Know that he can’t hurt you anymore, Alexa.
You won
. Don’t forget that.”

Holding the receiver, rocking back and forth, with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she feared she resembled one of the psychiatric patients from the third floor of the hospital where she used to work. She’d acknowledged more than once that she might benefit from being committed.
Perhaps after the trial
, she thought.

She reached for another blonde lock to defile. She let Britt’s words permeate her brain, one neuron at a time.
Damn, he’s smart
. She wanted to tell him how smart he was and how much she respected him; how much she loved him and missed him. She missed his touch, his kiss. She missed the sex. She couldn’t remember their last intimate moment, and she’d give her right arm to have one more night with him. Instead, she thanked him solemnly.

“You’ll make a great politician.”
I only hope I haven’t ruined your chance in politics.

“Promise, Lex, that you will think about our happier times together before drifting off to sleep,” he begged.

“Of course, Britt.”

“Good night, Lex.”

“Good-bye, Britt.” She hung up the phone and repressed the finality of her closing words with a drawn out sigh.

She thought about the three weeks they spent together exploring Europe last year. Her thoughts settled on the little French café they visited in Paris for espresso at midnight. They had been arguing over something. Perhaps it was the time Britt had suggested they head off to the red light district in Amsterdam. Alexa had been appalled by the idea. She wasn’t sure Britt had any real interest, or if he was just trying to rile her up. He seemed to enjoy trying to aggravate her.

Their discussion was interrupted by the Norwegian accent of their waiter. Alexa figured they must have been the only Americans to venture to Paris and be greeted by a Danish waiter. Alexa found the waiter’s accent humorous, and the argument faded.

“I don’t know any Danish words.” She pointed to the small flame of the tea light on their table and asked, “What is the word for candlelight?”

The waiter replied, “
Levende lys.
”

Alexa repeated the words one syllable at a time. “
Levende lys.
” The lovely words sounded like a lullaby as they rolled off her tongue. She thought about them and stared into the little flame that sat in the middle of their table. The flame was a thing of beauty and power, yet it could be extinguished with a single breath. The perfect light shined bright and pure. Like a halo atop an angel’s head, she equated that intangible purity with goodness. Her mind caressed the beautiful words and tucked them away in her memory.

That night, she and Britt returned to their French chateau and made love by
levende lys
. In the morning, Britt proposed over breakfast in bed with espresso. Yes. She missed Britt Anderson.

Alexa wiped away tears of remembrance from each eye. And after taking the proper combination of sleep aids, she dozed off again around four o’clock in the morning. She slept for three hours without a nightmare.

Alexa told Britt about the assault before any of her other loved ones, and she let him break the news to her family. She waited four days to tell him; she waited until he returned from Malibu. For four days, she tried to develop a plan that never materialized. She was showering when he returned home. He walked into the bathroom and saw the stitches in her thigh. He saw the bruises on her abdomen and her cheek. His cheeks flushed with rage.

“Who did this to you? Who did it, Alexa? I’ll make him regret it.”

“Don’t worry, Britt. He regrets it.” Her body became weak with emotion and she grasped the shower door to stay upright. She took a deep breath as her eyes welled with tears. “I killed him,” she stammered, her mousy voice unfamiliar.

Deafening silence. She watched Britt’s face twist from anger to a look of disgust. She feared his opinion of her changed in that moment, and she’d lost him. She didn’t know how, but she knew that she’d failed him. Somehow, she hadn’t lived up to his expectations.

Over the next few days, her fears cemented. He drifted further and further away from her, or maybe it was the other way around. It was hard to tell. The distance crept between them. When the nightmares started, Britt became visibly disturbed. Alexa thrashed the bed sheets. She woke screaming or crying or both. He seemed afraid to touch her; afraid of the killer he shared his bed with. In time, he stopped trying to console her.

CHAPTER 8

S
he woke to the sound of her alarm and prepared for court. Gold Christian Louboutin heels and a white fitted dress with a square neck, and a thick layer of concealer beneath her eyes. Still groggy from the sleep aids, she forgot to eat breakfast. She didn’t forget the coffee, though. She needed the caffeine to keep her eyes open.

Alexa met with Appleby at eight-thirty a.m. to discuss their plan.

“Good morning, Jacob.” She tried to sound polished and assertive. She hoped he had forgotten chastising her the day before.

“Alexa, you look tired. Try not to fall asleep in front of the jury today. It’s not very professional.”

She rolled her eyes to herself and nodded to him.
Deliriously tired, but not more so than usual.

“I’d like to keep you off the stand, but I need you to recite some lines today.”

Her stomach let out a half growl, half moan.

“Relax. I just need you to read your deposition to the jury.” Appleby planned to strip her initial statement to Detective Marcum from the record, as that seemed to be the root of her self-incrimination, and replace it with the softer version she had given the prosecution early in the trial.

Alexa’s initial statement to Detective Marcum had been too harsh. Her version of the events seemed overly strategic. It didn’t sit well with the jury. Alexa had told Detective Marcum, “I aimed for his carotid and kept cutting until I saw arterial blood. When I knew he was dead, I rolled him off of me.” But Appleby’s version of her statement was the more sympathetic damsel in distress role. Alexa nodded. “Sure. I’ll do whatever you need.”

She walked into a flurry in the courtroom, with people scooting past one another trying to find their seats. The jury shuffled in. Alexa eyed the jury of her peers, skewed with minorities more so than the standard Austin population, and wondered if the decks were stacked against her.

“The court is now in session.” The gavel banged, and the judge sat.

Surprisingly, Appleby began with his first witness. He called Dr. Phil Holston to the stand. Alexa’s forehead rumpled in confusion. The name of the ER doctor wasn’t immediately familiar to her. Dr. Holston testified to his name and his position, and that Alexa DeBrow was his patient the night of the incident. Appleby gave Dr. Holston Alexa’s medical records from her hospital admission for him to read to the court.

“The patient, a thirty-two-year-old female, was attacked earlier tonight. Her attacker cut her left thigh, resulting in a seven-centimeter superficial laceration. She suffered small lacerations to her head/scalp posteriorly, with a large scalp hematoma, and there is concern for intracranial bleed. Patient has suffered a concussion and is disoriented to date. She also had difficulty with her contact information, including her phone number and zip code. Bruises to abdomen noted, without peritoneal signs. Assessment and plan: Head CT with neurology consult. Stitches for the thigh and scalp lacerations.”

Appleby looked satisfied. “Thank you, Dr. Holston. That is all.” Appleby now addressed the courtroom. “I ask the court, how can a woman who suffered a concussion, disoriented to most basic information, give an accurate account of the night’s events to the police officers and detective who questioned her? She couldn’t even remember her phone number. How can we expect her to have functioned in the capacity of tending her attacker’s wounds? Due to the injuries she sustained, Dr. Alexa DeBrow functioned in a diminished capacity and lacked the ability to adhere to the typical medical standard of care.”

Alexa watched one of the jurors’ heads nod in agreement.

“I ask that my client’s initial statement to police be stricken from the court’s record, and that we rely solely on her deposition for all details of the assault.”

Appleby had trained Alexa well prior to her giving her deposition to the prosecution. He knew which questions would be pertinent, and she had been prepared for everything the defense might ask. In fact, the majority of her answers were rehearsed lines given to her by Appleby. She hoped the court would accept Appleby’s request. If so, she didn’t think the prosecution would be able continue ranting about how the lady with the concussion should have saved her attacker.

“Miss DeBrow, please rise and read the lines from the court records and your deposition, highlighted for you in yellow.”

Alexa stood and cleared her throat, then read aloud. “I stabbed at the neck of my attacker because it was right in front of me. The knife was stuck, and I tried to get it out, but I couldn’t pull it straight out; I pulled it to the side. When the knife finally came free, there was blood everywhere. I was so scared. I was crying. I couldn’t get away from the blood. I couldn’t get him off of me. He was so heavy, and I was exhausted.”

Her voice rang loud and clear, with just the right mousy undertone to sound vulnerable. Finally, she was someone the jury could sympathize with. Alexa considered this edited statement a “Hollywood version” of what really happened. The facts were the same, only the words were rearranged. Appleby had contrived a persona that was novice and naïve. Now he requested to replace one statement with the other. The judge called for a short recess to consider Appleby’s appeal. It seemed promising.

She followed Appleby out of the courtroom during the recess, and her stomach groaned of emptiness. She had just stepped into the hallway when the room began turning dark, and sound faded away. Her body hit the floor hard.

She regained consciousness slowly. Her head throbbed as reality seeped back painfully. Alexa opened her eyes and was surprised to see Dale Anderson, Britt’s father, kneeling beside her.

“Mr. Anderson! I didn’t even know you were here . . . at the trial.” She was too perplexed to move from her place on the linoleum.

He propped up her head. “I just wanted to make sure things were going okay. I was thinking of you the other day . . . and I find you like this — on the floor. You’re not well, Alexa.” He shook his head and frowned as if scolding her.

Appleby caught her eye. He made his way toward her cutting through the crowd. His scowl showed dismay. With Dale’s help, Alexa scrambled to a bench nearly.

“I’m fine, Jacob,” she said defensively as Appleby approached them. “I forgot breakfast, that’s all.”

Appleby nodded. “I’ll get you something. I need you on your feet.” He muttered to himself again when he left her with Britt’s father.

“We’ve missed you,” Mr. Anderson started. His worried eyes scanned her face.

Alexa smiled. He had always been a fan of hers. “Thanks, Dale. I’ve missed you — and Britt.” Her lip quivered. She bit down hard to keep it still. She didn’t have the strength to convey emotion.

“It’s not too late for the two of you, you know. I know you kids still love each other. Your trial is almost over. I must confess, Alexa, this old man is hoping that you kids will reconcile.” His warm, comforting words were too much of a fantasy for her to succumb to.

“Yes. I think we still love each other. But so much has changed. We were the perfect match. . .” Her words drifted off. She didn’t know how to say it. Britt fell in love with the beautiful, successful, put-together and flawless Alexa DeBrow. She was the Golden Girl, a nickname her classmates had given her as a symbol of perfection. And Britt deserved that perfection, someone who could complement his many attributes. Now that she had fallen from her pedestal, she no longer deserved him. Besides, he could never see her as he once did. She knew that. Britt knew that. His father had to realize it, as well.

He looked in her eyes as though he were trying to look into her soul and raised an eyebrow. “It’s a damn shame, Alexa.”

She forced another meager smile. “You don’t have to worry about Britt, Dale. He has a bright future ahead of him.”
Without me weighing him down.
“You don’t have to worry about
me,
either.” She feigned confidence.

“I just picked you up off the floor, Alexa. I have
every
reason in the world to worry about you.”