je ne me rappelle pas

Bridgette strolled the cobblestone street, taking her time, listening. She was not of here. "But where is here?" Four words repeated in her head. Four words requiring an answer, but not at the expense of asking the question aloud.

She may not wish to hear the answer.

She did not enjoy walking in heels on the uneven surface. To do so required her to look less forward and more down. Passerbys must have thought her depressed, possibly heartbroken. Alone, dressed for the night, and carrying an umbrella not of her choice, Bridgette kept her pace. The narrow street bent toward the left, keeping her vision limited to (at most) thirty meters. The walls of shoppes of both sides still had the grace of ownership; the kind assigned to families with the intentions of investing their life and life savings. Where she was should be bustling, not dampened.

But still, with each step, what she heard from the residents did not sit well with her. Their hushed tones concealed the details of something. Something was amiss. Something didn't fit. Something she could not place her finger on. If there was a pulse in this town (village? city?), it was erratic and deliberately weak.

That word did not sit well with her. It alluded to an intent, a clear choice. Was it malice? Or worse? Another few steps, taken gingerly on the stones, she listened for additional clues to unwrap the enigma of what remained hidden, just out of her perception, almost out of phase with the normal cadence of life.

But to no avail. With each step, Bridgette believed she could be closing in on an answer that beset the residents. Why she thought so was as perplexing as her initial wonderings. She felt no pain, no effects from ill-treatment, no harm at all.

But Bridgette did feel ill-eased (is that even a word?). More intense than deja-vu and more ominous than an omen, she pondered turning back, hoping for an equitable opportunity to repeat her actions and eliminate that singular choice that led her to . . .

A petrichor!

That alluring smell after a brief rain. That intoxicating aroma cataloged with a special time or place or person when first encountering both simultaneously.

Bridgette serendipitously moved toward a small flower shoppe of little distinction other than its location adjacent to a gap in the buildings of the street. The wind wafted gently through the shoppe permitting the permeation of aromas to the senses of those in close proximity. Bridgette received the bouquet from the flowers and eagerly approached.

So did the man dressed as the doctor with just enough blood on his scrubs to ruin the moment.

"I remember it all now,'' she said. "We were never to meet again. Why are you here?"

It was all she could say. Bridgette saw the sullen look on the surgeon's face. Her eyes began to well up with the tears of those emotions he promised her she would never experience, if she agreed.

Bridgette agreed and then she was here.

The surgeon gave his word she would never have to leave and yet, here he was to bring her back.

"Just one more minute. Please!"

The townsfolk knew she would not stay. They would have greeted her upon her arrival if she had. Bridgette would have been happy here, wherever here was.

The surgeon did all he could to save her, declaring the time of death at 2:25am from malnutrition and severe hypothermia. He talked to her. She talked to him. She wanted to go. He told her she could, but reversed when her blood pressure increased. Without a DNR, he had to try again. Her last word, "Please!", he took out of context.

The patient, almost 80 by her expired driver's license, was almost certainly destitute, but not always so. The night proved too cold for such a frail woman to be homeless and die alone.