away with a meager settlement.
This isn’t the United States; this is Paris . The lawyers don’t act as such vultures in France. That’s an American thing . Her eyes made a final search for a hero in the audience before starting basic life support.
She pounded his back to try to clear some excess water from his lungs, and then she flipped him supine. She laid two fingers on the man’s carotid artery and felt for a pulse. Maybe. No. Nothing. She placed one palm on top of the other on his chest and began heavy, rhythmic chest compressions at the standard rate. She knew CPR to two rhythms: “Staying Alive,” by the Bee Gees , and “Another One Bites the Dust,” by Queen. Her BLS instructor had mentioned that everyone held superstitions as to whether the song that was chosen could influence the outcome of the CPR attempt. She upheld the superstition and chose the Bee Gees .
She felt a snap once, twice as she compressed the man’s chest. She winced as his ribs cracked under the force.
She looked down at the man’s gaping mouth, full of stained yellow teeth and amalgam fillings and considered mouth-to-mouth. No. Not yet . She closed her eyes and continued with compressions, humming the beat to herself. When she reopened her eyes, she saw his blue tinged lips and had no choice but to proceed with a couple of rescue breaths. She pinched his nose, tilted his head back, and covered his mouth with hers. She exhaled two long deep breaths into the man’s mouth and felt his chest rise. A small amount of residual river water seeped into her open mouth, and she could still smell the cigar when the air poured out of his lungs.
After a second breath, she felt for a pulse. Nothing definite. Come on! Dammit! She continued with compressions, but started to fatigue. Another rib snapped. He’s dead, Alexa , a sour voice crept in from her subconscious. She cranked up the volume of the song lyrics playing in her head to drown out the voice. Press harder. Your hands are becoming limp .
In the distance, a siren rang out. It grew louder. Alexa continued compressions until the emergency medical technicians pushed her aside.
“I broke some ribs,” she stated, and walked away. She spoke English and doubted they understood her. As she broke through the crowds, she overheard one of the medical aides.
“ Je sens un battement de coeur. ”
They feel a heartbeat! Relief swept over her as she let out a meager laugh. Perhaps saving this life can make up for one I took.
A police officer came forward and questioned her briefly about the accident. It wasn’t a very official investigation. He spoke to her mostly in English. He asked if she was American and if she had lost her passport and identification, and directed her to the American Embassy where she could get assistance. He handed her a piece of paper that would serve as documentation that her identification was lost in an accident. Then the officer left her.
A second man approached Alexa. She thought he was another cab driver. Perhaps a friend or colleague of the man she saved. He didn’t seem that interested in the other cabbie, however, and he didn’t look French. Czech, maybe?
“I saw it,” the man said in broken English. “You save him. You did good. You American?” She nodded. “American with money, no?” She froze in the awkward moment. “You lose your things?” The man motioned to the water where the car sank.
“Yes. I lost my passport, my wallet, even my phone.”
“You go to Embassy now?”
She nodded again.
“You have money. I have friend, cousin. Can get you passport easy. Fast.” He managed a dull finger snap that sounded like a thud. “Not like Embassy. You can be — anyone you want.” He made a motion with both hands to convey infinite possibilities. “His card.” The man handed Alexa a piece of paper the size of a business card with hand written information on it. An address and a name. That was all.
Alexa accepted it. The man nodded and smiled.
This isn’t the United States; this is Paris . The lawyers don’t act as such vultures in France. That’s an American thing . Her eyes made a final search for a hero in the audience before starting basic life support.
She pounded his back to try to clear some excess water from his lungs, and then she flipped him supine. She laid two fingers on the man’s carotid artery and felt for a pulse. Maybe. No. Nothing. She placed one palm on top of the other on his chest and began heavy, rhythmic chest compressions at the standard rate. She knew CPR to two rhythms: “Staying Alive,” by the Bee Gees , and “Another One Bites the Dust,” by Queen. Her BLS instructor had mentioned that everyone held superstitions as to whether the song that was chosen could influence the outcome of the CPR attempt. She upheld the superstition and chose the Bee Gees .
She felt a snap once, twice as she compressed the man’s chest. She winced as his ribs cracked under the force.
She looked down at the man’s gaping mouth, full of stained yellow teeth and amalgam fillings and considered mouth-to-mouth. No. Not yet . She closed her eyes and continued with compressions, humming the beat to herself. When she reopened her eyes, she saw his blue tinged lips and had no choice but to proceed with a couple of rescue breaths. She pinched his nose, tilted his head back, and covered his mouth with hers. She exhaled two long deep breaths into the man’s mouth and felt his chest rise. A small amount of residual river water seeped into her open mouth, and she could still smell the cigar when the air poured out of his lungs.
After a second breath, she felt for a pulse. Nothing definite. Come on! Dammit! She continued with compressions, but started to fatigue. Another rib snapped. He’s dead, Alexa , a sour voice crept in from her subconscious. She cranked up the volume of the song lyrics playing in her head to drown out the voice. Press harder. Your hands are becoming limp .
In the distance, a siren rang out. It grew louder. Alexa continued compressions until the emergency medical technicians pushed her aside.
“I broke some ribs,” she stated, and walked away. She spoke English and doubted they understood her. As she broke through the crowds, she overheard one of the medical aides.
“ Je sens un battement de coeur. ”
They feel a heartbeat! Relief swept over her as she let out a meager laugh. Perhaps saving this life can make up for one I took.
A police officer came forward and questioned her briefly about the accident. It wasn’t a very official investigation. He spoke to her mostly in English. He asked if she was American and if she had lost her passport and identification, and directed her to the American Embassy where she could get assistance. He handed her a piece of paper that would serve as documentation that her identification was lost in an accident. Then the officer left her.
A second man approached Alexa. She thought he was another cab driver. Perhaps a friend or colleague of the man she saved. He didn’t seem that interested in the other cabbie, however, and he didn’t look French. Czech, maybe?
“I saw it,” the man said in broken English. “You save him. You did good. You American?” She nodded. “American with money, no?” She froze in the awkward moment. “You lose your things?” The man motioned to the water where the car sank.
“Yes. I lost my passport, my wallet, even my phone.”
“You go to Embassy now?”
She nodded again.
“You have money. I have friend, cousin. Can get you passport easy. Fast.” He managed a dull finger snap that sounded like a thud. “Not like Embassy. You can be — anyone you want.” He made a motion with both hands to convey infinite possibilities. “His card.” The man handed Alexa a piece of paper the size of a business card with hand written information on it. An address and a name. That was all.
Alexa accepted it. The man nodded and smiled.
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