Once More With Feeling (11 page)

And she was powerless to change any of
it.

There was no one else in the room. Now that
she seemed to be recovering, Perry stayed an eight-hour shift
during the daytime, supervising therapy and coordinating treatment.
But there was no full-time nurse with her at night anymore. Staff
checked on her frequently, but they seemed satisfied that she could
manage the call button if she needed anything.

She needed to know why she couldn't shake
off this fantasy world. She was a married woman with a son and an
outwardly enviable life. But no one from that enviable life seemed
to care that she was lying in a hospital bed immersed in the world
of one Gypsy Dugan.

"Pssst. . . ."

The light was so dim that she could only
make out a shadowy figure slipping in through a narrowly cracked
door. She was in no mood for another confrontation about her
identity.

The figure moved closer. "Are you awake?"
The voice was high-pitched but masculine.

She considered pretending she was
unconscious again. Under the circumstances, who would argue? But as
the man moved closer, curiosity made her turn her head to see him
better. "Who's there?"

"It's Des. Desmond Weber."

The name meant nothing to her. "It's a
little late. . . for visitors."

"They've refused to let me see you. I had to
sneak in. Don't blow the whistle, okay?"

"Why'd they refuse?"

"They've got you under lock and key. Old
Roney's afraid you'll have a setback if things move too fast. I
told him that's the only way you'd want them to move, but he
doesn't listen to me. Asshole doctors."

"You don't look dangerous."

He leaned over her bed and grinned. Because
of the darkness his face was a blur, but she got the impression of
wooly hair, middle age, and deep worry lines. "How are you
doing?"

"That depends on who you think . . . I
am."

The grin turned into something else. "What
do you mean by that?"

"I'm not Gypsy Dugan."

"Come on, Gypsy. This is Des you're talking
to. Do you think I don't know you better than anyone?"

"I think. . ." She licked her lips. "That's
possible."

"Then where's Gypsy Dugan? Tell me that,
huh?"

"Home in bed. Probably . . . with some
good-looking stud." Stud? Even the words that passed her lips were
words she'd never used.

Desmond laughed, and his relief was audible.
"Jeez, Gypsy, you had me going there. Listen, you'll be in bed with
a dozen studs soon enough. But you've got to get better fast. Our
ratings are going down without you."

"Ratings?"

"Yeah, Nan just doesn't have what it takes
to keep the show at fever pitch. I've got Tito on my ass. He's
talking a complete change of personnel. You don't get out of here
pronto, you might not have a show to come back to."

"I can see . . . why they kept you out of
here."

"Gypsy." He took her hand. His fingers were
stubby but warm. "Gypsy, you're breaking my heart. Nobody loves you
like I do. Nobody wants better for you. But the show's going down
the tubes, and that's no pun."

"Tell you what. Send me a . . . faith
healer. It would be a great story. And it might . . . just work.
Double your investment."

"Okay, I get it. You don't give a damn. That
knock on the head rattled your brain and you just don't give a damn
whether you're rich and famous anymore."

She closed her eyes, but she knew he was
still there. She opened them, she closed them, it didn't matter.
She had an awful feeling that nothing would make Desmond Weber or
this ongoing dream go away. "Desmond, tell me about . . . Elisabeth
Whitfield."

"Why the hell do you care?"

"Humor me."

"She's just some society broad you creamed
with the limo. What in the hell were you doing driving the limo,
anyway? You leave your bodyguard in the middle of some sidewalk,
jump in the limo and drive off into the sunset, and for what? So
you can end up in the hospital with your brain scrambled?"

"Bodyguard?"

"You don't remember that part? Is this
selective memory or something? Your bodyguard had a seizure. He's a
diabetic. It was an insulin reaction or something. But I'm betting
you thought it was some sort of conspiracy and took off because you
were scared. And that's when you hit this Whitfield woman."

"Do you know . . . how she is?"

He gave a rough sigh. "Don't ask what you
don't want to know."

"Tell me."

Her urgency must have communicated. He
sighed again. "Not good. But nobody blames it on you. Another car
pulled out illegally. You were trying to avoid it when you hit her.
Both of you were going too fast. Nobody's going to be charged."

"What do you mean. . . not good?"

"They don't know if Whitfield'll make it.
Didn't know if you would either, for that matter. For a while . .
." His voice trailed off.

"For a while what?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters."

He shrugged. "For a while you were dead.
They called it in the E.R. Then the next thing anybody knew, you
were breathing on your own again and your heart was pumping away.
They're calling it a miracle. We did a show with one of the
technicians who was in the room. Doctors and nurses won't talk
about it on camera." He brightened. "It was a good show. We used
clips of you over the years, had a couple of charlatans come in and
talk about life after death. You don't remember anything we could
use for an update, do you? White lights or wind tunnels? Old
boyfriends coming to greet you? It might boost ratings enough to
keep us in the running while you're recovering. . .if you don't
take too long."

"What if I told you . . . I am Elisabeth
Whitfield."

He appeared to seriously consider her words.
Then he shook his head.

"Sorry, it's a great story, but even the
folks who watch the show religiously wouldn't buy it. You look like
Gypsy. You sound like Gypsy. And when we've got you under the
lights again, you're going to photograph like Gypsy. So you'd
better come up with something more believable." He squeezed her
hand. "Work on it, would you? I'm counting on you."

"So, do we know who we are tonight?" Dr.
Roney looked Elisabeth straight in the eye. He never flipped
through her chart when he spoke to her, as if direct eye contact
with him could perform miracles.

"We certainly do. At least I do. You'll have
to speak for yourself."

He laughed. Elisabeth suspected that every
good-natured chuckle was going to appear on her fantasy bill. "Why
don't you tell me who both of us are."

"You are Dr. James Roney. And for the
purposes of this dream, I am Gypsy Dugan."

"So you still think you're dreaming."

Elisabeth was tired of discussing her
identity with Jimbo Roney. Weeks had gone by since the day when
Perry had told him that their prize patient believed herself to be
Elisabeth Whitfield. Since then Jimbo had made increasingly
frequent visits to her bedside. She suspected he was writing up her
case for some esoteric medical journal.

"I am Gypsy Dugan," she said, to
short-circuit the conversation. "Born and bred. But I still feel
like I'm living in a dream because so much is unclear."

"Good, Gypsy. Excellent. A sense of
unreality is just one of the side effects we expected after
everything you've been through."

She batted her eyelashes in her best
imitation of the real Gypsy Dugan. "Now, will you tell me how that
poor Elisabeth creature is doing?"

His smile changed to something more
suspicious. "You need to divorce yourself from Elisabeth Whitfield.
It's not healthy for you to obsess about her."

By now Elisabeth knew exactly what to say.
Jimbo and his staff were training her well. "It's not unhealthy to
wonder how a woman I hit in a car accident is doing. I don't want
her death on my conscience."

"Her condition hasn't changed."

Elisabeth had decided that Jimbo was the
part of her that was in contact with reality. When he gave reports
on Elisabeth's condition, she knew she was hearing the truth about
herself. "Isn't anything being done to help her?"

"Everything humanly possible."

"But she's not responding?"

"No."

"Please, you're not going to take her off
life support, are you?"

He seemed to be considering his answer
carefully. Then he sighed. "There's still brain activity. And as
long as there is, her husband won't even consider it."

"Good for Owen."

Dr. Roney frowned. "You know Mr.
Whitfield?"

She hedged. "He's well-known. I've heard his
name mentioned."

"Concern is appropriate. But stay away from
the Whitfields, Gypsy. Your recovery is far from complete, and the
mind is a tricky thing."

"I'll say," she uttered with complete
sincerity.

"I understand the cast comes off today?"

"So they tell me."

"You'll need therapy for weeks yet, but I
don't see any reason it has to be done as an inpatient. You'll have
to promise to keep up with whatever regimen we assign, and you'll
need help at home for a while. I've spoken to Perry, and she's
willing to live in with you. What would you think about getting out
of this place by the end of the week if things continue to go
well?"

Getting out of the hospital. For a moment
the news seemed too good to be true. Could this mean that she was
leaving the persona of Gypsy behind? Or could it mean she was
dying? That the part of her that still functioned and
communicated--even though it was trapped in another body and
life--was about to abandon ship?

"Are you frightened to go home?" he asked
when she didn't respond.

"I suppose it's the only way I'll find out .
. ."

"You'll make it, Gypsy, I promise. I
wouldn't let you out of here if there was any real doubt. You'll be
confused for a while, and we both know there are some serious gaps
in your memory."

"Chasms."

He smiled his most patronizing smile.
"Plunging you back into your normal environment, as long as you
don't overdo, will facilitate the quickest recovery. I'll continue
to see you several times a week, and Perry will map out your days
and monitor your progress. If there are any problems, we can have
you back here in a flash."

If James Roney was her mind's objective
reporter, then Elisabeth had to trust him. Perhaps plunging her
back into her normal environment was psychic code for plunging her
back into reality. Perhaps when Gypsy left the hospital, she would
also leave Elisabeth's mind for good. Elisabeth would wake from her
coma and voilà.

She could have her real life back.

"I'm ready," she said. "More than
ready."

He lifted and squeezed her hand. "Good girl.
And to celebrate, I'm lifting all restrictions on visitors. We'll
have them stop by the nurses' desk first to announce themselves,
but if you're feeling well enough to see them, you may."

He continued to hold her hand. His
expression changed marginally. "You've been through a lot, Gypsy.
But in some ways it hasn't changed you."

"Hasn't it?"

"You're still the most attractive woman I've
ever seen."

Gypsy, Elisabeth, or any female over the age
of four would have recognized the gleam in Jimbo's eyes. For a few
more hours her foot remained in a cast. She'd been told her face
was still bruised. Her brain was the equivalent of a poorly turned
omelet. But Jimbo was making a pass at her.

The old Elisabeth would have put him in his
place tactfully. This fantasy Gypsy--and didn't she deserve to have
some fun?--batted her eyelashes again. "I don't know how I would
have gotten through these weeks without your help. You're obviously
a brilliant doctor to have brought me so far."

He preened, changing from father figure to
gallant lover before her eyes. "I'm just doing my job."

"I'll bet some of your cases are absolutely
fascinating. Television stories in their own right."

"Now you wouldn't be trying to get me on
that show of yours, would you?"

"I just might." She smiled, remembering in
detail the way that Gypsy Dugan could dimple on cue.

He dropped her hand, but with obvious
reluctance. "I'll be back to see you tomorrow morning."

"I'll look forward to your visit."

He turned, as light on his feet as a man
half his age.

A man half his age lolled in the doorway.
Dr. Roney drew himself up to his full height as Casey pushed away
from the doorframe. "Don't let her get to you, Doc. She'll seduce
anything in reach."

"I think you have the wrong idea."

"Sorry, but I think you do. Miss Dugan, has
the peculiar notion that she can twist any man she meets around her
little finger."

Elisabeth expected to blush. She couldn't.
Apparently blushing in dreams was impossible. She slipped easily
into Gypsy's voice and words. "Lay off, Casey. Dr. Roney brought me
good news. I can have visitors if I want them. Did you register at
the desk so I'd have a choice?"

"I've always been on your approved list,
Gyps."

"I can't imagine why."

"Don't tire her," Dr. Roney said. "She's
still a long way from a complete recovery."

"God help us all when she's cruising along
at full speed again."

"That's a pretty crass metaphor for someone
who's getting over a car accident, Casey. Even for you." Elisabeth
pushed herself a little farther upright. In reality she was
delighted to see Casey. Like Perry he was a stabilizing influence
to days that seemed unending and nights that were worse. Time had
no real meaning for her. She discounted everything that happened as
part of her dream life, and if she was dreaming, there were no
waking or sleeping hours. But the short periods she spent with
Casey seemed real to her. Although that was absurd, their
conversations were a welcome break.