Once More With Feeling (8 page)

A face appeared where ceiling tile had been.
The face was pale brown and unlined, with arching eyebrows and a
spectacular smile. The whole picture was framed in shoulder-length
dreadlocks. "I'm going to call your doctor now. Dr. James Roney is
treating you. You'll like old Jimbo well enough. I ever get in an
accident, I'd want him making all the decisions. Course, I couldn't
afford Jimbo myself. Uh-uh. I'd probably get some intern who'd
never seen blood before."

Elisabeth was reluctant to let go of Perry's
hand. It was a connection to a world she still didn't comprehend.
It was an anchor.

Perry seemed to understand. "You ought to
see all the flowers people have sent you. Couldn't keep them in
here. Too many machines, so we've been taking them around to people
who didn't have anything to look at themselves. Kept all the cards,
though, so you could see those when you came to. They'll keep you
busy for a while."

Elisabeth wanted to respond. She opened her
mouth, but the same restrictions existed.

"No, you can't talk yet," Perry said.
"They've got you hooked up to stuff that looks like it could blast
you straight to the moon if that's where they wanted to send you.
You've got tubes going everywhere, and some of them are strapped
across your face. But all this junk's kept you alive, and now
you're awake. Before long they'll wean you off of it, machine by
machine. Meantime, you just lie there and let us fuss over you.
Understand?"

Elisabeth squeezed once.

"Good girl." Perry withdrew her hand. "And
now I've got to get somebody to call Jimbo. But I'll be back."

Footsteps pattered across the floor, then
the sound disappeared and Elisabeth was left alone with a driving
beat and a face still wet with tears.

Classic rock blasted from the radio the next
time she drifted out of the clouds. Someone insisted over and over
that they weren't getting any satisfaction. She had an instant
impression of a dingy Manhattan apartment and a man with long dark
hair dancing across a worn linoleum floor, his arms
outstretched.Owen.

"My guess is that she'll be waking up on and
off for a couple more days, just for a brief period each time.
Then, she'll become more and more lucid. Eventually, she'll be back
in the land of the living."

It was a man's voice, not Owen's. This man
was soft-spoken, almost lyrical in the way he stroked and lingered
over words. Elisabeth had to strain to hear him clearly because the
music on the radio was so loud.

Another man spoke. His voice was
high-pitched and anxious. "You're sure about that?"

"I'm never sure about the human brain."

"But you think she's on her way back?"

"She is, and with luck there won't be too
much damage."

"Damage. Sheesh! Give it to me straight,
Roney. What kind of damage are we talking about here?"

"That's not a question I can answer with any
certainty."

"Look, give me some idea. What could we be
facing?"

"Anything from minor headaches to paralysis.
But more likely we can expect something in between. Memory loss
that may or may not abate. Disorientation. Some problems with
speech or hearing, perhaps. I've seen patients with similar
injuries who've forgotten the simplest things, like how to chew and
swallow or blink their eyes. Some of them never get any better.
Others head right back to work after a little physical therapy, and
there are no residual effects."

"And you think Gypsy might be one of
those?"

"I wish I could say."

The voices trailed off, but Elisabeth fought
to make sure that her thoughts didn't. Horror had filled her as the
men discussed her prognosis. She had imagined herself paralyzed for
life, her memory destroyed, the most natural and normal reactions
beyond her abilities. The doctor hadn't sounded particularly
hopeful.

But the two men hadn't been talking about
her. They had been talking about someone named Gypsy.

The name tugged at her. She knew her own
name. And she remembered Owen and Grant. But so much was unclear.
How had she gotten here? And how long had she been like this? She
knew there were people around, but no one seemed familiar. She knew
there had been a nurse named Perry, then another who hadn't
bothered to introduce herself. Now there was a doctor, too, but he
was discussing another case with yet another man whose voice was
unfamiliar.

Who was Gypsy? And where was Owen? The last
question seemed the more important of the two. She was lying in a
hospital somewhere, and neither her husband nor son was here with
her.

Her cheeks were wet again. This time she
understood why.

"Well, I was just about to call Perry a
liar."

A man smiled down at her, replacing the
bleak view of ceiling tile. The smile was soothing, the smile of a
father for his favorite recalcitrant toddler. The face was plain,
with nothing to particularly recommend it except kind gray
eyes.

"I'm Dr. Roney."

Elisabeth felt her hand being lifted and
held warmly in his.

"Where's . . . Owen?" The voice that emerged
was huskier and lower in pitch than what she'd expected. At first
she was confused, than she realized her throat had probably been
damaged.

He bent closer. "Don't worry. You probably
don't owe a thing. I'll bet you've got a Cadillac of an insurance
policy. You're in great hands here, and the only thing you have to
do is recover."

She tried again. "Where--"

"You're in a private room. You were in an
accident about three weeks ago."

"Three. . ."

"You've been in and out of a coma. It's the
body's way of gearing down all unnecessary systems for a while to
speed recovery. Let's just say you've been hibernating."

"Let's . . . not."

He laughed. "You've retained a sense of
humor. That's a very good sign."

Elisabeth wanted to close her eyes and
forget this man and conversation, but she was afraid if she did,
she would be lost in the clouds again. "I want. . . I want to
see--"

"No visitors yet." He shook his graying
head. "Not for a while. Look, I'll be honest. You've just come
through a really tough time. My guess is that you're going to make
a great recovery. But we might very well delay it if we move too
fast. This conversation is all the stimulation you need today."

"When?"

"Soon, I promise. But let me decide. That's
what I'm paid to do."

She didn't have the strength to argue with
him, but she'd never heard of medical treatment that excluded
family so completely. Didn't love and encouragement speed the
healing process?

He squeezed her hand. "Do you have any more
questions? Is there anything I can tell you before we let you rest
again?"

"Owen. . ."

"Now, I told you not to worry about that.
I'm sure you have all the insurance coverage you need."

"Go . . . away."

He laughed, squeezed her hand again, then
dropped it. His face disappeared from view and she was left staring
at tile again.

She wondered where Owen was at this moment.
Was he sitting outside the hospital room with Grant, waiting for
word on her condition while Jimbo Roney made bad jokes about his
name? He had been with her the night that Grant was born, and he
had refused--absolutely refused in a hospital that didn't want
fathers in the delivery room--to leave. He had held her hand,
skirted angry nurses, and tolerated an obstetrician who had
lectured him on hospital policy throughout the entire delivery. All
because he loved her.

Where was Owen now? She couldn't believe he
had let Dr. James Roney keep him away.

Perhaps Owen had better things to do with
his time.

Elisabeth had grown accustomed to her own
tears. She supposed some tears were in order now that she was lying
immobilized in a hospital bed and her husband was nowhere in sight.
She wondered if Anna Jacquard was comforting him. Or perhaps the
reality was even worse. Perhaps he and Anna were sitting outside
this room together, waiting to hear about their future. She
couldn't make herself believe that Owen wished her dead. But she
wondered exactly how sad he would have been if she had died in the
accident. A wife recovering from a near fatal car crash was a tough
wife to divorce, and Owen had a reputation to protect.

Car crash.

For a moment her thoughts squealed like the
sounds of two sets of brakes and collided like a limo and a
Mercedes bent on total destruction.

She had been in a car crash. A hideous,
head-on car crash. and the driver of the other vehicle had been
none other than Gypsy Dugan.

She moaned. The accident was suddenly clear
to her. She had been speeding. There had been no opportunity to
steer clear of the limo because she had been going too fast. At the
last possible moment she had thrown up her arms to protect her
face. She had blacked out when the steering wheel slammed against
her chest.

She had heard two men talking about Gypsy,
and now she knew why. So Gypsy was still alive, but her prognosis
was unclear. Elisabeth had nearly killed her. And if Gypsy didn't
recover. . .

"Oh, God . . ."

There was no comforting response from anyone
in the room. She was alone.

And what about her own injuries? Elisabeth
could recall the moment of impact and the terrible, crushing pain.
She was still in pain, but she hadn't asked the doctor what
injuries she had suffered. She had asked about Owen. That seemed
remarkably foolish now.

"Perry . . ."

There was no answer. If Perry was on duty
she had probably gone out into the hall with the doctor, and
Elisabeth was alone with her fears.

She had to know how badly she'd been
injured. She tried to focus on her own pain. What hurt, and how
badly? Her head throbbed unmercifully, but she ignored that. She
already knew her head had been injured, probably from contact with
the windshield.

She stared at her feet and tried to pinpoint
the worst of the pain. One hip--she couldn't remember what to call
that side of her body--felt as if it were aimed in an entirely new
direction. The leg below it felt as if it had been wrenched from
the socket, then jammed in place backwards. She tried to wiggle her
foot and found she couldn't.

She told herself not to panic. The foot was
still there. It had to be. She forced herself to concentrate on the
rest of her body. A shoulder and an elbow hurt, and so did her
neck. She had the oddest feeling that someone had been using her
abdomen as a trampoline, and her chest for target practice.
Everything felt different, as if the body was a stranger's, but she
had been too protected and too careful as a child to have a frame
of reference.

She had to see for herself. That was only
one way to quiet her own fears. Perry had said she was hooked up to
machines, but how many? Was she still dependent on technology to
keep her alive?

She turned her head, one slow inch at a
time. Light washed over her in waves, but she didn't black out. She
was perspiring by the time she turned her head toward the door. She
couldn't see all of the room now, but she could see enough to know
it was small and colorless. The door was shut, but it had a large
window that looked out on a hallway. There was one fluorescent bulb
above a sink and mirror. She couldn't see anything else.

She hadn't passed out. She had moved her
head, and she was still conscious. Slowly, carefully, she turned
back to her original position, and when she was finished she was
staring at the ceiling again.

She had passed the first test, and there was
no one to stop her from attempting the second. There were tubes in
her arms, but no restraints bound her to the bed rails. She moved
each arm carefully, and pain streaked to her fingertips. Undaunted,
she flattened her palms against the mattress. One hand was wrapped
in gauze, but her fingers weren't restrained. She arched that hand
and dug in with her fingertips. Her other hand flattened and
pushed. She lifted slowly. She wasn't foolish enough to think she
could sit up. All she wanted was enough height to be able to see
her feet.

She pushed harder and perspiration dripped
into her eyes. She was higher now, but tiring quickly. One look.
She needed one look, then she could collapse back to the bed and
process what she'd seen.

She gathered all her strength and pushed
herself higher. The room was warm, and she wasn't covered by a
sheet. Her gaze traveled down her legs. There were two feet at the
end of the bed, and one was in a cast, suspended on something that
looked like a complicated rope and pulley.

Strength gone, she fell back to the mattress
and let relief fill her. She was still in one piece, although
obviously that piece was now the worse for wear. But she was alive
and on the mend. She was going to survive this.

She lay quietly and thought about the body
she'd just seen. She had lost weight, but she didn't look as bad as
she'd feared. Her hips were definitely narrower, and her breasts
were smaller. She lifted her head a little and peered down at them.
Yes, smaller, but perhaps that was only because she was lying down.
They made small but impressive mounds under the plain hospital
gown.

Her legs seemed longer.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember
her legs. Her eyes had traveled farther than she'd expected in
order to find her feet. But she was not in the best condition to
make accurate judgments. Her feet had seemed very far away, but for
the last three weeks, she hadn't even remembered she had a body.
What could she expect?

Her legs seemed longer.

The thought nagged at her, despite her
attempts to put it in a proper perspective. And her breasts seemed
smaller and firmer. She had been a vegetable since the accident,
and surely that had made changes in her physical condition. But the
worst accident couldn't replace short, sturdy legs with a chorus
girl's. And weight loss under these conditions didn't firm and tone
a body.