by John Locke
“Money’s no object, right?” I say, taking note of Nurse Sally’s clenched fists.
“That’s correct, doctor.”
Dublin Devereaux is different. Her attitude takes me by surprise.
“How long will this take?” she asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Luce said it could take six to eight hours. I’d like to be here when she comes out of surgery.”
“You’re going somewhere?”
She looks at her husband.
“Well, there’s not much we can do here, is there?”
“There’s not much I can do here either. Where are you going? Bridge club? Lawn party? Wine tasting? Maybe I’ll come with you.”
“ Excuse me?” Austin says.
“What Dr. Box means,” a voice behind me says, “your presence here isn’t necessary.”
I turn to see Rose Stout standing behind me. She looks radiant, full of life, and just as beautiful in scrubs as she was in street clothes yesterday.
Rose says, “It doesn’t matter where you folks are. What’s important is what’s happening in the OR. Dublin, you’re a new mother. You should take this opportunity to get some rest. Take your mind off the surgery. Leave the worrying to us. In four hours your baby will be the picture of health.”
“Glory hallelujah!” Nurse Sally says.
I look at Rose in disbelief. Did she just promise we’d save their child?
“You’re that certain she’ll pull through?” Austin says.
“You have my word,” Rose says. “Take it to the bank.”
Sally waves her hand above her like a celestial benchpress.
“Lord Jesus, come take me now!” she wails.
“Am I missing something?” Austin says. “We’ve been told Lilly’s chances of surviving the operation were less than five percent.”
“Try zero,” I say.
“Oh, pooh!” Rose says.
“Pooh?”
“Dr. Box is the finest surgeon on earth. He’ll save your daughter, and when he does, you’ll donate funding for the new oncology wing, correct?”
“Well…”
Rose puts her hand on his wrist and says, “You’ll donate twenty million dollars to the hospital today.”
“Yes,” he says.
“Austin?” Dublin says.
“I need to call Ben Cooper,” Austin says.
“Who’s that?”
“Our banker, hon.”
29
That’s my patient, Lilly Collier Devereaux, all four pounds of her. Named after two industry giants whose children, Dublin and Austin, merged their food and wine inheritances through marriage fifteen months ago. You read about it last June, right? Hampton’s wedding of the year? Lilly isn’t going to make it, anyone can see that. And yet my hospital wants a new oncology wing, so instead of being honest with these young parents, they played their trump card.
Me.
“If there’s one surgeon in the world who can save little Lilly, it’s Gideon Box,” they told Dublin and Austin.
Well, I’m fifteen minutes into the operation, and what I’ve found isn’t pretty. But before I have a chance to start my rant, Rose says, “This is one fucked up little bitch!”
30
What can I tell you?
Not only did Lilly Devereaux pull through, the entire operation only took three hours.
Three hours? How the hell did that happen?
It’s as if the clock slowed down.
After the others leave, it’s just me and Rose in the OR.
“I’ve never had such an easy surgery!” I say. “We need to celebrate.”
“You and I?”
“It seems fitting.”
“There were six of us in the OR,” she says.
“But you’re the one that cussed the kid.”
“Well…”
“That’s never happened before! You shocked me, Rose. I never thought I’d say this, but I actually enjoyed myself.”
“You’re an odd duck,” she says. “but I’m glad you had a good time.”
“I can’t explain the feeling I had with you in the room. You had a calming effect on me, but it was more than that. I felt confident. Capable! I was practically euphoric. Hiring you is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me! You’re smart, capable, and-”
“What about Melba?”
“Melba was a terrific hire! We all make a great team!”
“It’s temporary.”
“What?”
“I’m only doing this for nine months. Then I’m done.”
I look her over. “You’re pregnant?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I realize that.”
She sighs. “Look. This isn’t the time or place. You go out and celebrate. Maybe we can meet tomorrow and talk about it.”
“You can’t leave!” I say. “We’re going to do great things together.”
“You’ve got a huge crush on me.”
I feel my face turning red.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she says. “I’m flattered. I’m just not the one for you.”
“Which one is that?”
“The one you were meant to be with.”
“How do you know?”
She laughs. “It’s what I do.”
“I’m serious, Rose. Think of all the great things we can accomplish.”
“You don’t need me in your life to do great things. On the other hand, I could probably keep you from doing bad things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s not open that door, doctor.”
She starts to leave.
“Rose!”
She turns to face me.
I say, “Where am I going to find the right one?”
“Where you least expect to.”
“Well, if the right one’s anything like you, I wish you’d send her my way!”
Rose smiles. “There’s no one like me, Dr. Box.”
No shit.
She says, “Can we meet in your office tomorrow morning at ten?”
“Absolutely! Why?”
“I want you to meet someone. It’ll help you understand my situation.”
“It’s a date,” I say.
“It’s an appointment,” she clarifies.
Two hours later I exit the cab in front of my building and notice a pretty young lady standing near the entrance with a large, red suitcase by her side.
She doesn’t hail my cab.
Is she waiting for a limo?
I don’t think so. The quality of her wardrobe and suitcase suggest she isn’t accustomed to riding in limos. Not that it matters in the least, since I know this woman.
I approach her tentatively.
“You’re a long way from home,” I say.
“You said you might be able to help me.”
“Yes.”
She looks sad. Vulnerable.
“You said you might be able to help me,” Willow repeats.
“Yes.”
“What did you mean by that?”
31
“I’ve heard of guys having foot fetishes,” Willow says. “But you get off on old, rotten shoes?”
We’re in my penthouse on West 64 ^th. She’s viewing the photographs that line the wall of my living room.
“Not at all.”
“Then why do you have like, twenty framed pictures of old, beat up shoes?”
“There’s only a dozen. One shoe per photograph.”
“Oh,” Willow says. “That explains everything.”
She looks at me.
I sigh.
She says, “You don’t want to tell me.”
“I’m afraid you’ll think I’m creepy.”
“I already think you’re creepy. But I’m still here.”
“Why is that, by the way?”
She points to the photos and says, “You first.”
I say, “If you look closely, you might be able to see f
eet in some of those shoes.”
“Eew. Seriously?”
“Give it a try.”
She studies the first three carefully and says “This one?”
I nod.
Seeming pleased with herself, she studies the others. When she’s finished she points out two more.
“That’s correct,” I say.
“Do I win some sort of prize?”
“No.”
“Story of my life,” she says.
“Actually, all twelve shoes have human feet in them,” I say. “It’s just that you can’t see them from the angle.”
“Your worst fears have come true,” Willow says.
“What do you mean?”
“You turned out to be creepier than I thought.”
“These shoes washed up on the beaches of Washington state and British Columbia over the past five years. It’s a mystery that’s baffled police, scientists, oceanographers, and government officials for years.”
“Sounds like a serial killer who cuts his victim’s feet off and tosses them off a bridge.”
Something in my look makes her say, “Is that it? Did I get it?”
When I don’t answer immediately she says, “If I guessed right you absolutely must give me a prize!”
“You’re close,” I say. “But not close enough.”
She frowns. “Then tell me.”
“Fourteen feet have been found, representing twelve victims.”
“So two of the people had both feet show up on beaches?”
“That’s right. And several have been identified as possible suicides. At least one, and possibly all of them, jumped off the Pattullo Bridge that spans the Fraser River in Vancouver. The feet were protected by the shoes, and became disarticulated through submerged decay.”
“Disarticulated?”
“Just means the feet broke away from the body.”
“Why just the feet? Why not the heads or hands?”
There’s something charming about the way Willow’s getting into this.
I say, “Compared to most joints in the body, the ankle is relatively weak. Currents in that area are strong, and rubber-soled shoes are buoyant. When the feet broke away, the shoes rose to the surface, and the tides washed them onto beaches.”
“Heads and hands aren’t buoyant?”
“No.”
Willow thinks about it and says, “How long has that bridge been there?”
“I don’t know. Seventy, maybe eighty years. Why?”
I see tears on her cheeks.
The photographs moved her.
“It’s just so sad,” she says.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Willow pauses a moment, then says. “If twelve jumped off in five years wearing rubber-soled shoes, there were probably lots of others who weren’t wearing them.”
“Probably.”
“And if the bridge has been there all those years, there could be hundreds who committed suicide since it was built.”
“It’s possible.”
She wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist.
“Are you okay?”
She shakes her head. “I feel awful.”
I shrug. “You shouldn’t. People commit suicide all the time. It’s the eleventh leading cause of death. Nothing’s going to change that.”
“You don’t understand,” she says. “I feel awful for you.”
“For me? Why on earth?”
“You purposely hung these sad photos in your living room.”
“Well yes, but-”
“This is supposed to be your happy place.”
Definitely not the reaction I was hoping to elicit from Willow.
“These photographs aren’t just art,” I say. “They’re human art.”
“So?”
“It’s an example of how simple, everyday items we all take for granted, like shoes, represent something far more important.”
“So?”
“Art is supposed to move you. And you were moved. Does that make sense?”
She shrugs. “I guess.”
I almost leave it at that, but decide to ask, “Why did the photos make you feel worse for me than the victims?”
“You chose to display pictures of dead people’s feet on your wall. You knew people would ask about them.”
“I don’t get your point.”
“Why would you want your guests to feel sad?”
I start to say something, but stop myself.
I look at the photos.
She’s right.
I’m a sad man, living a sad life. The few guests I’ve had thought my shoe photos were creepy, weird, or, as Willow says, sad.
But only Willow felt badly for me.
“What sorts of pictures do you have in your apartment?” I say, defensively.
She shows the faintest glimmer of a smile. When she speaks, it’s almost reverential.
“A velvet Elvis,” she says.
“A velvet Elvis,” I repeat. “A suicide victim. Interesting.”
“Elvis died of a heart attack, not suicide,” she says. “He accidentally overdosed on prescription drugs.”
“I won’t dispute that. But I fail to see a big difference. Elvis overindulged himself to death, these people jumped. You’re displaying a dead person’s face, I’m displaying their feet.”
“How many of those shoe people were the king of rock n’ roll?”
Game.
“The velvet Elvis on my wall doesn’t show his face after he died.”
Set.
“No one looks at my velvet Elvis and thinks about his death. They think about the joy he brought them or their parents or grandparents.”
Match!
Game, set, and match, Willow Breeland.
“You must be a great doctor,” she says.
Willow has a remarkable facility for changing subjects without notice. I wonder if this is who she is or if it’s the product of cocaine use.
I respond, “Are you being facetious?”
“Not at all.”
“You mean because of what I did for Cameron?”
She points to my face. “A couple of days ago your face looked like Dawn of the Dead. This type of healing is on a whole different level.”
She’s got a point.
“How did you manage that?” She says.
“What made you decide to come to Manhattan?” I say, proving I can change subjects just as quickly.
“You mean what made me show up on your doorstep?”
“Yes. As I recall, when I made the original offer, you slapped my face.”
“I slapped you because you tried to kiss me.”
“I tried to hug you.”
She shrugs. “Either one would earn you a slap.”
I remember how she recoiled when I snuck a kiss to her breast that first night.
“You brought a suitcase,” I say.
“I had the cab bring me here from the airport. I thought you might recommend a hotel.”
“ Me?”
“I’ve never been to New York, and you’re the only one I know who lives here.”
“You have enough cash?”
“For a room? Yes. For cancer treatment?” She shakes her head.
“What type of cancer do you have?”
“Offer me something.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m a guest in your home. You should offer me something. Water, tea, coffee?”
“Oh. Sorry. Can I get you something? Some water, tea, or coffee?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
I give her a look.
She smiles.
“You’re funny,” I say.
She shrugs. Then says, “Hodgkin’s.”
32
“Hodgkin’s Lymphoma?” I say.
She nods.
“That’s terrible. But on the bright side, the cure rate for Hodgkin’s is extremely high.”
“If it hasn’t recurred.”
�
��Has it?”
She nods.
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
“Still, there are plenty of treatment options,” I say.
“For those with money or insurance.”
“Yes.”
“Ask me if I’d care to sit,” she says.
“Would you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She walks across the room, passing two chairs and a couch, and sits on a small stool beside the fireplace.
“The sofa and chairs would be far more comfortable,” I say.
“Those aren’t you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your decorator picked those.”
“So?”
“This stool was yours long before you bought this fancy penthouse.”
I glance around the room a moment, then cross the floor until we’re about six feet apart.
“How did you know?” I say.
“About the stool?”
I nod.
“Men are control freaks,” she says.
“Go on.”
“When a woman decorates a room, the man insists on keeping something from his past.”
“And you guessed the stool?”
“It was easy enough.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s always the thing that looks completely out of place, because straight men can’t decorate for shit. But it’s not about the stool, Dr. Box.”
“No?”
“It’s about your identity.”
Her eyes scan the living room a moment. Then, with great confidence, she looks me in the eyes and says, “This stool is the only piece you contributed toward decorating the room.”
“You think?”
“I know!”
“What about the photographs?”
“They don’t count.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t like them.”
“Oh really? I don’t like them? Then why are they on my wall?”
“You put them there hoping to impress people.”
“ What?”
“But they don’t impress people.”
“No?”
“You know this already. You hesitated to tell me about them. You said I might think you were creepy.”
“I only said that because-”
I decide not to complete the sentence. For the second time in five minutes I’ve caught myself starting to defend a group of photos I can’t stand. This eighteen-year-old has me pegged. No psychologist in Manhattan could have done a better job of analyzing me.
