If the Shoe Fits

by Sandra D. Bricker

  “So?” she prodded. “Are we gonna do this thing, or what?”

  “All right,” he conceded. No use dousing the fire. “But the shuttle arrives to take us to the marina in an hour, so we eat while we do it.”

  “Deal,” she said, and her perfect merlot lips curved into a victorious smile.

  That smile got him every time.

  “First question,” she announced. “Name the famous couple that you and your mate are most like.”

  “Famous couple,” Edmund repeated, shaking his head as he poured coffee into both of their cups. He returned the carafe to the room service cart bellied up to the side of their patio table and asked, “What, like Antony and Cleopatra?”

  “We’re nothing like them,” she corrected, making a large X in the air between them with her pen. “They were completely dysfunctional. She’s totally vain and histrionic, and he’s a big cheater.” Suddenly, she froze for a moment and lifted one high, arched eyebrow. “You’re not trying to tell me something here, are you?”

  Edmund laughed, leaping to change the course of the train before it derailed. “No, Shannon. I’m not. So who would you say then?”

  “I was thinking we’re more like Rob and Laura Petrie.”

  “From that old Dick Van Dyke show?” he mused. “Nah. Too cozy.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “Ooh! Wait. How about Jonathan and Jennifer?”

  “Who?”

  “That’s it. We’re the Harts.”

  “Who are they?”

  “You know, Hart to Hart. Glamorous jet-setter couple who solved crimes together. She was a gorgeous redhead, and he was handsome and debonair, and—”

  “I can see the resemblance to us now,” he said, grinning. “But don’t you ever watch television from this century?”

  “This from the man whose mind went directly to ancient Rome.”

  A laugh burst out of him. “Well, how about Ross and Rachel?”

  Shannon’s mouth turned impossibly downward in that pout that took over her entire face every time someone mentioned Friends. Edmund counted down the seconds until her typical response. It would start with a whine—

  “Ohhhh.”

  And then—

  “I can’t believe there’s no more Friends.”

  “Maybe they’ll syndicate.”

  “Maybe.” But her weepy expression said syndication would never be the same for a fan who had planned her Thursday nights (and Friday mornings) around a group of thirty-somethings and a coffee house every week for the last decade of her life. “Besides, Rachel’s the one with the money. And Ross is the brainiac.”

  “Are you comparing yourself to Ross?” he asked, confused. “Or are you saying I’m not a brainiac just because my family has money?”

  “We’re just not Ross and Rachel, babe.”

  “Okay then. How about Meredith and McDreamy from that new hospital show we watched the other night? What’s the name of that show? You liked them, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I think I might like Grey’s Anatomy,” she answered. “But they’ve only just started. It’s too soon to tell. We don’t really know what kind of couple they’ll be, or if they ever really will be one. I mean, I’m not sure they’ll make it as a real couple.”

  “You do know they’re not real, right?”

  She ignored him. “She’s too dark, and he’s a player. They don’t have the right stuff to last forever, so they’re nothing like us. We’re the Harts, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The hotel phone rang as she wrote down their answer, and Edmund went inside to pick it up. “What’s the next question?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Oh, this is an easy one,” she returned. “Do the two of you have a song and, if so, what is it?”

  Edmund grinned. He’d chosen to never reveal to Shannon that he’d seen Titanic with Sally Shafer, his first love, the girl he’d planned to marry; nor had he admitted that he didn’t remember the tinny instrumental version of its theme song, which Shannon said had been playing in the elevator where they first met. If she wanted that to be their song, he felt no particular need to confess that it had ever had any other connotation for him.

  She did look a little like Kate Winslet’s Rose, come to think of it.

  “Hello,” he said as he pressed the receiver to his cheek and listened as the front desk clerk told him their shuttle had arrived ahead of schedule and could be asked to come back later.

  “That won’t be necessary. Send a cart and ask the shuttle driver to wait for us. We’re just finishing up.”

  Edmund hung up the phone and crossed to the wide-open patio.

  “They’re early, right?” Shannon said with a sigh when she noticed him leaning on the chiffon-draped post. “Figures. Two hours late for our massage, and now an hour early for diving.”

  Her pen bounced across the tabletop when she tossed it, and she paused to stuff one last strawberry into her mouth before she bounded past him. She plucked the second pen from her hair and tossed it to him as buoyant red waves tumbled down her back.

  “Just give me five minutes and I’m all yours until the end of time!”

  Once upon a time, in a charming land

  called Austin, an exquisite princess with fire-red hair

  slipped into a deep sleep.

  Her prince held vigil at her side,

  hoping and praying that she would

  one day open her beautiful emerald eyes again …

  “I’m Dr. Petros. I’m just going to shine a light into your eyes for a closer look. Don’t be alarmed, all right?”

  The beam of light cut through her like a laser, and Shannon squirmed away from it.

  “Can you speak? Do you know your name?”

  She moaned, pulling away from the large hand holding the lid of her eye open. When she’d escaped it and the white shaft of light finally set her free, several solid black silhouettes moved in around her.

  “Let’s get an EKG, a chest X-ray, and some blood work right away,” said the voice that had awoken her. Then, more softly, he asked, “Can you see me?”

  She blinked several times before squinting to get a better look at the shadowy man standing over her. The darkness of him began to fade until a distorted—yet friendly—face emerged before her. She pressed her eyes shut and when she opened them again, kind, dark eyes seemed to smile at her.

  Shaggy brown hair … a shadow of stubble across a dimpled, suntanned face …

  “Welcome back,” he said with what seemed like strange enthusiasm. “I’m Dr. Petros. Do you know your name?”

  She tried to speak, but she choked on the words, coughing and sputtering for breath.

  “That’s okay,” the doctor reassured her. “Your throat’s going to be a little tight and dry for a while. Let’s get the patient some ice chips,” he said over his shoulder.

  The patient.

  Shannon clenched her jaw at the words. She tried to ask, “Where am I?” through her teeth, but she couldn’t manage it without descending into another coughing fit.

  “Here. Let’s try this first,” he said, and he spooned few ice chips from a plastic cup and offered them to her. “Open.”

  She did as she was told, and then she flinched as the chips hit her tongue.

  “Just suck on those for a few minutes,” the nurse who had fetched them advised. “Don’t chew. Let them melt.”

  Frigid liquid cooled her parched mouth. When she opened her eyes again, the doctor stood over her, muscular arms folded across his chest, a lopsided smile once again lighting up his face. Despite her confusion, Shannon eyed him curiously. A stethoscope dangled from the neck of his white trench coat, and he wore several thin bracelets made of brown suede cord and small wooden beads where other men donned watches.

  She pushed the last of the ice chips to the side of her mouth and tried to speak over them in the rasp that used to be her voice. “What kind of doctor are you?”

  “I’m a neurologist.”

  Neuro. Nerv
es. Nervous system.

  “Have I gone mad?”

  The doctor huffed out a chuckle and shook his head. “No, you’re not ‘mad.’”

  A sudden jolt of fear knocked the wind out of her and she gasped. “Am I paralyzed?”

  Shannon kicked her feet beneath the scratchy white sheet and sighed in relief when they moved—though they did feel as if they weighed a few hundred pounds.

  “Not paralyzed, either.”

  “Then why do I need a neurologist? What am I doing here?”

  “You were in an accident,” he replied.

  “An accident? What happened?” A sudden flash of memory made her gasp. “Edmund. Is Edmund all right? Was he hurt?”

  “No, he wasn’t hurt in the accident,” he said, slipping the shiny stethoscope from around his neck. “You’ve been unconscious for quite a while. How about you let me check you out before you start asking your questions? I’m just going to listen to your breathing. Can you lean forward?”

  Shannon’s entire body felt weighted down, but she pushed against it. She jumped when the cold metal of his scope touched her back and she realized she wore one of those hospital gowns with the large, unfortunate opening in the back.

  “Take deep breaths,” he told her, but her lungs felt constricted when she tried. “Good. Just a few more.”

  When he finished, he guided her toward the softness of the pillow propped behind her and took a step back.

  “You mentioned Edmund—”

  “Where is he?”

  “—but do you know your own name?”

  “Shannon,” she blurted, frowning. “Where is Edmund?”

  “He’s not in the hospital right now.”

  “What hospital is this?”

  “Draper Long-Term Care Facility.”

  Long-term care.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “You’ve been here ever since your accident,” he answered. “Do you remember your accident, Shannon?”

  She shook her head. “Was it some sort of car accident? A head-on collision or something?”

  “No, not a car.” She thought he might have sighed as he looked at his shoes and shifted from one foot to the other. “Think back,” he said once his dark brown eyes met hers again. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “I—I don’t really …”

  A distant beat intensified until she could hardly hear anything over it. Several seconds thumped past before she recognized it as her own heartbeat drumming in her head.

  “Do you know your address?” he asked, and Shannon grimaced, first at the doctor, and then at the plump, middle-aged nurse standing next to him looking so hopeful that she might remember basic personal information. Stranger still, Shannon realized she was having trouble doing it. “How about your phone number?”

  The side of her head began to itch. Why couldn’t she think of her own phone number? What was wrong with her?

  “You said you’re a neurologist,” she said slowly. “My brain’s messed up, isn’t it?”

  “It’s just a little over-stimulated at the moment,” he told her, and he touched her hand. “Let’s try this, Shannon. What’s the first number that comes into your mind?”

  After just a fraction of a pause, she said with confidence: “78737. Is that my phone number?”

  The nurse muttered something to the doctor, and he nodded.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Well, that’s a ZIP code,” he prompted, and understanding dawned inside her.

  “Right!” she exclaimed. “Austin, Texas, 78737! It’s our address.”

  The doctor smiled. “Good. Can you think of the rest of it?”

  Shannon bit down on her tongue and held it there between her teeth as her brain itched and itched. She wanted to scratch it, she really did, but—nothing.

  “What is wrong with my head?” She growled in frustration, smacking her hand against the bed railing. “And why are my arms strapped down?” she asked, noticing her arms for the first time and looking up with alarm. “What, am I a prisoner?”

  “It’s okay, Shannon,” he said as he loosened the side straps and set her arms free. “That was for your own protection. When you woke up, you were flailing. What do you say you get some rest for now. This is your nurse, Angela. She’s going to take some blood, and in a little while we’ll get you a quick chest X-ray and an EKG. Once I have a look at everything, I’ll come back and check on you again, okay?”

  “No, wait,” she said, rubbing her sore and swollen forearm. “I have so many questions.”

  “And I’ll answer every one of them when I come back, I promise.”

  “Are you going to call Edmund?”

  “You just focus on getting some rest. I’ll see you very soon.” At the door, he smiled at her. “Welcome back, Shannon.”

  She watched his head disappear, long dark hair moving freely. That kind of man wasn’t her type, really. Edmund had been fair all the way around—light skin, eyes, and hair. Still, she couldn’t escape the thought as it came.

  He’s very attractive, a voice in her head seemed to whisper. Shannon gave it a violent shake, trying to replace the image of shaggy Dr. Petros with one of Edmund. But nothing came.

  Why can’t I remember?

  “Do you know my husband?” she asked Angela as she lifted Shannon’s hand and squeezed her index finger.

  Angela shook her head and shushed her. “This is just a quick stick,” she said, but the warning came as no real notification at all. Before Shannon could process the words, a small cylinder pressed against the tip of her finger inflicted an instant sting.

  “Youch!” she howled. The nurse squeezed it until a drop of blood flowed out, which she transferred to the end of a small blue strip protruding from some sort of meter. “What is that?”

  “Just monitoring your glucose,” the nurse said reassuringly.

  “My glucose. Why?”

  “Standard procedure for patients waking up from a coma.”

  “A coma.” Shannon narrowed her eyes and focused on the nurse’s apple-cheeked face. “I was in a coma?”

  “Indeed you were. Now you have some ice chips in the cup, and I want you to suck on them for a while. The doctor has ordered some initial tests, and they should be here in just a little bit.” She placed a wired remote into Shannon’s hand. “If you need anything, you just push this button, okay? I’m at the other end of it. Do you want your shows on?”

  “My—my shows?”

  Angela nodded toward a metal rack angled into the corner of the room. A black box sat on the top shelf, wired to the television hanging above it. The three shelves below it held DVD cases.

  “All your favorites are there. Would you like to watch something?”

  All my favorites. How would you know my favorites? she wondered.

  “The complete Dick Van Dyke Show,” she said as she approached the rack, angling her head to read the labeled cases. “Let’s see, there’s some I Love Lucy, some Hart to Hart, the complete collection of Friends.”

  Friends.

  The corners of her mouth turned downward, but she wasn’t quite sure why.

  Looking back at her, the nurse asked, “Any of that sound appealing?”

  Shannon shrugged. Suddenly, a thought occurred.

  “Wait—every episode of Friends?”

  “Would you like me to put in season one?”

  Questions bombarded her tired brain, and she shook her head and closed her eyes. “No,” she finally replied. “I think I’ll just …”

  Dropping her head back to the pillow behind her, she let her words trail as a cloak of weariness pressed down on her.

  “That’s right,” Angela said, and she moved to Shannon’s bedside and stroked her hair. “You just take it easy for a little bit. You’ve had a big day.”

  She heard the soft thump of the nurse’s rubber shoes as she padded out of the room. The next thing she knew, a lanky young man with a sing-song voice asked her to lean forward s
o he could place a plate behind her for the portable X-ray.

  “Sorry we took so long,” he said as he gingerly arranged the tubes that bridged the distance between her arm and the plastic bags of fluid hanging from the rolling stand next to the bed.

  “Did you?” she commented. “I must have dozed off.”

  “Oh yeah, Dr. Petros ordered your tests three hours ago. But we’ve got a couple people out this week.”

  Three hours, she thought. It felt like moments ago when the doctor had left the room. The cute doctor with the wavy brown hair and expressive dark eyes … Shannon gave herself another mental shake.

  “Petros,” she said aloud. “Is that Greek?”

  “Sure is. Dreamy, isn’t he?” the male nurse said with a wide, toothy grin. “Dr. Daniel Petros. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the others here doodle his name like grade-school girls.”

  “Now when I tell you to, hold your breath so I can get a good picture, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “On three. One, two, three. Hold it.”

  The elderly woman on the other end of the line seemed to stop breathing. Daniel had heard that thundering silence more times than he could count; more times than he even liked to think about. He repeated his introduction.

  “Hello? This is Dr. Petros at Draper Long-Term Care.”

  “Is it Shannie?” the woman asked with an emotional rasp that reminded him very much of her niece’s throaty voice when she had asked, “Where am I?” In all those years that he’d been caring for Shannon Ridgeway, he’d never imagined her voice as a husky one. He wondered what a little more time getting reacquainted with speech would do to it.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m calling with some fairly spectacular news.”

  The woman sputtered, but her questions didn’t quite find her voice.

  “Shannon is awake, Mrs. Winters.”

  Daniel waited. Five seconds went by, then ten.

  “Did you hear me, ma’am? Shannon is awake.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  And with a slam, the call disconnected, leaving Daniel with a soft hum in his ear. He laughed out loud as he hung up the phone and leaned back. His desk chair creaked as he did, and he shook his head and raked both of his hands through his hair. He so seldom had the opportunity to deliver truly happy news. Phone calls to the families of his Draper patients typically began with, “I’m so sorry to have to tell you …”