hallway and people were rushing past me shouting out instructions. Suddenly I was moving too. Someone was pushing me down the hall.
“How are we feeling?” the woman asked.
“Terrible,” I mumbled. “My head hurts. Who are you? Where am I? Where are we going?”
“I’m Winnie Bijou, LVN. We’re at San Francisco General Hospital. You might have a slight concussion and trauma to an extremity, but we’ve been busy with other more serious stuff. Don’t worry, you’re next. Lucky you, you get to see Dr. Rhodes. Trust me, it’s worth the wait.” Winnie Bijou giggled.
Worth the wait? How long had I been waiting? So I had a concussion? The last thing I remembered was falling off a ladder into a tree. But where and why I had no idea. Why would I climb up a ladder when I was scared to death of heights?
“Nurse Bijou,” I said with a shiver of apprehension. “Do I have amnesia?”
“Possible,” she said as we turned the corner and headed down another hall. “Doesn’t say anything about it on your chart. Says you were brought in wearing ballet flats by someone who didn’t leave a name. Remember who that was?”
“Not really, no. I mean I don’t know who it could have been because . . .” I drifted off, not able to think clearly.
“Here we are.” She went around the gurney and pushed open the door to a small examining room. I saw she was someone about my age in a crisp white uniform—admirable, I thought, for someone working the ER on a long, injury-filled Saturday night.
Once in the small room, Nurse Bijou propped up my head on a pillow. She asked me for some personal information for my chart, then she wrapped a cuff around my arm, gave a cursory glance at my Bakelite bracelet and stuck a thermometer in my mouth. There was a knock on the door and another nurse whose badge said “Opal Chasseure RN” came in.
“Dr. Rhodes is on his way,” she said. “He works the ER, but he’s a specialist in sports injuries.”
“This isn’t a sports injury,” I said when Nurse Bijou had removed the thermometer from my mouth and the cuff from my arm. “I mean, I don’t think it is because I don’t do sports, except for kung fu.” Maybe my memory was coming back to me by inches. They say your long-term memory returns first. Maybe that’s all I’d ever get back.
“We’ll let Dr. Rhodes decide what it is or it isn’t,” Nurse Chasseure said briskly. “Nurse Bijou, I have everything covered here.”
By her tone I gathered she meant, “Butt out.
Nurse Bijou got the message and when the door opened to admit Dr. Jonathan Rhodes, she scurried out. That left the three of us, one tall, strapping, sun-bleached blond-haired god of a doctor, one starchy nurse and me, half out of my mind but still able to appreciate a gorgeous man. My head floated somewhere above me and I closed my eyes. The smell of antiseptic hung in the air. Maybe I’d gotten too big a whiff. Or maybe this was all a dream. If it wasn’t, I was hoping I was wearing my new lingerie just in case Dr. Rhodes had me strip down for a full-body scan. It had been so long since I’d gotten dressed, I couldn’t remember. After my accident, I was lucky to remember my name. It turned out all the doctor cared about was my ankle.
“How did this happen?” Dr. Rhodes said. His deep voice cut through the fog of my brain. He put his hand on my forehead. I opened my eyes and then it all came back to me in a blinding flash. MarySue, the shoes and the ladder. The shoes. Where were they?
“I fell off a ladder. It’s my foot. I think I sprained my ankle.”
Dr. Rhodes carefully removed one metallic ballet flat and wrapped his strong, caring fingers around my ankle. I winced. “Nurse Chasseure, would you get an ACE bandage and wrap the patient’s ankle?”
Opal left and I was alone with Dr. McDreamy Rhodes.
“You have a grade-one sprain and a mild concussion,” he said. “I’m prescribing some anti-inflammatory medicine along with cold packs for your ankle. As for your concussion, these things usually go away by themselves. I recommend monitoring and rest at least for a few days.”
I felt better just hearing his voice and was reassured by his bedside manner. Combined with his looks, this guy was going far. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him rise to be surgeon general or at least get his own reality TV program.
“So, Ms. Rita Jewel,” he said, looking up from where he was writing on my chart. “Not where you thought you’d end up on a Saturday night.”
“No,” I said. “I was actually on my way somewhere when I got sidetracked and fell into a dead oak tree. That’s all I remember until I got here.” What I remembered was I was on my way to get the silver shoes back when I ran into trouble. But why bore the doctor with irrelevant details like that? I looked at my watch. It was four o’clock in the morning. The Benefit was over. MarySue had gotten away with the shoes. I felt weak and helpless. My ankle was throbbing.
Dr. Rhodes chuckled as if I’d been joking about the oak tree debacle. I smiled weakly. Nurse Chasseure came in with the bandage and silently and sullenly began to wrap my ankle. What was her problem? Didn’t nurses have to take some kind of oath like “Look like you like your job even though you’re stuck treating gunshot wounds on Saturday night instead of clubbing in SoMa.” Apparently a sympathetic demeanor was not a requirement for all nurses these days.
“I’ll need to see you again in a few days,” Dr. Rhodes told me. He looked down at my chart. “Is this your current phone number and address?”
I nodded. He wanted to see me again. Of course, his interest in me was purely professional. Still, I felt lucky because he could have passed me off to an assistant.
“Hold on,” Dr. Rhodes said. “Wait here while I get you a few pain pills and an ice pack to tide you over until the pharmacy opens tomorrow.” He left me, and a minute later Nurse McCranky left too without a word.
I sat up then and the room spun around. It was a strange feeling. No one knew where I was or what happened to me. Except MarySue. Had she called an ambulance? Was there an ambulance? Had she brought me here in her Mercedes on her way to the Benefit? Or had she left me lying on the ground while she dashed off to the party in her silver shoes hoping I wouldn’t recover. At least not until the party was over. She got her wish. But who brought me then, Smythe’s Landscape Service? If so, I wanted to call and thank them.
I stared at the wall as I waited for my pain pills. Light-headed and dizzy, I wondered how I’d fit my foot back into my shoes. Any shoes. I shuddered to think of having to wear some kind of ugly orthopedic shoes with support hose. I might have slipped out of consciousness for a moment until I heard the voices in the hall. It was Nurses Bijou and Chasseure.
“Saturday nights are the pits,” Winnie said. “Last time I’m working this shift. I don’t care if I get time and a half. I’m dead on my feet.”
“At least you’re not
I blinked. High-society charity thing? I opened my mouth to ask who it was, but my mouth was so dry no sound came out.
“Yeah, you catch her dress?” Winnie asked. “Plain black. Looked like a long sweater. If I had that kind of money, I’d wear Marc Bouwer.”
“Who’s that?”
“Who’s that? Don’t you read
“Just thought those society types had better clothes, that’s all,” Nurse Bijou said. “If I was her, I’d wear —”
“I know, I know, Marc Bouwer, whoever that is.”
“And my shoes? Guess what I’d wear.”
“Manolos?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I can tell you Ms. MarySue wasn’t wearing any shoes at all. Not when I saw her. She was covered with a sheet except for her feet. They were bare. No shoes. Nada. Zilch.”
“How’d she die? You hear?”
“Maybe she was murdered. There are plenty of people who’d kill for a pair of Manolos.”
