Once More With Feeling by Emilie Richards

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."

CHAPTER SIX
     
    "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