Bad Doctor

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 feet 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.”