As You Were (3 page)

4

THE PLUNK AND RATTLE OF A BROKEN GUITAR STRING stopped the music. Tru and Helki stared at each other in vexed silence.

“That’s the second one,” she grumbled to Helki, grabbing the flailing string and unwrapping it from the post on the headstock. “I need to go back to the Adamas strings. These keep breaking.”

Helki smiled, “Maybe we should break, too,” while leaning her bass against the wall of the modest home recording studio.

“That’s cute,” Tru acknowledged the pun, put her guitar in the stand and switched off the 16 track digital recorder. Together, they wandered into the kitchen, having smelled the aroma of baked chicken spaghetti. Brittany poured them all some wine and served dinner.

“So, how’s the recording session going?” Brittany used tongs to transfer salad to Helki’s plate.

Helki poured a generous amount of poppy-seed dressing on the green leaf lettuce. “I think it sounds great. I love Tru’s music, or I wouldn’t have left the Heads.”

As an opening act for a band almost two years ago, Tru had stayed to listen to the headliners, a rock group called The Hard Heads. The bassist was Helki Sky. At the close of the first set, Tru had asked the waitress to give Helki the drink of her choice, along with a note she had written on a napkin that read simply, “You rock.” When the waitress pointed her out, Helki had smiled and brought the wine over to Tru’s table.

The two women became fast friends. Helki soon left The Hard Heads, assuring Tru that she had been looking for a good excuse in the form of another band who played music more to her

liking; and, she added, a band that didn’t dabble in drugs and get drunk every night. Before long, the two women were taking part in various jam sessions around town, or doing duets in local pubs, all booked by Macy.

The daughter of a Miwok Indian Father and an Italian mother, Helki’s given name meant “touch.” Aptly, as Tru realized, she did indeed have the touch. Helki never forgot a groove, and her mane of dark hair, highlighted by two tiny braids in the front, bounced as she danced around the stage. Helki always held a knowing smile, and her music soared. “Sky” was also apropos as her last name. Her music touched the sky.

“Tru—” Brit started, filling her own wine. “When did Macy say you guys would start touring again?”

“Soon,” she answered, sucking an errant string of pasta into her mouth. “She’s still pounding out the details. We’ll do some local stuff first, push the new CD. But it should be within a month or so. I think the trip to Seattle next week will provide some insight.” She saw the disappointment in her lover’s eyes. “You could go with us.”

“Yeah,” Helki agreed. “You could keep her in line.”

Brittany’s answering expression spoke of doubt and amusement, before she continued. “There’s no one to take care of the house and the horses.”

“I could hire someone to do that.”

“Yeah,” Helki agreed. “Be the official photographer for the band. The other pictures you took at shows were great.”

“I think I would only be in the way.” Brittany sighed. “I don’t think Macy wants me there.”

“I want you there, Baby. Don’t worry about Macy.”

Helki nibbled off one section of rind from a cucumber slice, then ate the meat of it in one bite, discarding the remaining rind on her plate.

“I think I’d get motion sickness on a bus all the time.”

Helki swallowed the bite of cucumber and offered, “You could take Dramamine.”

Brittany half-smiled. “I’ve got some shmoozing to do at a couple of galleries. And I need to get my portfolio up to date anyway. I’ll stay busy and be here when you get back. Maybe you’ll get back sooner if you miss me.”

“You know I’ll miss you.” Tru leaned over and kissed her.

“How could you miss me? You’ve got hundreds of screaming girls throwing themselves at you.”

“No, they’re throwing themselves at me, Brit,” Helki joked.

Tru stayed up quite late, reviewing the recordings she and Helki had made that day. Her head did not hit the pillow until three in the morning. She snuggled up into a spooning position behind Brittany and slept.

Up at six-thirty, Brittany dislodged Tru’s snuggle-hold on her, and by eight, gathered her things for a meeting with gallery owners in Boulder.

“What time do you think you’ll be back?” Tru asked groggily from the warm folds of pillows and comforter.

“Oh, it’ll be tonight sometime. I’ll give you a call.” Brittany adjusted the blanket around Tru. “If the weather gets bad, I’ll stay with Brenda.”

Brittany enjoyed her jaunts into town. Often, her visits would be as much about socializing as about the sale of her artistic creations. At exhibits and other artistic events, she rubbed elbows with gallery owners, well-known artists, and collectors. Inevitably, she formed actual friendships with some of them.

Tru accepted the quick kiss at the corner of her mouth, with a contented sigh, her eyes fluttering closed again, as Brittany grabbed her things and headed for the door.

5

One Week Later

TRU FELT THE GENTLE PRESSURE OF DROPSI’S PAWS on her jeaned leg and lifted her head off her arms. She slid a hand across the rough-hewn wood of the kitchen table for the eCig, hoping nicotine would help her function just a little while longer. If she had been using tobacco cigarettes, her lungs would have been in bad shape by now. The vapor didn’t even accost her eyes like real smoke, which was good, because she didn’t care to force any more moisture from her tear ducts than had already come in the last few days.

The missing persons report had been a fruitless endeavor. When she had filed it, she got the distinct impression that the deputy knew she sought a gay lover, and didn’t take it seriously.

So the search for Brittany had been dropped solely in her lap, and she had risen to the challenge only to be dashed again and again by dead-ends over the last three days. Helki had been helping her call around, but neither of them had discovered Brittany’s whereabouts. The sick feeling this gave her was akin to drinking battery acid. Though the scene had been awful, the last time she saw Brit, she couldn’t imagine why Brittany wouldn’t have called. Just to have the common courtesy of letting her know she was okay. Unless she couldn’t call. Tru was left with the abrasive, wounding truth that Brittany could not call. Something had happened to her.

“Police report?” he echoed, pressing the back of a numb hand beneath his cold-reddened nose.

“An officer should be here in a few minutes.” The LPN held her ballpoint Bic poised above the form on the clipboard. “It’s routine with any accident, sir.”

The young man took a step toward the entrance, his Nikes slipping slightly in a puddle of mud and slush left by his own foot on the way into the emergency room. “I told you I don’t even know her.”

She looked up and saw him moving toward the door, in his drenched clothes. “Sir—you should let the doctor look at you too...I could get you a blanket and something warm to drink. You might know something that would be helpful, and not realize it—”

He glanced down at his sodden clothing, suctioned against him like cellophane, the numbness of his skin beginning to give way to the warmth of the hospital lobby. “Okay,” he said evenly. “But I left the motor running. I need to go park my car. I’ll be right back.” He started for the mechanical doors, his rubber soles screaking on the linoleum with each step.

He did not return.

The fog...a mass of suspended murk, solid to her attempts toward escape; yielding, as it enveloped her, teasing her consciousness. The question,
Where am I?
broke from her lips, but its sound was caught in the undulant haze. She stretched out her hands and felt nothing but the cool mist, and a panic swelled inside her.
Let me out!
she screamed.
Help me! Someone...please help me...

It seemed she wandered in the fog for hours. Days. Then finally, the fog drifted away from her, leaving in its place a murky void. She lifted her palms toward her face—

Her eyelids lifted, as the fog dissipated. No darkness...white, now, only white; her mind a labyrinth of thoughts and meanings, colored by a need for reason, as if flung from one world to another. Gradually, her senses gained control of her emotions.
Walls. The white is on the walls. The walls are in a room. I am in the room. A white room—

She wanted water, but again, her throat failed her. It seemed she had blinked the void gone, like Samantha on Bewitched, and she was left alone in the white room.
Bewitched?
She didn’t know what her brain meant, now. Her arm came into view.
Wasn’t it her arm?
An I.V. needle taped onto the top of her hand faded into her awareness, as did the plastic tube under her nose, its two rubbery prongs a mild assault on her nostrils. The cold, overly pure air from them incited a need to yank the contraption away from her face, but she could not get the message through to her hand. Unless it wasn’t her hand.

She wanted to sit up; her tongue pushed at her arid lips. Her mouth tasted...
old?
She wanted to brush her teeth. She concentrated. Lifting a trembling hand, she tried to pull the tubing from her nose, and was prevented by the clipped plastic object on her finger. She rubbed her finger against her side, knocking the clip off her finger, and a nearby machine began to beep. She glanced at it.
Lights. Moving lines. Dials
. She dragged the rubber prongs from her nostrils and let her hand rest on her chest. The air smelled of disinfectant.

She breathed cautiously at first, like some wayward astronaut stepping from the ship on some unfamiliar planet. Then she tried to relax into it. Stretching her body, she found that it ached all over; a sudden movement caused a hundred muscles to scream, but she managed to lift her hand again, touch her cheek.
Cold and clammy.
Her fingers trailed upward to something thick, a bandage, she assumed, on her head.
I’ve hit my head is all...soon I’ll remember what happened and I’ll go home.

Even as she thought it, she knew it would not be that simple.

Some thud from her right.
Movement.
A voice interrupted her confusion.

“Well hello there...”

A woman’s face. Fog again...
void. Fading back to white. Woman gone now. Fog. No...
white again.

“Ah, welcome back,” the new voice said. “How do you feel?”

Her eyes went to the voice.
The voice is white like the walls. The voice wears white. The voice is a man.

He placed fingers in her palm. “Can you squeeze my fingers?”

She blinked at him.
Fingers?

“Can you squeeze my fingers?” he asked again, tapping her palm.

She squeezed.

“Good.” He reached over to her other hand and did the same. “Now on this side?”

She squeezed
. Why did he want me to squeeze his fingers?

“Good. You’re in the hospital, young lady. You were in an accident, but you’re going to be fine. I’m Doctor Armstrong.”

Hos...pital...a...strong arm?
There was reason to it, but what did it mean?
Strong arm, like—
An image came to her of a box of baking soda, with the proverbial arm and hammer. Something, some entity in her brain, seemed amused, and she stilled it to concentrate again on the words. Now the questions began to envelop her as surely as the fog had done.

He touched her eyelids. Bright light stung her pupils. “Do you know who the president is?” the white voice asked. She tried to answer, but could find no moisture in her throat; the words were trapped there, as she had been trapped in the mist.

“Try to focus, now. Who’s the President of the United States?”

She tried to retrieve the information. Saw a quick image. “Clinton?” she rasped.

“Well...close, but one administration off.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” he said, touching her arm. “We’ll talk later. The nurse will be in to help you in a minute. Rest now. You’re going to be okay.”

She strained to peer down at her body, a sharp pain in her neck giving her pause. A bandaged left arm lay by her side, numb. For a quick moment she wondered if her legs were damaged...
or gone. Lifting the edge of the sheet, relief flooded her at the sight of both appendages, present

and intact, although wrapped at both knees. There was some white elastic tights of some kind on her legs.
Someone dressed me
...she thought absently.

A deep breath sent a dagger of pain through her elastic bandaged ribs. That’s when she noticed the tube that snaked up from between her legs, secured to her thigh with white tape. She suddenly knew what it was. Knew the name of it.
Catheter. Someone did more than dress me.

She eased back into the pillow and considered her situation with controlled alarm
. What happened to me?
She tried to find a familiar frame of reference to start with.
My name is...
she began, then drew a perfect blank.
How ridiculous...I’m...my name
...she swallowed thickly.
I don’t know my own name—
touching the gauze on her head, the words “brain damage” presented themselves abruptly in her mind.
If I were brain damaged, would I be able to consider that I was brain damaged?
She assured herself that she would not.
What day is this? Where am I? Who am I?
The questions were inane and began to pound inside her head. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to calm the questions as a fierce headache, keen and sudden, filled her skull.
Where was that nurse?
She took some consolation in having remembered what the doctor told her, but she had questions for the next person who came through that door, though her throat felt swollen and dead.

As if on cue, the door whooshed open, and the sound swept through her head, saber-sharp, intensifying the barbed throbbing. A nurse appeared there, smiling as she approached. Her eyes were kind. “Hello there! Glad you’ve joined us again. Are you able to talk, Brittany?”

She frowned...
yes, that is my name...
isn’t it?
She touched her throat, trying to swallow, hoping the nurse would understand.

“Thirsty, huh?” The nurse smiled warmly. “Here—” she picked up a bowl and plucked something out pushing it into her mouth. Cold. Melting.

“Ice chips. Let them dissolve.”

As Brittany felt the cold permeate her tongue and dribble into her throat, the nurse pored water in another plastic bowl on the table over the bed, dipped a cloth in it, and pressed it to Brittany’s parched lips. It felt better. She mashed her lips together, forcing the moisture to soak in. The nurse dipped the cloth again and moistened her lips a second time. “Better?”

Brittany nodded almost imperceptibly. The nurse gave her more ice chips and Brittany suckled them greedily, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat and swollen tongue, and then took the cloth away, waiting for Brittany to swallow the desert in her mouth.

“You’re in Montrose Memorial Hospital, Hon’. You’re recuperating from a serious accident. But you’re gonna be okay.”

Brittany took a cautious breath and asked roughly. “How long...
have I been here?”

“About a week.”

Brittany’s eyes grew wide, as the nurse replaced the clamp on Brittany’s finger, glancing at the machine. “Your body just needed time to heal, that’s all...
you had a car accident...
you remember?”

Brittany tried to conjure the image, but nothing came to mind. “No.”

“What we know, is that you swerved off the road somehow, and ended up in the water. You were soaked when you were brought in.”

Brittany’s eyes grew again, and her words were pumice across her throat. “How did I—?”

“A young man pulled you out of the car. You’re very lucky to be alive.” She fitted the prongs of the cannula back into the young woman’s nostrils.

“Who?”

“Max. We don’t know his last name. He brought you in, and stayed long enough to see that you were taken care of, and then he left.”

Brittany looked down at herself. “How bad?” The words were coming a bit easier.

“Well,” she said, checking the screen of a machine near the bed. “The doctor will explain all that.”

“Please...
I’m scared...”

“Hon’, you’re gonna be just fine.” She closed a hand over Brittany’s.

The door swooshed open again and Doctor Armstrong entered, tall, broad-shouldered, with a Kirk Douglas dimple in his chin, and a touch of gray at his temples. Brittany had not noticed this before. All she could focus on in their initial meeting was the white that saturated the room, and the smooth baritone of his voice. Now, she saw him talking, but she faded in and out of listening, endured the searing beams of the penlight, and his attempts to be reassuring. Periodically, her attention fastened on certain words he said.
Bruising...
impact injury... ribs...
Swelling...
head injury...

Brain damage?
She found herself thinking again, with some alarm. She didn’t like the taste of her tongue...
what was he saying, now?

“...kneecaps...
forearm and wrist...
hypothermia... avoid pneumonia...”

His voice seemed somehow connected to a bad radio signal. Except she couldn’t seem to turn the dial and make him come in any clearer. “How long...will I be here?” she heard herself say.

“Depends on... heal. Plus
...
haven’t...
locate any of your family...
name on a watch...
who I should call?”

Who should he call? Who should he call?
Brittany imagined her memory as a freshly-cleaned chalkboard: dark, dusty, empty, useless. “I can’t...I don’t know—”

“Don’t worry...
memory loss...
common...
head trauma
...
quite an ordeal...
the brain just gives you a vacation—”