Falling down the cliff in Big Sur––did someone trip her?
The knife-wielding attacker in the park. What would’ve happened if we hadn’t fought him off?
The gas explosion in Carol’s house. Was it an accident that the oven was left on? Or did someone turn it on without lighting it, knowing what would happen? The firemen explained to Carol later that flipping a switch to turn on a light could’ve sparked the gas explosion.
Then there was the nearly lethal food poisoning. Had someone purposely added a toxic substance to her food? No one else in the household was sick with nausea and diarrhea.
When Carol recovered, after a few days in the hospital, I quizzed her as to what she’d eaten that day. Salad, yogurt, canned soup, tea, noodles––nothing suspicious like mayo or beans or old meat. We’d thrown out all the food in the fridge as a precaution.
I never imagined at the time that someone could possibly have slipped something into her food. Lots of people had access to the kitchen and the fridge. Certainly not Jeff, or Jamie, Dave, Tom, Elliott . . . the usual guys, but what about somebody they’d invited into the house.
They were all so casual about bringing strangers into our house, people they met at bars, at a football game, “Hey, yeah no problem, use the bathroom here.” Like it was their house.
Losing the brakes on the car. What if that had occurred at a worse spot on the road? Like on the winding, cliff roads closer to the beach?
I’d known Carol since nursery school. She’d never been a magnet for trouble. In fact, quite the opposite . . . until recently.
My heart fluttered with a sudden panic. I had to find Carol. She was in danger.
I climbed over the row of legs hindering my exit of the auditorium, and dug a dime out of my jeans pocket. There was a pay phone in the vestibule. I called the house. No one picked up. I tried to remember what class she had this morning.
She had complained about having to face the tear gas first thing in the morning, so her first class must be on the south side of campus closer to where the National Guard and the People’s Park demonstrators fought over a vacant half block of land.
Shit, I’d have to take my chances on getting gassed.
Carol’s favorite spot in the library was empty.
Dwinelle Hall was my next guess. I poked my nose in the auditorium and scanned for Carol’s black hair. Plenty of dark heads, but none with her sheen and soft waves.
I fought the panic that threatened to keep me from thinking straight. I couldn’t try every classroom in the building. From the benches in the plaza outside the entrance, I could watch all three exits.
The Campanile struck eleven, and students poured from the building. I spotted Carol flirting with tall-dark-and-handsome just outside the north entrance of Dwinelle Hall.
“Carol,” I yelled as I ran. “Carol.”
“What’s the matter?” The annoyance on her face sent a loud and clear message, I-like-this-guy, back off.
I ignored her look, and dragged her to the wood bench surrounding the raised planter and a Loquat tree. “Carol, I don’t know why we’ve been so stupid.”
She scowled. “Hey, I was just about to give that cute guy my number. What is your problem?”
“Someone is trying to kill you.”
“Look, I’m sorry I started this. I was overtired, reading too much Kafka. My imagination ran away with me.”
I grabbed her arm, and held tight when she tried to stand.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” She shook off my hand, stood up. “I’ve got a class in Kroeber.” She walked between the trees in their giant planters.
I rushed after her. “Really, think about it. All the weird, possibly fatal, so called accidents you’ve had in the last ten months.”
“Lexi, now your imagination is running away with you.”
“No. Really, the fall––”
“I tripped.”
“Or someone tripped you.”
“I tripped.”
“The explosion.”
“Someone left the oven on. The pilot light blew out. Accident.” She turned left and hurried across the wood bridge leading into faculty glade.
I pushed between her and green foliage, “Carol, you are in danger. Poisoning. Remember that? You almost died.”
“Bad food. It happens. Get over it.”
“The brakes.”
She stopped walking, then turned to look me in the eye with one brow raised. “I told you that car was dangerous. You said, ‘Trust me.” Remember that?”
“Carol, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll tell you what, I won’t eat. I won’t get in a car, or turn on any ovens, or climb any cliffs.” She strode off.
I followed, but she ignored me until we reached the door to her class. I grabbed her arm. “Why’d you change your mind? Yesterday you thought maybe all those things weren’t accidents, you said maybe some one had tripped you. Now you’re in denial.”
“Lexi, I love you. I stopped freaking out, got over my paranoia. I appreciate your concern, but why would anyone want to kill me? After all, I’m such a nice person.” She slammed the door in my face.
“Bitch,” I yelled after her.
CHAPTER
30
Berkeley, Alta Bates Hospital, March 2008
“Al, can you hear me?” Steven asked as he brushed a wisp of blonde hair off his sister’s forehead. The orderly and nurse had just wheeled her back into the room. Her head was no longer fully swathed in bandages, just a relatively small patch on the right side where a razor had cut a swath through her thick tresses.
“What did the MRI show?” he asked them.
“The doctor will be up soon to speak with you,” the orderly said.
Steven didn’t like the way that sounded. Oh shit. Please don’t let her have brain damage.
An eternity later the physician showed up. “Well, the MRI still looks pretty good. The inflammation is going down. Looks as though she should recover just fine.”
“It’s almost been two days. How long will she be unconscious?” Steven asked after breathing a sigh of relief.
“Hard to say.” The doctor smiled at Steven. “I think your sister is going to be okay, although it is a puzzle. We don’t know everything we could about comas. Sometimes patients regain consciousness in minutes, sometimes months, even years . . . and anything in between. But you say she has been speaking which indicates she is waking up. Her GCS is good.”
“Her what”
“Her Glasgow Coma Scale.
“What’s that?
“GCS measures the depth of the coma. The deeper the coma, the lower the score.”
“So how deep is her coma?” Steven asked. “Please, I just want to know if my sister is going to be ok.”
The neurologist looked at Steven with sympathy. “Here’s the deal. Coma is a response to injury that allows the body to pause activity in order to concentrate on healing immediate injuries before waking up.” The doctor looked at Steven as if to see that he was following. “Your sister’s wound in the cerebral cortex was away from any critical structures in her brain. She is in a mild coma and appears to be waking up. Likely the worst after effect she will experience will be PTA.”
“PTA?” Steven asked.
“Post-traumatic amnesia. And before you ask, the length of the amnesia correlates to the length of unconsciousness. And she may not experience much at all. Unlikely she would experience total amnesia. Usually it’s just some details. Or names. Bottom line, there is every reason to believe your sister is going to be just fine.”
CHAPTER
31
Berkeley, May 1969
“Where’re ya headed?” He stuck close to my side as I rushed across the street before the light turned red.
Aw, for chrissakes. Yeah, he rescued me, but did that mean I had to be nice to him? Why couldn’t I be a bitch without guilt tripping myself? He was exactly the excessively handsome kind of guy I wanted to avoid.
“Thanks
again. I do appreciate you helping me.” I forced a smile and waved. “Ciao.”
I lengthened my stride; maybe he’d give up. I glanced to my left; he was hanging in there. His legs were even longer than mine. I wouldn’t lose him easily.
He caught my eye and smiled that charming crooked grin. Oh man, those crystal blue eyes. And dimples.
I couldn’t help myself. I returned the smile.
He grinned. “Groovy.” He waved at the tables and chairs on the wide patio of the Euclid Café. “Coffee?”
I nodded and followed him to a table.
“Sit, please. Cream?”
I nodded.
“Sugar?”
I nodded again, dropped my book bag next to one of the chairs, and sat down.
He walked to the line of students and faculty waiting to order.
A newspaper left on the table headlined another Zodiac killing. A photo of his latest victim led the front-page story; a copy of a letter purportedly from the Zodiac was next to the photo.
I couldn’t handle any more evidence of our fucked up world that day. I moved the newspaper to a nearby table.
Derek returned with two steaming mugs of coffee before I had a chance to reconsider befriending a stranger. Especially a handsome one. He placed both cups on the table and passed me a handful of sugar packets.
“So––where do you live?” he asked.
At least he didn’t ask me “what’s your sign?” Or “what’s your major?” But then the smears of acrylic paint on my bell-bottom jeans might have given my art major away.
“Up the hill.” I waved up toward the top of the Berkeley hills.
“Headed home?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a lot of work to do.” I rubbed dried paint off my finger.
“What’re you painting?”
“Kinda abstract nudes in landscapes.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Like cubist nudes descending staircases?”
“I’m not Picasso or Braque. Landscapes, not interiors.”
He flashed that damn smile revealing dimples again. “I’d love to see them.”
That I ignored. “What’s your thing?”
“Architecture.”
“And you escaped the Environmental Design building?” I asked with a smile. “Don’t they keep would-be architects chained to their drafting tables? I see people working in there twenty-four hours a day.”
“True, too true.” He sipped his coffee, and then grinned. “Couldn’t hack it, had to get out and find a pretty girl to rescue.”
I drank the last of my coffee. “Thank you.” I forced a smile.
I wasn’t going to violate my new agreements with myself. No more handsome and charming men. Too dangerous for my bruised heart. Women throw themselves at men like this one.
“I really do have to get to work.”
He drained his cup and stood up. “May I walk with you?”
I shrugged an "if you want to" and picked up my bag.
The small talk continued as we headed up the hill to the house I shared with a group of close friends plus an assortment of guys who did not officially live there but hung around a lot.
My roommate Carol was about to graduate and already job-hunting. She was beautiful and talented so she would land a position in a fashion house quickly.
Jeff was a law student and my best friend since childhood when we had spent summers at the same camp, playing the same sports.
Dave, a Cal grad, commuted to a job in the city.
All three of them led busy, productive lives.
The others, the hang-arounders, needed to get a life. They used our place as their Berkeley base. All were graduates, and either trust fund babies or wannabes who managed to kill every day fucking around, tripping to the beach, hanging out in the Haight, going to Janis Joplin & Big Brother & the Holding Company concerts in Golden Gate Park or the Grateful Dead at The Fillmore.
Some days I was envious of their freedom. But once I started painting, I forgot everything but the music and the flow of my brush.
Two of the hang-arounders, preppie looking Jamie and Ron, lounged on the front porch swing smoking. Jamie had actually attended prep school and was one of the trust fund beneficiaries. Wannabe Ron imitated Jamie’s mannerisms, dress, and accent, but his rugged face and his engaging smile charmed both men and women. Jamie’s relaxed manner was equally appealing. Both lit up with curiosity when we came up the front walk and climbed the stairs of the entry.
“Yo, Lex,” Ron said. “Who’s your friend?”
Shit. I’d planned to say good-bye and close the door in his face if I had to, but these two guys were going to make it awkward.
“Can I see your paintings?” Derek asked.
“Ah, shit man, you gotta see her work. It’s far-out.” Ron jumped up from the porch swing, opened the door, grinned in answer to the scowl I shot his direction, and invited Derek into my house before I could think of how to get out of this one.
One of my recent canvasses, a colorful abstract landscape hung above the fireplace in the living room. I followed the three guys into the entry hall and groaned as I watched Ron point out the painting.
“Wow. Cool.” Derek directed a nod of appreciation to me.
“I really gotta get some stuff done. Thanks again.” I ducked down the hall toward my room as I heard the men introducing themselves. Jeff was exiting his room.
“Hi,” I said to him. “If you see Carol, please tell her I need to talk to her.”
Jeff nodded his strawberry blonde head. “Sure.”
In my room, I dumped my bag on my bed, grabbed a new brush from my desk and headed out to the garden shack I had converted to my studio.
Through open green house windows, I could hear Derek, Ron, Jamie, and my housemate Jeff in the living room, yukking it up and talking in those low, guttural voices that told me they were passing a joint. Any minute now they’d start discussing the relative merits of Acapulco Gold versus whatever they were smoking.
I loved those guys, but that dope story was getting old.
I closed the rusted, metal-framed windows, slid a Beatles record out of the album cover and set it on the turntable. “In Penny Lane there is a barber––” The sweet sounds took the edge off my tension.
Carol cracked the door enough to poke her dark head in. “Jeff said you wanted to talk to me.”
“I went to the library after I saw you on campus.” I motioned for her to come in. “Know what the symptoms of arsenic poisoning are?”
She shrugged, pulled her long black hair back from her pale face. Seeing how white her face was made my heart ache with concern for my best girlfriend. Carol did her best to hide her soft heart and anxious nature, but I saw through her tough shell.
“Vomiting,” I said, “diarrhea, abdominal cramps.”
“You’re still on that subject!” She walked out; the crooked hinges thwarted her attempt at a door slam.
CHAPTER
32
Berkeley, Alta Bates Hospital, March 2008
“Ste-ven,” a hoarse whisper.
He looked up from his reading to see his sister struggling to speak.
“Wa-ter,” she whispered.
Tears sprang to his eyes. “Oh my God, Ali, thank God.”
He held a water cup and straw to her mouth. She sipped and worked to swallow.
Steven gave his sister a weak smile.
Her eyes looked toward the water cup.
“More?” he asked.
She gave a tiny nod and took a larger swallow this time.
“Steven.” Al smiled at him. “I’ve had the strangest . . . most vivid dreams. It was like I was reliving . . . a memory.”
“I’m so glad you’re back.” He squeezed her hand; afraid to touch more of her for fear he’d hurt her. “I’ve been so scared.”
She squeezed back and seemed to doze off.
He called his father. “She’s awake. She spoke to me.”
Steven hung up the phone. “Dad’s on his way o
ver.”
Al groaned, muttered something. It sounded like she said, “Steven, it’s so real, maybe I’ve been reliving––it was like I was there.” She nodded off.
CHAPTER
33
Definitely strange, but the dreams were so real. Had I been reliving Lexi’s life?
I had a lot to think about as I lay in my hospital bed. My imaginings were so realistic. Was it real? Had I really chosen my best friend and his wife for parents? Or was it all another bad dream?
I tried to remember the thoughts I’d had just prior to being shot in front of Kroeber Hall. I was onto something, but the concept kept slipping from my grasp.
“Steven?” I said.
My brother looked up from his book. “Yes?”
“How bad is it?”
“Your injury?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The doctor says there’s no reason you won’t recover completely. And the second MRI they did this morning showed the inflammation has gone down a lot.”
“How soon can I get up?”
“I think we better ask the doctor that, but I imagine as soon as you feel like it.”
I attempted to lift my head, but it felt impossibly heavy. A wave of nausea hit me.
Steven looked alarmed. “Hey. Wait until we talk to the doctor, will ya?”
“Yeah, I think I better.” I rested for a few minutes before I asked him the next question.
“Steven . . . what do you think about . . . the idea . . . of reincarnation?”
He shrugged. “Seems logical. Could explain a lot of things. Feeling like you’ve been somewhere before. That immediate connection you feel towards some people. Even love at first sight. There are more people on this planet who believe in it than don’t. But . . . it’s a little . . . um . . . freaky. Why?”
I didn’t want to answer his why. I decided to drop the subject until I’d had a chance to think about it with a clearer head. “I thought I heard Dad’s voice.”
“He’s been in and out,” Steven answered.
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