by Sheila Lowe
“I think you were a little preoccupied,” Dr. Gold said, taking his chair opposite her and laying his hands in his lap. “That’s Green Tara.”
“Green Tara?”
“In the Buddhist tradition she’s the Goddess of Compassion. You see how she’s sitting in the half-lotus position with her right leg extended? That’s because she’s poised to get up quickly to help those who need it.”
“I like that.”
“The legend says that Green Tara was born of the tears of Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion,” he explained.
“The bodhiswhat?”
Dr. Gold smiled. “Bodhisattva. A bodhisattva is a person who has achieved a state of enlightenment and is worthy of becoming a Buddha, but who postpones his own nirvana to help others. So, as the story goes, this particular bodhisattva looked upon the suffering of the world and wept so much over it that his tears formed a lake.
“In the lake a lotus sprang up and when it opened, there was Tara. Actually, there were two Taras. White Tara came from the tears of Avalokiteshvara’s left eye and Green Tara from the right eye.” He paused for breath while Jenna waited, fascinated for him to continue the story. “It’s said that Green Tara, this one here on my table, works day and night, endlessly, to relieve our suffering. She is the fierce Mother Earth who saves us from danger.”
“What does White Tara do?” asked Jenna, intrigued by the story.
“She gently protects and brings long life and peace.”
His voice was melodic and deep, easy to listen to. Jenna thought she wouldn’t mind listening to it all day. “I could use some protection,” she mused aloud. “I think I’ll look for a Green Tara for my apartment. Maybe after I leave here. There’s that New Age store on Abbott Kinney that I passed last time...” she let her voice trail off. “Last time” she had blacked out on her way home after their hypnotherapy session.
It all came rushing back again: the cold terror of returning to consciousness halfway into the backseat at the traffic light. Had Dr. Gold seen her shudder? She thought there was not much those amber-flecked eyes missed.
“Have any memories returned since you were here?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” she said, wanting to tell him but hesitating. “When you hypnotized me I saw—I think I was in a car wreck.”
He gave an encouraging nod. “The scar on your head could have resulted from a car accident.”
“Do you think Ms. Rose’s detective friend can find out whether it’s true? I mean, that I was in an accident?”
“We’ll ask him. They’ll be joining us shortly.” Dr. Gold allowed several seconds of silence before he spoke again. “Are you ready to talk about what else you saw while you were in the trance state?”
“No! I mean, do I have to?”
“Only if you’re ready, Jenna, but you might find talking about it makes it less threatening.”
“How sure are you about that?”
“That’s the way it normally works.” He sat relaxed in his chair, hands loose in his lap, not pushing or prodding, letting her decide for herself. Maybe he was right, but still she held back, undecided about what she was willing to share with him.
What if he were wrong? What if telling him made things worse?
What could be worse?
The hypnosis made it worse.
Did it?
She was aware of Dr. Gold awaiting a response.
Unexpected tears prickled the back of her eyelids. Jenna pressed her hands to her face, struggling to contain the eddy of emotions welling up. Without putting her trust in him, there was no way she would be able to progress.
Can I trust him?
Yes.
The instant she reached that conclusion, the words rushed out like air from a popped balloon.
“I was in a car and it hit a truck—one of those big grocery haulers. We were at the top of a steep grade. It was pouring rain like a waterfall. We hit the truck and went over the embankment—we were flying, then we started rolling and my head hit the windshield, then the roof....” Jenna broke off. The buzzing was blocking out Dr. Gold’s quiet voice and she had to concentrate to hear him.
“Were you wearing a seat belt?” he asked.
“I was, but I had to unbuckle it to—” She broke off again. Trust had its limits. She could not talk about the child.
“Who was driving the car, Jenna?”
Bzzzzzzz
Stop, dammit!
“A man was driving. He kept staring at me like he hated me—” she broke off, seeing those malevolent eyes from her trance, wishing her dead.
“Did you know him?” Dr. Gold asked gently.
“I think—so—I think—I think I did. Yes. I knew—”
“Did he say anything?”
Bzzzzzzz
“Um...yes, he said...” The words were right there, the words she had heard over and over in her nightmares. She tried to slow her breathing. “He said—he said, ‘I’ll take you with me.’”
There was a long pause, then Dr. Gold asked, “What do you think he meant by that?”
“He was going to kill us all.” She had spoken without thinking and Dr. Gold left her statement floating in the air. The silence grew and expanded until it filled the room.
His voice when he spoke at last was deceptively soft. “Who else was in the car with you, Jenna?”
“What?”
“You said he was ‘going to kill us all.’”
“I meant both. He was going to kill us both. Him and me. Just him and me.”
His eyes probed her deepest secrets—penetrating all the way through to the ones she herself had forgotten. Or wanted to forget. “I think you meant ‘all.’ Can you tell me who else was in the car with you and the man?”
Jenna shook her head fiercely. “No one. I made a mistake. No one else was there.”
She pressed her fingertips against the scar behind her ear as though it were a volume control button that could reduce the horrid buzzing. And then she told the big ironic lie. “I don’t remember.”
“It sounds like someone else was with you and the man in the car, Jenna.”
“What about the handwriting analyst?” Her voice sounded too loud. She dialled down the volume. “She’s still coming, isn’t she?”
“She’ll be here shortly.” Dr. Gold sat forward, relentless. “Jenna, can you tell me who else was in the car with you and the driver?”
“Someone’s coming.” She rocked back and forth, her arms crossed protectively over her stomach. “Someone’s at the door.” Before she had finished speaking, there was a light knock.
Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you.
Clad in jeans and Tee-shirt, a mane of auburn hair tumbling over the shoulders of her off-white linen jacket, Claudia Rose looked not at all intimidating. Jade-colored eyes sparked with curiosity and good humor. “Please, don’t get up,” she said as Jenna started to rise.
Claudia made her way around the coffee table and took a place on the couch, reaching out to offer her hand. “We met in San Diego.” She said it in a matter-of-fact way, without looking at Jenna as though she were a freak because she could not remember their meeting.
Jenna liked her for that. She said, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember any of it—the convention, meeting you. I guess Dr. Gold told you my story.” She glanced over at the psychologist, who sat in his chair, taking in their exchange.
“He’s shared the basics,” Claudia said. “It must be—well, I can’t even begin to know how it must be. It’s beyond unimaginable.”
“I’ve learned some things about my life over the past few days that have left me with a lot of questions about who I am. I hope your friend has some news for me.”
“He’ll be joining us in a few minutes. In the meantime, I was wondering, Jenna, would you be willing to write a new handwriting sample for me?”
“What for?” Jenna heard the defensiveness in her voice.
“It’s just to give us a baseline to compare the sa
mple you wrote for me in San Diego, and see whether anything has changed,” Claudia said with a reassuring smile.
“Like what?”
“If there’s something physiological to be concerned about, it might show up, like if you’d had a blow to the head, which seems to be the case. Plus, you’ve experienced emotional stress, which could cause some changes, too.”
“So, if you a head injury could make your handwriting change?”
“It could, yes.”
“But what if you had an injury and it didn’t affect you physically?”
“Even then it might show up,” Claudia said. “Some types of concussion, for example, or a certain type of closed head injury can cause behavioral changes and memory problems, even when you can’t see anything wrong on the outside.”
Jenna felt curiosity overtaking her reluctance. “If you think it might help, I’ll do it. What do I have to write?”
Claudia opened the briefcase she’d brought with her and reached inside for a clipboard with several sheets of blank paper already attached.
“Do you have a special pen you like to use?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s fine; you can use this one.” She handed Jenna a Uniball. “Are you right- or left-handed?”
Jenna had to think about it. “Um, I think I’m left-handed. Does it make a difference?”
“Handedness is just one of the things your handwriting doesn’t tell about you. That, and age and gender.”
“What do you want me to write?”
“It doesn’t matter what you write, but it should be essay style. Don’t make it a lyric or a poem because that changes your natural patterns and can make the handwriting artificial. You can write as much as you like, more is better, but at least five or six lines. When you’re finished, sign your name.”
“What if I print?”
“Printing is writing, too.”
Jenna noticed Claudia signal to Dr. Gold with an eyebrow lift. He rose from his chair. “We’ll give you a few minutes on your own, so you can concentrate without having us looking over your shoulder. We’ll be right outside in the garden if you need anything.”
e i g h t e e n
The door closed behind them and Jenna looked down at the clipboard in her lap, intimidated by the blank paper waiting to be filled. All that white space seemed like an ocean and she had a mere bucketful of words.
Her thoughts were jumping around like a monkey on a jungle vine:
What if they want to use my handwriting to prove I’m crazy?
Why would they do that?
What will the detective say about the two driver’s licenses?
Maybe he’ll take you to jail.
That’s stupid, I haven’t done anything wrong.
How do you know?
After several deep breaths to wrestle the monkey into submission, she managed to write a few bland lines about the drive from Ventura to Venice. Rereading what she had written, curiosity stirred again. What would her handwriting reveal about her?
She was signing her name, which still felt awkward, when the office door opened and Dr. Gold entered with Claudia and another man whom she assumed must be Claudia’s detective friend.
Jenna guessed he was around forty, and more than a head taller than Claudia, who was herself about five-seven. His salt and pepper hair was trimmed close to his skull, but it had a slight curl and looked as if it might get unruly if he allowed it to grow much longer.
He was tanned and fit in a golf shirt and cargo pants, and she fancied the detective spent time working out at the gym.
For a moment she let her imagination run wild. An involuntary mental image of him sweating in shorts and nothing else sent a hot flush to her face that made her glance away. It struck her as interesting that she could experience this quiver of arousal for the detective when she felt nothing at all for Simon, who was her lover.
The detective introduced himself as Joel Jovanic and shook her hand with a firm grip. “I work for the Los Angeles Police Department,” he explained as they all sat down. “But I’m here off the book as a favor to Claudia.”
Would he have a weapon concealed on his body the way off-duty detectives did in the movies? There was a toughness about him that made her think he was not someone to cross. But his voice was calm and dispassionate and gave Jenna confidence in his ability to help her.
“I’m so grateful to you for doing this,” she told him shyly. “I guess it means you’re working on your day off. Thank you, detective.”
He gave her a brief nod. “I’ve already spoken with someone I know in Missing Persons. He checked the state and regional Missing Adult databases with the information on your two driver’s licenses that Dr. Gold photocopied. There was nothing filed on a missing person for either Jenna Marcott or Jessica Mack.”
“When I went to work on Wednesday, my—er, boss told me he’d been trying to reach me since last Friday. That’s a whole week ago now.”
“I understand, but so far, there hasn’t been a report filed.”
“If no one’s reported me missing, maybe it means I don’t have any family. Or they don’t care that I’m missing.” Until this second she had not given any thought to family.
If she allowed herself to admit it, she had pushed the subject aside, along with so many other things. But now, the idea that apparently nobody had noticed whether she was dead or alive was devastating.
Detective Jovanic shook his head. “That’s not necessarily the case. Could be you’ve just not been in contact with your people for a few days. You were on a train, so maybe your family thought you were still away. It’s not all that long for someone to be out of touch.” He paused. “I understand you’re staying in Ventura. What about the other addresses, the ones on the licenses in Marina del Rey and Escondido—have you checked them out?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“The first thing I’ll suggest you do is visit those addresses and see if anything hits you. Knock on doors, talk to the neighbors, see if they know you.”
“If they do know me, they’ll think I’m crazy.”
When he eased up on the serious expression, the detective had a nice smile that creased the corners of his eyes. “I have every confidence that you’ll find a way to do it without them thinking you’re crazy. And chances are, the mystery will be solved right there.”
“And if it’s not?”
“If it’s not, I’ll meet you at the division where I work and take your fingerprints. It’s possible that running them through the system might produce something.”
“I have a security clearance at work,” Jenna said. “Doesn’t that mean I would have been fingerprinted before?”
“Probably, but unless you’ve been arrested for engaging in some type of criminal activity, you wouldn’t be in our databases. For that reason, let’s hope you’re not.”
The detective sat at the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, leaning toward her. “Jenna, is there anything you can add to the information on the driver’s licenses that might help me when I search?”
She told him about the possibility that she had been injured in a car accident. “Would an accident show up in your database?”
“It would if criminal charges were filed. I’ll check it out.”
“And if charges were filed—when will you know?”
“I’ll call you Monday afternoon and let you know either way.”
He asked for her cell phone number, which prompted her to tell him about the second cell phone she had found under the bed. She fished both phones from her purse. “I hope I’m not a drug dealer or something like that. Who else would need two ID’s and two cell phones?”
“There are many possible reasons for that.” Detective Jovanic slid his finger across the screen of the newer phone like she had, checking the contact list. “If you were dealing drugs, there would be a lot of names in the address book, which neither of these phones has. You might want to call the carrier and find out how long t
he accounts have been active.” He handed her his business card. “If anything else comes up or you remember anything over the weekend, give me a call.”
“And if you need someone to talk to, whether anything new comes up or not, call me anytime,” added Claudia, who had been sitting in the background listening to the exchange. She got out her card, too, and gave it to Jenna, who was feeling a little overwhelmed by the knowledge that she now had an entire team on her side.
***
After Jenna left, Claudia picked up the handwriting sample. Jovanic looked at it over her shoulder without comment.
“So, what can you tell me?” Zebediah Gold asked.
Claudia gave him a light punch on the arm. “Give me time. You know I don’t like doing quickies.”
Gold faked indignation. “Did you see that, detective? She assaulted me.”
“If you want to press charges, doc, I’ll have to cuff her.”
“She’d enjoy that, wouldn’t she?”
Jovanic threw her a sly glance. “She might at that.”
“Hey, guys,” Claudia interjected. “I’m standing right here, remember? Do you want to know what I think of Jenna-Jessica’s handwriting or not?”
“Yes, darling, I certainly do,” Zebediah said without the least contrition. They had been friends for so long, he knew what he could get away with. “What does my client’s handwriting tell you?”
Claudia got serious. “Of course, I want some time to look at it properly, but here’s my first impression: The writing shows tremendous stress, which isn’t surprising under the circumstances, but it’s far more basic than that. This is a strongly introverted personality with a compromised ego. At her center, she’s extremely insecure and uncertain. She’s pretty fragile.”
She gave them both a look of concern. “I’d say she’s experienced emotional pain so deep that she can’t begin to face it.
She cuts it off, pushes it away and pretends that it doesn’t exist. Maybe that’s the reason for the amnesia—the truth of her world is too much for her to face.”