It all came effortlessly to her. The chords, the cadences, and the complex scales were second nature. Although I had finally started to master the material, my interests drifted from the technical basics to unique composers and special works. I envisioned myself teaching classes at a college some day, maybe comparing Verdi with Puccini, or discussing the nuances of the musical forms of the nocturne versus the mazurka. I’d also dreamed about writing books on the subjects.
Someday.
If I ever manage to graduate.
Elsbeth examined the Woodstock poster more closely, which featured a Grecian-style nude tipping water from a large urn.
“Aquarius,” I said.
She smiled and pointed to the other figures on the poster. Above Aquarius was a drawing of a woman’s head flanked by scrolled Viking horns. On either side of Aquarius were two cherub-like figures, their arms raised in the air. The entire poster was decorated in filigreed scarlet and blue hearts and paisley designs.
“Do you think Valerie is planning to go to Woodstock?” she said. “Or at least was planning to go, before she lost her memory?”
“Maybe.” I hoped to avoid the argument we’d had last week about finances and priorities, where I tried to convince her that paying rent trumped going to wild concerts in the middle of nowhere. “Let’s see what else is here.”
“Okay.” Elsbeth picked up a small beaded purse lying on top of a jumble of clothing. “I feel like I’m snooping.”
I flashed a half-smile at her. “I know. But she gave us permission.”
“Still…” Loosening the rawhide strings, Elsbeth poured the contents into her hand. Quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies landed in her palm. An antique gold ring with a large amber stone clinked onto the pile.
Elsbeth shook the bag again. “There’s something else in here.” Two hoop earrings plopped out of the bag, followed by a blue and yellow beaded necklace. “Oh, pretty,” she said. I had a feeling she wanted to try some of them on, but controlled herself.
I picked through a jumble of clothing, most of which was wrinkled and smelled musty. Setting it aside, on the bottom of the case I found a long apple seed necklace, brown fishnet stockings, a scuffed pair of suede moccasins, a small silver locket with “Valerie,” engraved on it, and seven well-worn record albums. I flipped through The Doors’ first album, Jeff Beck’s “Truth,” The Beatles’ “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” The Jefferson Airplane’s “Surrealistic Pillow,” The Rolling Stones’ “Beggar’s Banquet,” Blue Cheer’s first album featuring “Summertime Blues,” and Joni Mitchell’s “Clouds.” Each was inscribed with “Valerie” across the back in the same loopy handwriting we’d seen before.
“Well, I guess there’s no doubt about her first name, anyway.” Elsbeth held a silver locket up to the light. It twisted around on its chain. “It’s gotta be Valerie.”
“Right. But I don’t see a diary, a license, or any folding money. No social security card, or student ID, either,” I mumbled, picking through the items.
“Maybe her purse was stolen? Or she lost it in the crash?” Elsbeth said, elbowing me gently. “By the way. Aren’t you gonna call about that?”
“Yes, of course.” She was right. I still hadn’t called the police. “I’ll do it, right after this.”
The door flew inward, and our apartment roommates, Byron Cunningham and Lana Juarez, arrived like a hurricane trying to beat out a tornado. They brimmed with so much energy, sometimes it was exhausting. The two weren’t a couple, although Elsbeth had implied that Lana wished they were.
Byron, the best man from our wedding and my very good friend, was an accomplished tenor who took full advantage of the appeal of his British accent when it came to the ladies. With glossy ebony skin, he was a handsome devil, who moved like a dancer, which the girls also seemed to like.
“Blimey, Gus.” He leaned over the guitar case. “Who belongs to this?”
Lana picked up the Joni Mitchell album. “Oh, I love this one. Can we play it?” She tossed her black ponytail over her shoulder with a grin.
Elsbeth put her finger to her lips. “Ssh, she’s sleeping.”
“Who’s sleeping?” Byron’s eyebrows shot up, drawing attention to his new haircut.
He’d recently shaved off his beard and eight-inch high Afro, and now sported a short, neat cap of black hair. I still wasn’t used to this more conservative-looking Byron.
“A girl we found,” I whispered. “We kind of, um, rescued her. She seemed totally lost.”
Lana shot me a cold look and raised one eyebrow. “Another rescue? You’re always bringing home lost souls. Remember that kitten? She was loaded with fleas.” Lana snorted and flounced to the refrigerator. She wasn’t much of an animal lover, and she’d just about forced us to find another home for the fluffy orange kitten who I’d fallen in love with. I was still a little mad at her for that.
Opening the refrigerator door with a flourish, she grabbed a carton of orange juice, poured some into a mug, and downed it in one gulp. With a loud clank, she set the cup in the sink. “Where will she sleep?” Her black eyes darted from Elsbeth to me.
Lana slept in the only room with two beds.
Byron stood up, put his hands on his hips—kind of like a big, black Superman—and glared at Lana. “A little tolerance, please. She can have my room, if she wants. I’ll bunk with you.”
Lana raised one eyebrow, looked at Byron, and shrugged. “Fine. I don’t care where you crash.”
Renting a room to Lana had been a mistake. She was petty, snippy, and sometimes downright churlish. The one redeeming factor was her healthy checking account. She made good tips as a waitress, and paid her rent on time.
Elsbeth was convinced Lana had a major crush on Byron, who was a notorious womanizer. I watched her glance sideways at him. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw a hurt-little-girl softness pass through her.
She does have a crush on him. Damn.
Byron’s handsome Nubian features and velvet voice made the women in his life swoon. He knowingly used all his resources to full advantage. Frequently. I disapproved of just about all of his choices, but he was such a character, I couldn’t help but love him like a reckless brother.
“I’ll make that phone call,” I said, standing to repack Valerie’s things. It didn’t feel right to leave them scattered about for Byron and Lana to paw through.
Elsbeth tossed me a melt-your-heart-and-turn-it-to-mush smile that curled my toes. Anticipated sensual pleasures danced through my imagination, and I headed into the kitchen to call the police.
Chapter 4
“So, there have been no accidents with missing persons involved?” I said to the patient policewoman on the other end who had just recommended we bring Valerie to a hospital, since she had amnesia. “Okay. Well, thanks anyway.”
Elsbeth touched my arm when I hung up. “Nothing?”
“Nothing. And they think we should dump her at a hospital.”
Elsbeth shook her head, walking briskly to the stove. She turned on the burner under the teakettle. “No way. We’re not giving up on her. They’ll stick her in some psych ward and load her up with tranquilizers. No.” She smiled with determination over her shoulder. “We’re keeping her. Okay?”
“Sure.” Her pet projects were usually wildly philanthropic. It was one of the reasons I’d fallen in love with her at the tender age of ten, when she used to rush into the street to stop traffic to save snapping turtles from being crushed by cars. In addition to being a champion for innocent animals, Elsbeth also stayed in touch with her relatives in East and West Germany, and frequently wrote to her family who shared her dreams of tearing down the Berlin wall. She had dreams, big dreams. And I loved her for that.
When her family escaped from East Germany, Elsbeth and her twin brother, Siegfried, were only four years old. They’d moved into the farmhouse just down the road from our place, and we’d soon become best pals. The twins’ mother, Brigit Marggrander, had lost her entire fami
ly in the camps in Buchenwald, and spent many hours recounting the horrors to Elsbeth, Siegfried, and me, when we were children. It was so we would never forget the horrors of the Holocaust.
Of course, we hadn’t forgotten. Who could forget such atrocities? I still couldn’t believe they were real, even at the age of nineteen. My God, how could someone try to annihilate a whole race? It seemed impossible, yet I knew it was absolutely true.
After a pause, I brought myself back to the present. “Elsbeth? I’m with you. Let’s see if we can help Valerie. As long as we can get Lana to cooperate.”
She flashed me a radiant smile and took two cups from the shelf, dropping mint tea bags into each. I rummaged through the cabinet and found a fresh package of rice cakes, seasoned with sea salt. Unfastening the bag, I took out two cakes.
“Tahini?” I opened the refrigerator door.
“Sure,” she said.
Both of us had been obsessed with health food since we started college. It certainly wasn’t cheap. But with the tips she made at the local diner and my student loan account, we managed to afford a weekly trip to the health food market. To be honest, Elsbeth was the one who took the lead in this venture, but I followed along without too much complaining. Most of the stuff was downright delicious. But once in a while I craved a great, big juicy burger and fries.
We religiously bought organic products when we could find them, and had even taken to drinking goat milk, in spite of the funny aftertaste. We often joked about the laundry the goats must have feasted on before being milked.
I spread tahini on the rice cakes and set them on a plate. “There you go.”
Byron sauntered into the room, focusing on a musical score he held open in his hands. His eyebrows shot skyward and he heaved a big sigh. “Honestly? More health food?”
I snorted a laugh. “Want some?”
He roared and clapped me on the back. “Maybe next time, old chap. I’ve got a date with a stonking big burger and a smashing blonde.”
Elsbeth looked askance at him. “You’re such a chauvinist, Byron.”
“I know. It’s my claim to fame, after all.” He flashed a broad, snowy smile, and winked at me, then grabbed his orange and yellow poncho from the coat rack. He tossed it over his shoulder and breezed out the door.
“He’ll never change,” she said, pouring hot water into the cups.
“No chance in hell. Not until he’s ninety years old. If then.”
She shook her head. “Can’t picture it, even then. He’ll be chasing the nurses around the old folks’ home. I just don’t understand him. He never chooses the good girls. Never. He won’t let me set him up with my friends. You know Cheryl, right?”
I didn’t answer. Matchmaking wasn’t Elsbeth’s forté.
“Well, anyway, I really wanted to introduce Byron to her. I think they’d be great together.”
I shook my head, knowing Byron wasn’t in the market for a nice girl or even remotely ready to settle down. I couldn’t relate to that, but knew him well enough to predict his reaction. “He won’t go for her. She’s too sweet. Too nice.”
“Men.” She rolled her eyes, took a few careful sips of the hot tea, and looked at the clock. It was almost five. “Will you stay here and keep an eye on Valerie? I’m going to be late for work if I dawdle much longer.”
“No problem. I’ve got tons of work to do. Anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised if she sleeps through the night.”
Elsbeth wolfed down a rice cake, finished her tea, kissed me on the forehead, and trotted off to the bathroom to shower and change into her pink waitress uniform.
I slowly ate my rice cake, picturing her in the uniform that drove me wild.
The pink fabric swished when she walked. It whispered over her skin when she leaned over to pour coffee. Although she wore it buttoned to the top, I often imagined her with the top unbuttoned, leaning over me with her hair loose and fragrant.
Daydreams would be the death of me. Especially when I needed to study music theory.
I finished my tea, sighed deeply, and relinquished the fantasy. After washing the dishes, I reluctantly returned to my homework.
Chapter 5
Later in the evening, Valerie woke up and stood in the hallway peering into the kitchen. Hugging herself, she slanted her eyes uncertainly at me. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” I said.
Still dressed in Elsbeth’s oversized robe, she looked lost.
I’d spread my papers over the table and had been drinking endless cups of Postum, my wife’s latest coffee-substitute craze, waiting for her to come home from the diner, which was located two blocks down Beacon Street. She was due home in an hour, at ten.
“Hungry?” I asked.
The girl bit her lower lip, pushed back her tangled mane of hair, and stepped into the light. “A little.”
I got up and pulled a chair out for her. “Why don’t you sit? I’ll make you something.”
She shuffled into the kitchen and flopped onto the chair, looking down at her hands. “Sorry. I’m so out of it.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “You like eggs?”
“I don’t know. I think so.” Her voice trembled, and she rushed her words. “I can’t remember.”
I took out a carton of eggs and a stick of butter, laying them on the counter next to the stove. “But you do remember some things, right? You remember how to speak, how to walk, and what words mean. At least that part of your brain is working.”
“I guess,” she said.
“And little by little, it’ll come back. Elsbeth and I will help you remember. We can try to retrace your steps around town. Take you through neighborhoods that feel familiar. Put your picture in the paper with our phone number. That kind of thing. We’ll help you, Valerie. I promise.”
She started to weep. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“It’ll be okay.” Like most guys my age, I was uncomfortable in a room with a weeping woman. I didn’t know what to say. I cracked the eggs into melted butter, added a little goat milk, stirred it up, and layered cheddar cheese over the top. Finally, I turned down the heat and sat in the chair next to her.
She wiped her tears and tried to regain control.
“Elsbeth thinks you may have been in a car accident.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I said. “You know that bruise on your leg? And the stains on your clothes? She thinks maybe you were hurt in a car.”
“Maybe.” She felt her scalp and gingerly moved her fingertips over the back of her head. “I’ve got a huge lump. Feel it.”
I ran my fingers lightly over the goose egg, careful not to press down. It was a bad one. For a fleeting moment I questioned our decision not to bring her to the hospital. “Does it hurt?”
“Uh huh.” Her eyes watered again.
“Anything else? Do you think you need to see a doctor?”
“No!” Her eyes widened in fear. “I hate doctors.” She jumped from her chair and backed away from me. “No doctors.”
“Whoa.” Surprised, I tried to soothe her. “Okay. No doctors.” I rose and returned to the stove. The eggs spattered in the pan. I quickly tended to them and popped some whole grain barley bread into the toaster.
“Valerie?”
She sat back down, tossing me an anxious look. “What?”
“That’s a good sign.”
“What’s a good sign?”
“You remembered something.”
“I did?” Her eyebrows drew together.
“Yes. You said you hate doctors.”
“Oh.” She looked pleased, then worried. “Maybe it’s not such a good thing.”
“Well, maybe not. But something bad happened to you at a doctor’s office, or a hospital. And you remembered a little, anyway.”
She brightened for a minute, and then her shoulders slumped again. “I guess so. But what if it’s something I don’t want to remember?” she asked softly.
I buttered the toast, slid the eggs onto a plate, poured some orange juice, and offered her all-natural blueberry preserves.
She downed the food ravenously.
I watched her eat; glad she liked it. “Maybe we should check your guitar case together. It might jog your memory.”
She looked up from her plate, wiping her chin with a napkin. “Okay. If you think it might help.”
For a moment, I wondered if she was subconsciously avoiding the past because of some massive trauma.
What in the world happened to her?
Did someone beat her? Knock her to the ground? Had she fallen from a balcony? Was she thrown out of a group home? Or had she been camping with hippies in the hills and they left her behind after she fell and hit her head?
What happened to make her so damned afraid?
Chapter 6
Valerie looked through the items, one by one. She stroked the smooth neck of the lute reverently, but handled it gingerly with no sense of familiarity, almost like a woman who holds an infant for the first time.
I felt certain that a musical connection would be the strongest, and was disappointed when the physical memory that should have been firmly implanted in the cells of her hands and arms didn’t make her pick it up and begin to play.
“Nothing?” I said, watching her put it back in the case.
She shook her head, answering in a small voice. “No.”
I picked up the Joni Mitchell album and slid the worn vinyl disk into my hands. “I’ve heard music will jog your memory,” I said, as if I actually knew what I was talking about.
She gazed at me with a wistful, polite expression. “Really?”
“Well. Let’s see.” I set the record onto our turntable. The mellow sounds of Joni’s voice filtered through the air, drifted among the odd possessions we’d accumulated, and gently resonated between us. I sat down beside her again.
She took the locket in her hands, and held it, but she didn’t put it on.
“Here,” I said. “Why don’t you wear it?” I leaned over to help her put it on.
Just as I was fitting the clasp, Lana came out of her room in a cloud of perfume. She’d been in there all evening, sleeping to prepare for her overnight shift at the El Dorado bar.
Spirit Me Away Page 2