Girl With a Past

by Sherri Leigh James

  It was almost painful to look at Elliott’s discomfort in the photo. Chubby, his cheeks looked full and pimply. “Was Elliott rich?”

  “Oh yeah, but he was one of those awkward rich kids. Over protected, nerdy as hell, no cool, shy, stiff and uncomfortable in his own skin. Except for the huge trust fund, he was the opposite of Jamie.” Carol said, then drove in silence for a few minutes.

  I could tell she was considering whether to tell us more. “Hey, Carol, please don’t worry about saying the wrong thing about any of these guys. Mom’s life maybe at stake.”

  She cleared her throat, “Elliott was short, shorter even than Dave. I’ve learned not to trust short men. They tend to be manipulative and mean, as though they want to cut everyone down to their size.” Carol took a deep breath and exhaled. “I mean, how dare he have such a chip on his shoulder? He had every material advantage, wealth, a high priced education, but he resented Jamie for having everything Jamie had. Elliott seemed to think that Jamie had what Elliott lacked––loving parents. Which wasn’t even true, you know. In fact, Jamie’s mother lived on the opposite coast and his father was always abroad. But Jamie had an insouciant charm, a self-deprecating confidence that drew people to him, while Elliott had a self-assertive lack of confidence that repelled all but his oldest friends. I actually always wondered how he had become friends with that gang.”

  She wasn’t holding back anymore. And I’d never realized before that Aunt Carol had a thing for Uncle Jamie.

  “And Ron?” I asked while she was on a roll.

  “He was a weird one. No connections, no money, but he never let on. Imitated the rich ones. He married money––twice. He did a good job of looking rich. Ya know . . . blonde and always tan. The preppie layers of clothes. He learned a lot from Jamie. He was fun, joking, playful, acted like he didn’t have a care in the world. But it had to be a strain trying to keep up with the others.”

  “Carol, I imagine it’s hard, but . . . would you please tell me about Lexi?”

  She sucked in her cheeks. The only sound she made for a full minute was a deep sigh. She opened her mouth as though to speak, but then closed it and concentrated on traffic. “I loved her the way one loves someone who really gets you. Do ya know what I mean?”

  My heart answered her with a deep ache, a longing for such a friend again. I nodded. In the silence while we both fought back tears, I wondered at my reaction. Again?

  “Al, the strange thing is . . . you remind me of her. The way ya accepted me from the first moment. I’m not usually terribly popular with children. Lexi would’ve said it’s because I’m a bitch.” She stretched her mouth into a sad smile. “But you.” Sigh. “As a toddler, ya tossed your curly blonde locks with excitement, ran across the lawn, and jumped into my arms smothering me with kisses.” She failed to stop the tears. “Oh, fuck, hand me a damn tissue!”

  She wiped her face, blew her nose. “I do love ya kiddo!”

  “I love you too, Aunt Carol.” I grinned, wiped my own tears, and sniffled.

  There was not a word from Steven in the back seat. I was tempted to look to see if my tough guy bro had teared up, but then Carol continued.

  “Lexi was an amazing artist. Like you, actually. At times she lived in another world, a world full of her paintings, and color. She was obsessed with color. She could go on about the colors in a sunset, or a rainbow, the ocean, or a forest, until I was ready to scream. But she did make me see a colorful world that I’d been oblivious to.” Carol pounded her fist on the steering wheel. “There was no damn reason, no fucking reason for anyone to kill her. She always saw the best in people, ignored shortcomings. It used to drive me crazy sometimes, she was such a Pollyanna.”

  I smiled.

  “You know, after she was supposedly killed by a serial killer, I researched the subject thoroughly––it’s been a secret obsession of mine.” Carol said.

  “Why do you say supposedly?” I asked.

  “No one was ever caught, tried or convicted.” Carol hesitated as though she were deciding if she should voice her thoughts. “Serial killers used to be called “stranger killers” because most murderers kill for a motive rather than for thrills. I’ve never been totally convinced that Lexi was a stranger to her killer.”

  “What?” Steven broke his silence.

  “A couple of her friends were, still are, strange enough to be serial killers.”

  “Who?" he asked.

  “I’ve got a list of serial killer characteristics. You can look at it and see for yourself.” Carol said.

  “I read a file Dad had about the Zodiac. Douchebag was wacko and wrong. Nobody who could even pretend to be normal could be that messed up,” I said.

  Carol gave me a quick glance. “You might be surprised. Sometimes they can seem pretty normal and the characteristics aren’t all that weird.”

  “Give me an example of a characteristic.” Steven asked.

  “Portly,” Carol said.

  “Fat?” Steven asked.

  “Ever seen pictures of John Wayne Gacy? That kind of pudgy.”

  “Like Elliott?” I asked.

  Carol nodded and pulled the car up to the curb in front of Kroeber Hall. I glanced at the spot where I had waited for Steven earlier in the day, but looked away. A chill ran down my spine. I let Steven do the talking.

  “That’s where it happened.” Steven waved toward the middle of the lawn. “She was on the bench, then she saw me I guess.” Steven looked to me for confirmation, I nodded and he continued, “She stood up and started to run towards the car when all of a sudden she collapsed onto the grass, scared the hell out of me, but then she jumped up, ran to the car and hopped in.”

  “And the police? What did they find?” Carol asked.

  I had to answer; Steven had waited in the car while I spoke with the Berkeley cops. “They found two bullets,” I managed to choke out.

  “In the grass?” Carol asked.

  She was strangely curious about this shooting. I nodded an affirmation to her question.

  “Show me.” Carol opened her car door.

  I really didn’t want to get out of that car, but she stood waiting on the sidewalk.

  “Al, I’m going to park the car legally this time.” Steven said as he slid into the driver’s seat. “You okay?”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t okay. My heart was in my throat.

  “Hey, you don’t have to do this.” Steven leaned across to the passenger window. “Aunt Carol, I don’t think––”

  “It’s okay Steven. I’ve gotta do it some day. Might as well get it over with.” I opened the car door and put one foot at a time on the sidewalk. I took a deep breath and stood up.

  My heart pounded, my eyes teared. What the hell? I had to stop overreacting. After all, I hadn’t gotten hit by the bullets. But now that adrenalin was no longer coursing through my veins, my legs felt like lead weights, and my headache was back with a sharp pain. I dragged myself over to where Carol rubbed the raw scar on the tree branch.

  “Yeah, that’s how the cops found the bullets. One of them hit the tree.” I said.

  Carol drew me into her arms and hugged me until it hurt. “Oh my god, thank god you’re okay.” She brushed my hair back and kissed my cheek.

  I nodded, but I didn’t feel okay. “Aunt Carol,” I whispered, “We’ve gotta find Mom. Don’t you have any ideas?”

  She shook her head. She held me close while she spoke in my ear. “I just can’t imagine that any of the people we know could have had anything to do with this. You are like, well for me, you’re the closest thing to a daughter I’ll ever have, and I think all of your uncles feel the same way about you. The thought of losing you . . . or your mother. It’s unbearable.” Carol shuddered as she squeezed me tight enough to hinder my breathing.

  “We’ve been through that once, it was hell, the worst ––” She choked, then hesitated before continuing. “We each blamed ourselves for encouraging her, hell, fucking pushing her to go on that date. If I’d j
ust let her stay locked in her studio . . . it was my fault.” Carol sighed again. “I guess everyone involved felt the same. But really it was me, I made her go. Anyway, our mutual guilt drew us all together. We became like a family, the realization that one of us could be gone, just all of a sudden disappear from our lives. Facing the fact of one’s own mortality is especially hard when you are young, when life is just beginning, but having a contemporary die brings the fact of death home.” She released me and shook her head.

  We linked arms while we walked to the bench. My knees shook, I sat down just as Steven walked around the corner of Kroeber Hall. Carol released my hand to wave at him.

  I’d forgotten to tell him something that could be important.

  I stood and ran to my brother.

  And the unthinkable happened.

  I had twenty feet to go to reach him when I heard a shot whiz by my ear and seconds later felt something slam into the side of my head.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Where was I? My eyelids felt glued shut, my limbs heavy, yet I was floating out of touch with my body in a cloud of fog.

  I concentrated, tried to pick up a hand, but something was attached to it. Could I lift a finger? The effort to move made me aware of the intense pain shooting through my head.

  Elevator bells chimed; phones rang in the distance. Voices muttered nearby. I couldn’t make sense of what they said. Too much work. I was too sleepy.

  I drifted back to the dream.

  I had misjudged the rock outcropping overhead on the trail above me and slammed my head right into a few tons of granite. Shit that hurt! I spun in black and stars, grabbed a bush that had managed to grow in a crack, and prayed I wouldn’t tumble down the rocky cliff. A hundred feet below, waves crashed against jagged crags embedded in a narrow strip of sand. Screams from the beach were faint, nearly drowned in the undulating roar of the breakers.

  My friend Jeff and I had been climbing down the cliff face to join a party on the beach in Big Sur when we heard a sharp yell followed by cries for help. Jeff who had some emergency medical experience opted to continue the climb down, but had sent me back up to the road to get help. Without Jeff calling out each foot placement, I was fighting the urge to sit down, frozen in place by fear. Rock climbing, particularly without any safety gear, or expert guidance scared the shit out of me.

  The stars floating around my head gave me an excuse to rest at least until the spinning stopped. Afraid the black that drifted in and out of my consciousness would lead to a fall, I laid down on the warm dirt ledge.

  On the edge of my awareness, Jeff’s faint, insistent voice called my name. I wanted to answer, if only the whirling would slow down. I knew I had to hurry. I had to get up.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Berkeley, Alta Bates Hospital, March 2008

  “Al, Alexandra.” Jeff squeezed his daughter’s hand, whispered her name as though he could call her back to them. “Alexandra.”

  Steven couldn’t believe how fucked up this was. His sister lying there, her face as white as the hospital bedding and bandages covered her blonde head. Tubes ran out of her mouth, across her nose, and out the top of her hands. The hum of machines attached to her arms and chest drowned her occasional moan.

  Dad had said, “Thank God she’s still alive,” and seemed unaffected by her comatose state. Spending his adult life prosecuting murders had hardened him. Steven vowed anew not to be cold like his father.

  “Where the hell is Mom?” Steven asked again.

  Jeff shrugged, but his hands shook and the strain on his face belied his attempt at casual. “Not answering her cell.” Maybe he wasn’t as coldhearted as Steven thought.

  “I’ve been trying to reach her all afternoon.” Steven said. “What’s going on? What’s this about, Dad?”

  Jeff shook his head, but he looked relieved when Carol and Dave burst into the room distracting his son from further questioning. The four exchanged silent, gentle hugs.

  Carol tiptoed to the bed and whispered, “Is she going to be okay?”

  Dave put his arm around Carol and whispered in her ear. She turned to Jeff and Steven with tears running down her botoxed face. She slid her hand down Steven’s face and then embraced Jeff. “Have you found Lauren yet?”

  “No,” Jeff said.

  The four stood together eyes on Al’s pale face, listening to the hum of the machines.

  “When was the last time you guys ate?” Carol broke the silence.

  “This morning,” Jeff answered even though he’d only grabbed coffee on the run to court.

  Carol glanced out the window at the darkening sky. “Let’s get some food.”

  “She’s been moaning, trying to tell us something.” Steven returned to the chair next to the bed. “I’ll stay here.”

  Steven’s father, his Uncle Dave and his Aunt Carol tried to persuade Steven to go with them but he held his ground.

  Dave and Carol were not a couple. In fact they’d probably run into each other in the lobby, but they were both, each in their own way, extraordinarily successful.

  Dave had turned what had started as a waterbed company into several furniture manufacturing and distributing businesses spending weeks at a time flying on his plane throughout south East Asia checking on his companies. He was today, as always, dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored, suit, his grooming perfect in every detail from the trim of his light brown hair to his buffed fingernails.

  Aunt Carol had never given up her hippie ways. Instead she had built a career on designing bohemian chic clothing and home accessories. She had changed out of her bloodied clothes into a rose velvet vest over a full paisley skirt, a silk shirt and ankle boots, with her signature scarf tied around her black hair. Indian style.

  “We’ll bring you a sandwich,” offered Carol.

  “Fine.” Steven wasn’t feeling hungry even though he’d been about to eat lunch when his father called and told him to leave immediately to pick up Al on the edge of campus.

  Oh man, did that scene blow. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing blood erupt from the side of his sister’s head. She was running towards him, totally freaked even before the shots, on a mission. If only he had some idea of what she was on to. For sure, it had something to do with Mom.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Big Sur, July 1968

  Familiar voices brought me back from dreaming of Big Sur. I wanted to tell them I was okay, but even the thought of trying to speak made my head hurt unbearably. Slipping back into the world of dreams, even a nightmare, was easier.

  The heat of the glaring sun intensified against the granite and dirt, where I was sheltered from the ocean breeze by the cliff and the rocky over hang. My heart pounded nearly out of my chest when I awoke to find my legs draped over the side of the ledge, my ears filled with the sound of the waves crashing below. I scrambled to my knees, fought hyperventilating. “Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.” I mentally chanted until I stopped freaking out.

  I licked lips gritty with dust, wiped sweat from my brow, rolled my sleeves down over arms that were already stinging with sunburn. If only I’d asked Jeff for some of the water he carried in his backpack. Thinking of Jeff, usually my best friend, I cursed him for leading me down what he called a shortcut from the easier trail climb. With great care, I braved turning my head to look up the mountain face. I had no idea how to climb up from where I was. Faint, familiar voices from the beach below reminded me that I had no choice.

  I grabbed a handful of a manzanita bush, pulled myself to my feet, and stretched for an outcrop within my reach. Hot granite stung my palm digging into tender skin. I pulled myself up the face with constant reminders not to look down.

  An eternity later, I crawled onto the shoulder of the road and wondered what to do next. My limbs shook as violently as my heart throbbed. I clambered to my feet and stumbled along the dry, dusty edge keeping as much distance between the cliff and myself as the hot aspha
lt allowed.

  A multi-colored VW bus wandered around a bend in the road. I waved both arms in broad X’s and the vehicle, covered in hand painted peace signs, pulled next to me on the roadside.

  “Can you take me to the ranger station?” I asked.

  When the two bearded young men stared at me without responding, I added, “Well, at least to the nearest phone?”

  “Sure.” The bearded one in the passenger seat grinned. He opened the sliding door to the rear compartment; a cloud of marijuana wafted out the opening and engulfed me as I climbed in. I perched on the edge of a homemade wood framed bed.

  “I think Nepenthe’s got the closest phone,” I gasped. The smoke didn’t help me to catch my breath or clear my head.

  The two guys sat motionless, the driver checking me out in the rearview mirror, the passenger turned to face me.

  “Look, there’s been an accident. Someone, a girl, fell down the cliff, landed on the rocks below,” I wheezed.

  The beards nodded, but didn’t move. “Shi-i-it.” The passenger muttered.

  “I . . . we need to get help.” When that failed to elicit any movement, I slammed my fist into the back of the driver’s seat. “Turn this fucking thing around!” I pointed to the road behind us, “Help is that way! The closest phone is at that restaurant you passed, back there. It’s a couple, maybe three miles.”

  The driver slowly rotated the steering wheel to the left, and pulled into the lane just as a sports car whipped around the corner, smoothly corrected course to miss the lumbering van. A pang of regret, if only I’d been pickier about what vehicle I’d flagged down.

  We chugged along, jolted from gear to gear, never exceeding fifteen miles an hour.

  “We kinda need to hurry,” I suggested, but nothing changed. I sighed, resigning myself to the long minutes it took to reach the restaurant parking lot. The bus rolled onto the decomposed granite. I jumped out the side door and ran up the timbered path beneath shading oaks.