What She Saw

by Sheila Lowe

  In a burst of harsh reality she saw her circumstances for what they were. Would that front desk clerk look at her worn Levi’s and scuffed shoes and take her for a homeless person?

  They would certainly call the cops to haul her away to a psychiatric hospital. Was that why the sight of that police officer scared her so badly? Maybe she had escaped from a mental institution.

  By the time she reached the hotel, her resolve had melted like ice cream on a hot day. She knew as she stood outside on the sidewalk that she would not pass through those doors.

  Where can I go?

  She was still trying to find an answer when a group of Asian tourists exited the hotel and filed past, excusing themselves in a language that she did not understand. Watching them follow their tour guide to the crosswalk in front of the hotel, she obeyed an impulse and tacked herself to the end of the group.

  The guide led them across the road and onto to a pedestrian footbridge spanning a highway.

  The 101.

  The words flashed in her head with a little thrill of recognition. A small victory. She had conjured up the slang name for this segment of the interstate highway. She knew something.

  It took about five seconds for the excitement to fade; she was still a nameless nobody. All of those people driving on the highway below—those people in their Mercedes and Toyotas, their trucks and motorcycles—they all knew where they were coming from; where they were going. Was anyone wondering where she was at this moment?

  The tour group continued on their trek, but she lingered on the bridge, mesmerized by the speeding traffic.

  A big black crow landed a foot away on the railing and looked straight at her as if delivering a telepathic message. As she stared back at the bird it spread its wings and rose gracefully into the sky.

  Watching it catch an updraft, she imagined how it would feel to spread your arms and lean over the edge until, like the crow you were soaring on the wind. And as she saw the image in her mind, her arms stretched out to her sides.

  Her left foot lifted onto the ledge. She grasped hold of the guard rail...

  The sudden loud blast of a horn sounded from a vehicle passing on the road.

  What the hell are you doing?

  She was aware that the voice was in her head, but it was loud enough to pull her back to safety. She flung herself to the far side of the walkway, appalled at how close she had come to following that insane urge.

  Oh God, am I suicidal? What happened to my mind?

  She sank down onto the curb, giving herself until her respirations had slowed to normal and her hands had stopped their violent trembling. The questions replayed over and over in her head. Maybe if she concentrated fiercely enough, she would get some answers.

  The answer is, you’re nuts.

  That can’t be right.

  Nuts.

  Finally, she got to her feet and doggedly resumed the path the tour group had taken up California Street, though by now, they had almost disappeared from view.

  As she approached Thompson Boulevard right after bridge the strobe in her head started flashing like it had when she had recognized the 101. Names of local businesses starting to click into place. The white building with rust-colored awnings—Hamburger Habit. Beyond the Habit, Clark’s Liquor. After Clark’s, the Bombay Bar and Grill.

  The thump and strum of a live band reached her before she was past the liquor store. The smooth rhythm and blues spilling into the street drew her in and she paused to watch the band performing on a tiny stage in the front window. Somehow, she knew that the husky-voiced singer was named Joe Wilson.

  The song he was belting was called Bad Behavior. That piece of information earned a triumphant little fist pump just before despair engulfed her again. How could she know these trivial things, but nothing about herself?

  As she turned away from the window to resume her march up California Street, she noticed that the sun was setting.

  What am I going to do?

  “Jen! Hey, Jennnnna!”

  She hesitated for just a beat, but did not bother to turn around at the male voice shouting out behind her. Like the man at the train station talking to the Valley Girl, this guy had to be calling to someone else. Hunching her shoulders she started walking a little faster.

  The voice yelled again, louder, persistent. Closer.

  She stopped to half-turn and glance over her shoulder. It must have been the equal measures of hope and jitters that made her break out in a cold sweat.

  A man was hanging on the open door of the bar, looking her way. Lanky, in faded Levis and tee-shirt, shaggy black hair. Thirtyish, palms upturned in a question mark. He jogged toward her in an effortless lope. “What’s the rush?”

  Who is he? How does he know me?

  As if it were the normal thing to do, he scooped her up in a quick squeeze. Nothing about him felt familiar, but she was too elated to care. Someone knew her. She had a name. He’d called her Jenna. She tried it on for size and found it slightly uncomfortable, like a too-tight pair of shoes. But she clung to it, fearing he would take a second look and utter an embarrassed, Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else.

  The man released her and took a step back, gave her a long appraising look. “I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s up with the haircut, chicklet?”

  Her hand went up and raked thick locks cut boyishly short. She tipped her face up, taking in the long, narrow nose, full lips, a dusting of whiskers on his chin. He had to be a friend, but when she opened her mouth to tell him that she had no idea who he was, or even who she was, the words refused to come out.

  “Guess I needed a new look,” she heard herself say. Her voice felt rusty, as if it hadn’t been used in a while, but he didn’t seem to notice anything amiss.

  “It’s cool,” he told her. “Just...different.”

  “Uh, thanks, I guess.”

  “So, where you been, chicklet? Did you get that bug?”

  Rule Number One: Tell the truth whenever possible.

  And when it’s not possible?

  Lie like a mutha.

  Where did that come from?

  She pounced on the convenient excuse he had provided. “Uh, yeah, I was sick; pretty out of it.” Being down with a flu bug sounded a lot better than “riding around unconscious on a train.” It had come out so smoothly. Did that mean she was an accomplished liar?

  The man gave her a look of sympathy. “Aww, you shoulda called me. I would’ve fixed you some soup.” Then he grinned. “No, I wouldn’t. I’d be a fucked-up nurse. But I coulda picked you up something. ..hey—are you okay?”

  He had caught her staring at the artwork on his Tee-shirt: a tortured stone angel, crimson lips dripping blood, a Rorschach splash polluting its robes. She pulled her eyes away. “Headache.”

  “You up for a brewski? I’m just chillin’ with some dudes.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “You sure? I’m buying.”

  “Not so good for the headache.”

  “Okay then, I’ll see you later.” He started to turn away, then wheeled back. “Hey, you need any help with that flat?”

  “What?”

  “I noticed your ride’s been out of commission. If you want, I can change the tire for you.”

  Hardly daring to believe it, she rapidly digested what she had just learned: He had not only supplied her with a name, but he’d told her she owned a car. He also knew where she lived, which was volumes more than she had known five minutes ago.

  “If you wanna call in late to work tomorrow,” he added, “I’ll change it in the morning.”

  Sure. I could call in if I had a phone and knew where I worked.

  “That’s great, thanks,” she heard herself say.

  “Okay, cool. You want a ride home?”

  “That’s okay, you’re with your friends.”

  “No big, I’ll drop you and come back.”

  For the first time, she smiled. “I’d love a ride home.”

  Oh, that�
�s smart, “Jenna.” What are you gonna do when you get “home?”

  Figure it out later. At least I’ll know where I live.

  And you’re gonna get inside, how?

  Shut up! Figure. It. Out. Later.

  The conversation inside her head had distracted her and she’d missed what the man said. He put a hand on her shoulder, looking at her with speculation in the dark eyes. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look kinda sick, chick. Hang tight, I’ll tell the dudes, then I’ll get you home.”

  Soon, he was guiding her into a parking structure on Santa Clara Avenue.

  When he pointed his key fob at a big black Dodge Ram truck, for a nanosecond, Jenna—she had accepted the name as her own since she had no other and he seemed so sure that’s who she was—questioned the wisdom of getting into the vehicle with a stranger. But in a world where everyone was a stranger, herself included, and with no ID or money, she could think of no better alternative. One thing she knew: turning herself over to the police was not an option.

  Besides, this guy already knew where she lived. He opened the passenger door and boosted her into the cab as easily as if she were a child. “Just toss that on the floor,” he said, referring to a thick manila envelope on the passenger seat.

  She picked up the envelope and as he circled around to the driver’s side, read the name scrawled in black marker across the front. “Zach,” she murmured. He shot her a cheeky grin as he climbed in, and fired up the engine. “That’s m’ name, don’t wear it out.”

  “It suits you,” she said, sneaking a glance at his profile. She thought he looked like Keanu Reeves.

  “That’s what you always say.” He drove down the ramp and made a left. “So, what happened with Mystery Guy? Was the flu too much for the hot date?”

  Her stomach twisted into an acrid knot. Could that have been what happened to her memory? Had she gone on a date and been drugged?

  “C’mon,” Zach prompted when she was silent too long. “Give it up, tell Uncle Zackie.”

  Why don’t you just tell him the truth?

  No!

  “Nothing happened; I was too sick to go.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “You sure that guy exists?”

  “What—what does that mean?”

  “I keep waiting to see him, but...”

  She reached for an answer, didn’t find one. “It’s, uh, it’s complicated.”

  “Riiight.” Zach threw her a sidelong glance. “Okay, no more tough questions.”

  She fastened her seatbelt and sat back, trying to read the street signs they passed. He’d hung a right on Chestnut and a left onto Thompson—neither rang any bells. Thompson was a wide boulevard that changed in character as it meandered through the beach town of Ventura. Plaza Park, where children scrambled over playground equipment.

  Old growth trees, modest houses, a few custom homes. Café Nouveau, a veterinary hospital, a used car lot.

  Less than five minutes after they left the bar, Zach slowed and flipped his left turn signal. He drove into an alley that ran alongside a small apartment building—an attractive Spanish casa—and braked at the four-car carport in the alley.

  Three spaces stood empty, the fourth was occupied by a Nissan coupe whose front driver side tire was puddled on the ground. Something dark flashed across Jenna’s vision. The flat tire was connected to the black hole of her memory. She knew it, and the knowledge terrified her.

  “You might have run over a nail,” Zach said, not noticing the shudder than ran over her. “That friggin construction across the street. You got a good spare?”

  “I—I’m not sure.” She opened the door and jumped out of the truck, trying to hide the fact that her hands were shaking again. “Thanks, Zach.”

  “No problemo, chicklet. I’ll be down in the morning to take care of the flat.”

  He scrunched down in his seat and gave her the squint eye. “You sure you’re okay? You look kinda—what my grandma calls peaky.”

  “I’m good,” she said emphatically. “Thanks for the ride.” She wasn’t about to admit that her head was spinning again and she was sick to her stomach.

  There were no numbers, no indications on the carport which apartment the Nissan belonged to. Jenna followed Zach’s truck back down the alley to the bank of mailboxes she had noticed on the sidewalk.

  Someone had used a label maker to emboss a first initial and last name on brown plastic strips on each of the boxes and she took her time examining each of the names. Apartment one and two both had J names: J. Kroh and J. Marcott. Apartment three was Z. Smith. Zach must be her upstairs neighbor. Number four was R. Mendoza.

  She rolled the J names around in her mind to see whether something stuck. Jenna Kroh. Jenna Marcott. Not a twitch. That her choices were limited to the two ground floor units simplified things. But which of those two?

  Following her gut, she walked through the alley, ignoring the Nissan with its flat tire, and went around to the rear apartment. Reaching over the wooden gate in the stucco wall, she lifted the latch and entered a pocket-sized yard.

  No conscious memory told her that she had chosen the correct unit, but she knew instantly that she had. The garden gnome cinched it.

  The foot-high statue stood on the front porch next to a terra cotta planter filled with sunny yellow geraniums. The paint on his tall red hat and white beard was faded and chipped, as though he had been out in the elements, guarding the door for a long time. Guided by an overpowering intuition, Jenna tilted the little man on end and reached into the opening in the bottom.

  When her fingertips met the blunt edges of metal, there was no feeling of surprise, just a sense of expectant anticipation.

  She gave the gnome a little shake, and as if it had materialized from the ether, there, in her hand, was a key.

  t h r e e

  The bolt shot easily when she inserted the key in the lock and gave it a turn, but she stood there on the porch, feeling like a kid hiding under the blankets, confident that a hideous monster would come roaring out any second and shred her to bits with razor-sharp claws.

  This is ridiculous. Get the hell inside.

  No!

  What’s wrong with you?

  I’m scared.

  Just do it, dumbass.

  Whose pernicious voice was that, picking at her every thought, deriding her without mercy?

  Stupid. You can’t stand out here all night.

  I know. Leave me alone.

  She pushed open the door until she could see straight through to the far wall of the living room. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  When no reply came back, no feeling that the apartment was occupied, she took a cautious step inside. The apartment smelled a little stale and closed up, but the stench of death that she had expected to come upon was absent. There were no signs of a struggle. No bloody fingerprints on the café au lait walls. No monster.

  To the left of the entry, a tiny strip of kitchen boasted a cheap stove and refrigerator, a microwave on a wooden stand. The sink was empty, no dishes left out to dry on the well-scrubbed counter. She chose to ignore the closed door to her right.

  Captivated by the overstuffed chocolate leather armchair, she could see herself huddled under a blanket on cold nights with a mug of cocoa and a mystery novel. At right angles to the chair was a nutmeg brown loveseat. Her approval did not extend to the big coffee table that squatted like a metal toad between the two. Had she picked out that ugly piece of furniture, or did she rent the apartment furnished?

  The walls were mostly bare. One framed canvas: a group of very tall, very thin Masai warriors posing before a distant tree. “Furnishings by World Market,” she said aloud, once again mildly pleased to have identified something, even though it was just the name of a quirky chain store.

  Touring the small living room, touching things, feeling like the stranger she was, she hoped in vain for a sense of recognition, the way she had recognized the music at the Bombay Bar and Grill, and the garden g
nome.

  The dining set was a small square of black walnut and two matching chairs covered with cheerful batik cushions. She liked it, but she didn’t know it. A matching bookcase, its shelves bare, stood behind the dining table. Beyond that, four large moving cartons were stacked in the corner next to a sliding glass door that led to a tiny patio. Each had been sealed with a perfect line of packing tape around the top. Had she recently filled those cartons with books from the bookcase, or were they waiting to be emptied?

  It took less than a minute to walk around the small room. With nothing more to distract her, her eyes went to the closed door she’d bypassed on the way in. The bedroom.

  Get it over with, you big baby.

  I don’t want to.

  Jenna pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart was bumping against her rib cage at twice normal speed.

  You can’t stand here forever.

  Maybe I can.

  Nope.

  Without questioning her reluctance she crossed the room and opened the bedroom door.

  The sight of the pristine white comforter on the neatly made double bed sent a shockwave over her. Where was the blood-drenched room she had been so certain she would find behind that door? Where was the body she had known would be there?

  Where is the blood?

  Without stopping to think about what she was doing, Jenna ripped the pillow shams off the bed and tossed them to the floor. The comforter followed, then sheets tucked as tight as a tourniquet.

  At the end of her frenzied deconstruction, there were no faint stains to be seen, no sign that someone had attempted to scrub away the evidence of a savage crime. The exposed mattress was as spotless as the fine linens she had ripped from it.

  Did I hallucinate something horrible happening in this room?

  Sinking onto the bare mattress, she made herself go over everything that had happened since waking on the train. The pot smoker leering at her. The disgusting men under the bridge. The cop. Zach. They were all real—weren’t they?

  How could she be sure when the dividing line between what was and what might not be had become so blurred?