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As You Were

1

BLUE SPRUCE SHOULDERED CLUMPS OF UNSULLIED SNOW

along the icy driveway leading to the secluded brick and cedar house atop Castle Mountain.

The dream faded, as the dreamer began the process of lifting heavy lids.

Eyes focusing, she saw the blond woman standing over her in an apron blotted with myriad colors, liberated from the twisted tubes onto her palette.

She reached out with the camel hair brush and dotted her lover’s nose with Cadmium red.

“I had this weird dream.” Tru wiped at the paint on her nose.

“You forgot to tell me good morning.” Brittany handed her lover a rag as colorful as her apron.

“Good morning, Baby...” She wiped the paint off.

“A dream woke me up early, too.”

Handing her back the rag, she asked, “What was it about?”

“It was unpleasant... tell me yours.”

“...I was headlining Lilith Fair and you were working on this gigantic back drop of a rose.”

“A rose, huh? How original of me.”

“No, well... it looked like a rose on first glance, but really, it was a vulva with a giant pink—”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Seriously, every time a performer would take the stage, the giant vulva would light up and pulsate. The crowd was really into it, but it was subliminal, ya know? And the singers would keep turning away from the audience to see the display. What do you think that means?”

“I think it means you mixed your liquors too much last night.”

“Ya think?” Tru Morgan pushed her fingers through sleep-afflicted short black hair and climbed out of bed, heading for the bathroom. “Gotta tee-tee.”

“Don’t stay in there too long,” Brittany called. “I have to tee-tee, too.“ A minute later, Tru heard Brittany at the door, speaking as if into a walkie-talkie. “Tee-Tee One, this is Tee-Tee Two. What’s your ETD?”

Tru laughed, flushed the toilet, and opened the door, wrapping her arms around Brittany with a sleepy giggle. “Weirdo.”

Brittany slipped past her into the bathroom.

They led a bucolic life; preferred by Brittany, and necessary for Tru.

Touring and being in the public eye made her want solitude even more. Tru had recorded two independent CD’s with the help of her manager, Macy, and an attentive gay audience. A contradictory creature, she loved being on stage, with a crowd of people happily attentive, applauding, and singing along to her music, yet she also craved the stillness the buffering snow provided on Castle Mountain.

Brittany enjoyed taking pictures of errant wildlife on their land, and had managed to eke out a good living from the sale of them to nature magazines, galleries and sometimes wealthy debutantes who wanted to pretend they were the outdoorsy type. She also worked part time at a photography studio and as a freelance photographer for regional newspapers.

When Tru was not performing or touring, their days were filled with artistic endeavor, horseback rides in the wooded hills behind the house, and evenings of gourmet coffee and movies. It was enough.

“Hey, Macy.” Tru approached the table and leaned over to hug her manager.

“Hey, Honey.” She fingered a thick strand of brown hair behind one ear, as she studied the calendar in front of her again. “Have a seat.”

They were in the corner of the club, farthest away from the blaring reverb of the stage speakers. The music would only get louder as late afternoon turned to evening.

Tru smiled at Macy’s brother, sitting across from her. “I didn’t expect to see you, Travis.” Tru took a seat near Macy and glanced at the calendar.

“I’ve been on vacation, too.” He admired how her 501’s hugged the curves, wishing the black T-shirt was something lacey. But he knew Tru wasn’t the lacey type. And he wished her black hair was longer like Brittany’s, instead of shoulder-length.

“I heard. Did you learn your lesson?”

“The charges were bogus. I was framed.”

“Right. They had to cut loose the pot-heads so they would have room for the real criminals.”

“You joke, but that’s for real.” He took a drink of beer and swished it in his mouth, as if rinsing something out. “I certainly want them to have room for the Highwayman.”

“Shit, Travis, they’re not going to catch him. He’s too slick,” Macy responded, without looking up.

Tru’s eyes slid back and forth between them. “The Highwayman?”

Travis squeaked, “Don’t you watch the news anymore, girl?”

“Well, not local news. I usually watch CNN.”

“Well it’s going to end up on CNN, I’m sure.” Macy put a hand on her arm.

“There’s this guy who follows women on the highway, and then he lures them out of their cars and chases them down and kills them.”

“God.”

“They’ve dubbed him the Highwayman.”

“Why does he chase them?”

“The psychologists they interviewed about it believe he gets off on it.”

Travis offered. “Like he thinks he’s some kind of predator.”

Tru shook her head. “Can we talk about something else?”

Travis licked his lips and grinned. “My sister tells me you’re about to stage a comeback.”

She wiped at an errant ring of moisture atop the laminated table, wiping it on the thigh of her jeans. “Something like that. Though comebacks indicate previous stardom. I never got that far.”

“Well, you were a star to all the lesbians. Let me congratulate you with a margarita?”

“Sure.” Mildly suspicious of the gesture, Tru watched him get up and go to the bar. Travis wasn’t typically generous with his money unless he wanted something.

Macy, however, could be counted on for pragmatism. “Okay, girl. After we get the band up to speed on the new sets, you need to gig here, and then I’m already working on a few out of town gigs.” She picked up her electronic cigarette from the table, took a long draw of banana flavored vapor, and thumbed through her Day-Timer. “Christmas is just around the corner, and I know you’ll want some time at home. But right after that, you’ll do a show here.”

Tru pulled out her own eCig, and drew on it, happy that she had added a side-business in distribution for this new technology that not only helped people quit tobacco, but provided a safe form of oral fixation. That was her addiction now. To eCigs. But she felt good about it, or she wouldn’t have taken on a distributorship, and started selling to everyone she knew, and many she didn’t. Selling in person and from a website, she had customers in almost every state. It was a bittersweet endeavor, since she had the electronic cigarette idea many years ago, but didn’t have the money for a patent and a prototype. So some guy in China thought of it as well, a few years ago, and now he was the one getting rich instead of her. She tried to tell herself it just wasn’t her path and that the music was what she was supposed to be doing.

Tru watched the patrons step up and down the stairs of the mezzanine entrance to the show-bar, Lost & Found. Their table, no bigger than a garbage can lid, served its purpose by giving them a place to put drinks and elbows. “Did you talk to Nathan?”

“Yeah, he’s checking his calendar and he’ll let me know. He was all about it.”

“I was afraid I was old news already.”

“It’s your own fault. You’ve been obsessing on Brittany lately.”

“We needed a break.”

“Well, I hope you got that out of your system for a while. We need to get serious. The momentum you built is going to be in the toilet.”

Two years earlier, Macy Palmer had approached Tru after a coffeehouse gig, handing her a business card for Macy Management, her newly begun musical artist management company, and snared Tru as her first client. Tru spent a few hours talking to the woman over drinks, and decided she liked her. She gave it a trial run to see what evolved.

Macy proved effective as a booking agent and personal manager. Tru found herself with gigs every week, as they began to make important connections

in the music community.

Now, Macy added items to a list in her To Be Done in December section, and sipped her White Russian, sucked her eCig. “I was serious about focusing more on getting you into the mainstream. We can’t continue to depend on the gay audience. You need to start gigging in the mainstream venues. I’m working on a nation-wide schedule.”

Travis returned with the margarita, and saw Tru make a face. “Oh, Brit’s gonna love that.”

He watched Tru take a long, swift drink. “Trouble in paradise?” he asked.

She knew that ‘paradise’ was something that only happened in the first few months of a relationship—before reality kicked in. But they had adjusted to reality just fine. “Not really. I think Brit isn’t too keen on the idea of me being on the road again.”

Travis sang, “On the road again, just can’t wait to get on the road again...”

“Don’t quit your day job, Travis,” Macy snorted.

He held his glass up like a trophy, and made a mock speech. “I’d like to thank the Academy, and my dear sister, Macy, for her encouragement and support...”

“Reality check, Travis.”

“I’m firmly entrenched, Sis, don’t worry.”

She didn’t seem convinced. “Anyway...Tru, if you could drop in on Nathan for a few minutes, I’m sure that would go a long way.”

“I’ll do that before I leave.”

They spent the next half-hour discussing details, to include the excitement from the band that they would no longer play exclusively in gay venues.

She would be offering them full-time positions as Tru’s backup band. She closed the calendar and stuck it in her attaché case. “I gotta go. I’ll call you

later.” She downed the rest of her drink and squeezed Tru’s shoulder on the way out.

“Bye, Sis,” Travis called.

She tossed a bit of exasperated sisterly acknowledgement over her shoulder and waved.

Travis turned his attention back to Tru. “Wanna talk about it?” He peeled at the corner of the label on his beer and waited, knowing he would have to be careful not to say too much.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said simply, licking salt from the rim of her glass and chasing it with a swallow.

“I might. Is it something beyond repair?” Travis unfastened the top button of his shirt and smoothed the back of his hair.

“Probably not. Only your average petty jealousy.”

“She’s jealous, or you’re jealous?”

“Both of us, I guess.” Tru pulled her eCig from her pocket again, took a pull on the mouthpiece and apple-flavored vapor surrounded her head, as she took another long drink, and did not stop Travis when he motioned to the waitress for another margarita. “She’s jealous of my fans, and I’m jealous of hers.”

Travis chuckled. “I know about your fans, but who are hers?”

“Any red-blooded American male who sees her, it seems.”

“Ah,” he said knowingly, taking a small sip of his drink.

The tequila loosened her tongue. “Every time a guy walks past her, his eyes get bigger and he has to do a double take. I keep expecting some guy to throw his jacket down over the puddles in front of her.”

“Maybe you ought to be flattered, I mean she is with you.”

She nodded. “I am flattered, but it gets old. I get this odd sort of pleasure when she wakes up with a blemish on her face.”

“It’s perfectly natural for a beautiful woman to give a man a boner.”

She peered up at him curiously. “Do all men think with their dicks?”

Travis shifted in his seat and chuckled. “I don’t think ...I’m qualified to speak for all men. But I can understand why they respond that way to her.”

The lime-green liquid among the ice cubes in her glass reminded her of antifreeze. But that thought was merely mental subterfuge. “I know you’re one of them, Travis.”

He cleared his throat and repositioned his chair. “Well, I don’t know if I

‘think with my dick,’ as you so colorfully put it, but I’d be a liar if I denied that Brittany was drop-dead gorgeous.” When Tru shot a few visual daggers at him, he raised his hands innocently. “But I know she belongs to you.”

“If you knew her very well, you’d know that she belongs to no one. That’s what attracted me to her in the first place—her aloofness.” Tru finished the margarita in time to begin the new one the waitress brought.

“But not that she’s hot?”

She agitated the drink with her straw. “Well, sure. Okay. I’m human, too.”

Tru could get on stage and perform to the adulation of a crowd, but when it came to Brit, she found herself wary of the ogling when they were in public. Who would be the next fool to drool? When would there be another incoming testosterone missile, with a lusty smile and a rehearsed opening line? Most of the time, the idiots didn’t even acknowledge Tru’s presence.

In fairness, Tru had to admit that Brittany was altogether gracious toward her would-be suitors, adroitly turning them down in such a way that they walked away feeling more blessed by an audience with her, than saddled with a rejection. Being mad at Brit seemed a difficult task, ultimately. Even though the repeated amorous-deflection situations were very much like sandpaper in Tru’s brain.

The room had grown darker with sunset, and the dim candlelight of the corner mezzanine would be calming if not for the dance music filling the room. Tru became rudely aware that she did not want chaos, but calm.

Travis leaned back, pulling an extra eCigar from his pocket, having fallen prey to Tru’s sales pitch long ago, and shelling out over a hundred dollars for two eCigar versions of the alternative smoking device. His was regular tobacco-flavored, as he couldn’t get used to the unconventional flavors available and chose to stick with a taste he knew.

Tru mused about her lover, puffed her apple eCig, and worked toward the bottom of her fresh drink. “How come you didn’t order another drink for yourself, Travis?”

Travis expelled a lungful of vapor. “I have to drive home.”

“A Highway Hero. Commendable. We need a few more of those.” Tru studied the blond young woman in the corner, wearing cowboy boots and jeans, a leather vest buttoned tightly over her otherwise bare torso. Tru thought the woman looked like a model for western wear in one of those magazines that appear in the mailbox, compliments of the direct-marketing industry. “Travis, why do you come in here so much? I mean, it’s a gay bar.

You realize you’re barking up the wrong tree, right?”

“I come here because I like the dance floor.” Travis watched the young woman in boots stride past their table and select a cue stick for a game of pool with another young woman.

“That’s what they all say.” She blew vapor at him. “I think it’s more like an irresistible urge to pursue what you can never have.”

“Who says I can’t have it?” He grinned, his attention darted toward another garbage-lid table not far away, his blue eyes flickering over a tall blond woman sharing an animated conversation with her table-mates. Tru noticed that the young woman who had captured his unwavering interest favored Brittany. But not as pretty. Tru thought of Brit, pictured her sitting with her feet folded under her on the sofa in front of the fireplace, waiting for Tru to come home, or perhaps enjoying a good book, and her time alone.

A half hour later, Travis paid the cocktail waitress and tipped, after Tru waved away another drink and announced that she had to go.

“You’re in no condition to drive,” Travis reminded her.

“I din’ inten’ to...” She wobbled as she stood next to the table, holding the edge of it for balance. “I can’t believe this... I mus’ be more tired than I thought...”

Travis stood. Steadying her with a hand at her elbow. “You can’t drive like this, Tru. Let me give you a lift over to a hotel. The New West Inn has really good prices...”

She stared into space drunkenly. “No. S’okay... Brit expects me home...”

“Oh don’t worry. I’ll give her a call and let her know. You have to sleep this off. You don’t want her to see you like this.” More importantly, he wanted to get her out of there before one of her fans or one of the staff noticed her condition.

“No...not like thus...” She was humored by her mistake. “Thus...” she laughed. “This. Whatever.”

“Okay, come on. I’ll drop you at the hotel on my way out of town.”

“What the hell,” she agreed, following him, maneuvering the stairs leading outside the bar with apparent difficulty, and sliding into the passenger side of Travis’ black Chevy truck.

On 28th Street, across from the University, Travis came out of the New West Inn office with a key attached to an ugly gold piece of plastic. In the passenger seat, Tru had fallen asleep. He chuckled, driving around to the room, and helping her inside. Tru staggered to the bed and flopped down, soon fast asleep again. Travis tried to revive her for long moments, then leaned on the dresser and took a few puffs of his cigar for a few moments as he studied her there. “Margaritaville...” he said with a grin. Moving toward her, he leaned down, shook her firmly. “Tru?” She did not respond, her face

relaxed into the numb smoothness of an inanimate object; his grin grew into a smile.

Slowly, he pulled at the top of her 501’s and the first button popped free.

2

A SWATH OF MORNING SUNSHINE FELL ACROSS TRU’S EYES, and she came awake, aware of the sharp pounding in her head, and the television which sat silent atop the TV stand. She vaguely remembered her decision to get a motel the night before, and wasn’t sure whether she had been too drunk to remember to call Brittany and let her know. She didn’t generally indulge in over-drinking, and wondered what had encouraged her to do so the night before. She pressed both hands against her head, wishing for ibuprofen.

Tru blinked her eyes into painful focus and saw her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Her appearance told her more than she wanted to know about how much she had had to drink the night before. And she was shirtless, braless. Also in the reflection, a lump under the blanket next to her, and she turned quickly to find the lump was a leg, and that the leg belonged to Travis. He was naked, too. Tru jerked the sheet up under her arms and stared at him, horrified. “Travis?”

He stirred, his eyes fluttered open, and he smiled warmly. “Morning, Sugar.” He ran his hand down her arm.

Tru jerked away, grabbing the sheet and drawing it around her as she got up. “What the hell are you doing here?” she rasped, swallowing the cotton that seemed to be growing abundantly on her tongue.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his face filled with a boyish grin. “Enjoying the morning after, Sugar—”

Tru coughed involuntarily and pressed a palm to her head. “Travis, we didn’t—I mean, I don’t—please tell me we—I don’t remember what

happened last night—”

He lifted one eyebrow in a smirk. “I won’t ever forget it. I never suspected you of being such an animal in bed. You even—”

“Holy Christ! What have I done?!” Tru searched for and found her clothing heaped upon the floor by the bed, and began to dress beneath the sheet.

“Hey, why so uptight?”

“Why so uptight?” she squeaked. “Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what sort of mess this is? Oh, my God...she’ll kill me, I am dead meat. She’ll never understand this, I don’t understand this—” Tru dropped the sheet and began to button her shirt. “Travis, you have to swear you’ll never breathe a word of this. I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing

—” she babbled.

“You most assuredly did know what you were doing. I can’t remember the last time I stayed that har—”

“Travis!” she shouted, groaning and holding her head, then more softly.

“Spare me the sordid details.”

“Don’t worry, Tru. Your secret is safe with me. I wish you could stay a little longer—” He reached toward her and she lurched away, grabbing her socks and shoes and making a quick visual sweep of the room, before she headed for the door, hopping in place as she shoved the sneakers onto her bare feet.

“Where’s my Cherokee?” she asked, her hand on the doorknob. And where’s my sense?

Travis folded his arms. “Still at the club.”

Tru dug in her pockets and came up with twenty-five dollars, lifting her eyes to him, quizzically.

“I paid for the room, Sugar,” he admitted.

She slammed the door behind her, and hurried to the front office to call a cab.

Travis reclined, his fingers locked behind his head, admiring his reflection in the mirror. He flexed his pectorals and began to sing an old Carole King tune, “It’s too late, Baby, now it’s too late... ” It had been remarkably easy.

Remarkably. He checked his image in the mirror again, rubbing his chest with both hands, absently, and he began to whistle.

3

TRU SPENT THE ENTIRE TRIP BACK CONCOCTING THE STORY

she would tell Brittany. On the 3rd, she had run over some debris on the road, and had blown a tire. Her call to Triple A Roadside Assistance had saved her. She had stuffed the receipt in her glove box, and somehow never thought to mention it when things got busy. Now, she was happy for it, because all she had to do was change the number three on the receipt into a number eight, which was today’s date, and she had proof the incident happened today. Then she had to think about her excuse for not calling. She decided she needed a dead phone, so she turned the battery upside down.

She pulled over just before her driveway and grabbed the jack from the trunk, placing it in the floorboard in the back of the Cherokee. Then she drove up to the garage, used the remote to lift the door, drove in, and got out quickly to retrieve the jack and place it on the workbench.

Brittany opened the garage door at that moment, as Tru turned to get her guitar out of the back.

“Tru! Where the hell have you been?” Brittany said she had been up all night. She had called the bar. She had called Macy. She had called the hospitals.

Tru pleaded for forgiveness, and quickly told her the contrived story.

“I had a flat on the way home and no jack.”

“Why didn’t you have a jack?”

“I used it in the garage to push apart those boards from the barn roof, when I was patching that hole, remember?”

“No... but...” Brittany’s eyes scanned the garage and fell on the jack, sitting atop the workbench. “Well, why didn’t you call Triple A?”

“My phone was dead. I had to wait until someone came by that I could flag down, and ask them to call. The first one that would actually stop didn’t have one. I got back into the car to warm up and fell asleep. Then when I finally got someone else to stop, it was an old lady, and she didn’t feel okay about handing her phone over. So I didn’t ask her to call you, too... then I had to wait for Triple A to show up.” They both stepped into the kitchen.

Tru set her bag on the table. “So...here I am.”

Brittany considered this and then held out her hand.

“What?”

“Where’s your phone?”

She had hoped she wouldn’t ask, but she had covered the possibility. Tru first pulled out the Triple A receipt, dropping it on the table, and Brittany grabbed it and saw that it was indeed from that day, and then took the cell phone from Tru. Brittany eyed her suspiciously, flipped it open and held down the on button but the screen would not appear at all.

“Where’s your car charger?”

“I gave it to you because yours broke, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah. But I thought you were going to buy another one when you went into town?”

Oh, think fast. “I got busy. I just forgot. So...it’s like the Universe is conspiring against me today.”

Brittany rubbed at her cheek, and sighed. She handed the phone back.

“Okay... well, I’m sorry, but I was so worried and I couldn’t figure out why you hadn’t called.”

“I’m so sorry I worried you, Baby.” Tru hugged her, kissed her, and went to the refrigerator for a Yoo-Hoo, craving something with vitamins in it, that also tasted good.

“Don’t ever leave here with a low battery again. I had to take a Xanax.”

“I’m so sorry, Brit. I promise I won’t let that happen again.”

“Next time you leave here, you will go straight to the store and buy another charger. And, go out there right now, and put that jack in your car.”

Tru didn’t balk at the parent-like reprimand. She did as she was told, relieved that her story had been an acceptable explanation, and that she would not have to tell Brittany what had really happened. She hated the way it felt. She had never lied to Brittany about anything, and she didn’t intend to make a habit of it now.

Tru had always been trustworthy. Her father and mother owned and operated Morgan’s Mercantile and Outfitters, a hunting and fishing shop in the outskirts of Grand Junction, Colorado. Her father trusted her with the store, and often left her in charge. The customers trusted her opinions about the best hunting and fishing sites. The county Sheriff trusted her to clean and service his sidearm. From an early age, Tru would serenade them with her guitar, and customers would linger by the wood stove on cold evenings, drinking coffee or more spirited libations, while she sang to them.

So Ben and Clara Morgan trusted Tru when she told them she needed to get out of Grand Junction and do something different with her life.

But when her trek to Denver and Colorado Springs only garnered her a history of odd jobs and dead-end opportunities, it forced her to examine what she really wanted from her life. If she couldn’t do what she loved, then what was the point? To work for her parents and never see anything but a little corner of the world? Or to go after a degree, and a job in the corporate

sector, work herself into retirement so that she could get a gold watch?

Neither choice could be enough for her. So she made a plan. That plan began with enlisting in the Army Reserve, to toughen herself up while still getting a paycheck, and then going after her dreams.

During the eleven weeks of Advanced Individual Training after Boot Camp, Tru met Brittany Jabot.

She pegged her immediately as one of the “untouchables.” Not like Elliot Ness who took down Al Capone, but as formidable.

Feeling that her gift for music was her best tool, Tru had invited Brittany to a performance on Base one weekend, and managed to compromise her defenses. Eventually, the defenses were shattered when they shared a liaison at the Comfort Inn in Hopewell while on weekend furlough.

When Tru returned to Colorado after AIT, she knew they had shared something more meaningful than a fling. The thought that she might never see Brittany again was a melancholy niggling that appeared in her dreams at night and left her glum over morning coffee.

Ben and Clara Morgan knew that something had saddened their daughter, and they wanted her to be happy. They were proud of her for attempting to make something of herself, but they understood that she would not be marrying a man who would provide a home for her. Signing over the house on Castle Mountain was their way of expressing understanding. It had been an investment for her father, but he never seemed to have time to fix it up and re-sell it. Tru was capable and delighted to do it.

Having a home-base, Tru immediately immersed herself in the music communities throughout the state, forcing herself to forget Brittany. She spent the three weekends out of the month she wasn’t at Drill, playing music wherever she could. In her off-hours, she worked on the house, renovating and improving it.

Meanwhile, Brittany sought solace in the concentrated discipline of the Military, hoping to become a photojournalist. When it became clear she was to be relegated to a secretary for other male officers and photographers, she

began to reconsider. And there was Tru. Without the focus of pursuing photojournalism, her thoughts wandered to the young woman who had disarmed her so completely with a mellow voice and dancing eyes. In a moment of careless whimsy, that sprang from still-another insult about her place in the pecking order, Brittany had confessed her sexuality to her platoon sergeant, and was summarily released under a general discharge.

A week later, she had appeared on Tru’s doorstep.

4

THE PLUNK AND RATTLE OF A BROKEN GUITAR STRING stopped the music. Tru and Helki stared at each other in vexed silence.

“That’s the second one,” she grumbled to Helki, grabbing the flailing string and unwrapping it from the post on the headstock. “I need to go back to the Adamas strings. These keep breaking.”

Helki smiled, “Maybe we should break, too,” while leaning her bass against the wall of the modest home recording studio.

“That’s cute,” Tru acknowledged the pun, put her guitar in the stand and switched off the 16 track digital recorder. Together, they wandered into the kitchen, having smelled the aroma of baked chicken spaghetti. Brittany poured them all some wine and served dinner.

“So, how’s the recording session going?” Brittany used tongs to transfer salad to Helki’s plate.

Helki poured a generous amount of poppy-seed dressing on the green leaf lettuce. “I think it sounds great. I love Tru’s music, or I wouldn’t have left the Heads.”

As an opening act for a band almost two years ago, Tru had stayed to listen to the headliners, a rock group called The Hard Heads. The bassist was Helki Sky. At the close of the first set, Tru had asked the waitress to give

Helki the drink of her choice, along with a note she had written on a napkin that read simply, “You rock.” When the waitress pointed her out, Helki had smiled and brought the wine over to Tru’s table.

The two women became fast friends. Helki soon left The Hard Heads, assuring Tru that she had been looking for a good excuse in the form of another band who played music more to her

liking; and, she added, a band that didn’t dabble in drugs and get drunk every night. Before long, the two women were taking part in various jam sessions around town, or doing duets in local pubs, all booked by Macy.

The daughter of a Miwok Indian Father and an Italian mother, Helki’s given name meant “touch.” Aptly, as Tru realized, she did indeed have the touch.

Helki never forgot a groove, and her mane of dark hair, highlighted by two tiny braids in the front, bounced as she danced around the stage. Helki always held a knowing smile, and her music soared. “Sky” was also apropos as her last name. Her music touched the sky.

“Tru—” Brit started, filling her own wine. “When did Macy say you guys would start touring again?”

“Soon,” she answered, sucking an errant string of pasta into her mouth.

“She’s still pounding out the details. We’ll do some local stuff first, push the new CD. But it should be within a month or so. I think the trip to Seattle next week will provide some insight.” She saw the disappointment in her lover’s eyes. “You could go with us.”

“Yeah,” Helki agreed. “You could keep her in line.”

Brittany’s answering expression spoke of doubt and amusement, before she continued. “There’s no one to take care of the house and the horses.”

“I could hire someone to do that.”

“Yeah,” Helki agreed. “Be the official photographer for the band. The other pictures you took at shows were great.”

“I think I would only be in the way.” Brittany sighed. “I don’t think Macy wants me there.”

“I want you there, Baby. Don’t worry about Macy.”

Helki nibbled off one section of rind from a cucumber slice, then ate the meat of it in one bite, discarding the remaining rind on her plate.

“I think I’d get motion sickness on a bus all the time.”

Helki swallowed the bite of cucumber and offered, “You could take Dramamine.”

Brittany half-smiled. “I’ve got some shmoozing to do at a couple of galleries. And I need to get my portfolio up to date anyway. I’ll stay busy and be here when you get back. Maybe you’ll get back sooner if you miss me.”

“You know I’ll miss you.” Tru leaned over and kissed her.

“How could you miss me? You’ve got hundreds of screaming girls throwing themselves at you.”

“No, they’re throwing themselves at me, Brit,” Helki joked.

Tru stayed up quite late, reviewing the recordings she and Helki had made that day. Her head did not hit the pillow until three in the morning. She snuggled up into a spooning position behind Brittany and slept.

Up at six-thirty, Brittany dislodged Tru’s snuggle-hold on her, and by eight, gathered her things for a meeting with gallery owners in Boulder.

“What time do you think you’ll be back?” Tru asked groggily from the warm folds of pillows and comforter.

“Oh, it’ll be tonight sometime. I’ll give you a call.” Brittany adjusted the blanket around Tru. “If the weather gets bad, I’ll stay with Brenda.”

Brittany enjoyed her jaunts into town. Often, her visits would be as much about socializing as about the sale of her artistic creations. At exhibits and other artistic events, she rubbed elbows with gallery owners, well-known artists, and collectors. Inevitably, she formed actual friendships with some of them.

Tru accepted the quick kiss at the corner of her mouth, with a contented sigh, her eyes fluttering closed again, as Brittany grabbed her things and headed for the door.

5

One Week Later

TRU FELT THE GENTLE PRESSURE OF DROPSI’S PAWS on her jeaned leg and lifted her head off her arms. She slid a hand across the rough-hewn wood of the kitchen table for the eCig, hoping nicotine would help her function just a little while longer. If she had been using tobacco cigarettes, her lungs would have been in bad shape by now. The vapor didn’t even accost her eyes like real smoke, which was good, because she didn’t care to force any more moisture from her tear ducts than had already come in the last few days.

The missing persons report had been a fruitless endeavor. When she had filed it, she got the distinct impression that the deputy knew she sought a gay lover, and didn’t take it seriously.

So the search for Brittany had been dropped solely in her lap, and she had risen to the challenge only to be dashed again and again by dead-ends over the last three days. Helki had been helping her call around, but neither of them had discovered Brittany’s whereabouts. The sick feeling this gave her was akin to drinking battery acid. Though the scene had been awful, the last time she saw Brit, she couldn’t imagine why Brittany wouldn’t have called.

Just to have the common courtesy of letting her know she was okay. Unless she couldn’t call. Tru was left with the abrasive, wounding truth that Brittany could not call. Something had happened to her.

“Police report?” he echoed, pressing the back of a numb hand beneath his cold-reddened nose.

“An officer should be here in a few minutes.” The LPN held her ballpoint Bic poised above the form on the clipboard. “It’s routine with any accident, sir.”

The young man took a step toward the entrance, his Nikes slipping slightly in a puddle of mud and slush left by his own foot on the way into the emergency room. “I told you I don’t even know her.”

She looked up and saw him moving toward the door, in his drenched clothes. “Sir—you should let the doctor look at you too...I could get you a blanket and something warm to drink. You might know something that would be helpful, and not realize it—”

He glanced down at his sodden clothing, suctioned against him like cellophane, the numbness of his skin beginning to give way to the warmth of the hospital lobby. “Okay,” he said evenly. “But I left the motor running.

I need to go park my car. I’ll be right back.” He started for the mechanical doors, his rubber soles screaking on the linoleum with each step.

He did not return.

The fog...a mass of suspended murk, solid to her attempts toward escape; yielding, as it enveloped her, teasing her consciousness. The question, Where am I? broke from her lips, but its sound was caught in the undulant haze. She stretched out her hands and felt nothing but the cool mist, and a panic swelled inside her. Let me out! she screamed. Help me!

Someone...please help me...

It seemed she wandered in the fog for hours. Days. Then finally, the fog drifted away from her, leaving in its place a murky void. She lifted her palms toward her face—

Her eyelids lifted, as the fog dissipated. No darkness...white, now, only white; her mind a labyrinth of thoughts and meanings, colored by a need for reason, as if flung from one world to another. Gradually, her senses gained

control of her emotions. Walls. The white is on the walls. The walls are in a room. I am in the room. A white room—

She wanted water, but again, her throat failed her. It seemed she had blinked the void gone, like Samantha on Bewitched, and she was left alone in the white room. Bewitched? She didn’t know what her brain meant, now. Her arm came into view. Wasn’t it her arm? An I.V. needle taped onto the top of her hand faded into her awareness, as did the plastic tube under her nose, its two rubbery prongs a mild assault on her nostrils. The cold, overly pure air from them incited a need to yank the contraption away from her face, but she could not get the message through to her hand. Unless it wasn’t her hand.

She wanted to sit up; her tongue pushed at her arid lips. Her mouth tasted... old? She wanted to brush her teeth. She concentrated. Lifting a trembling hand, she tried to pull the tubing from her nose, and was prevented by the clipped plastic object on her finger. She rubbed her finger against her side, knocking the clip off her finger, and a nearby machine began to beep. She glanced at it. Lights. Moving lines. Dials. She dragged the rubber prongs from her nostrils and let her hand rest on her chest. The air smelled of disinfectant.

She breathed cautiously at first, like some wayward astronaut stepping from the ship on some unfamiliar planet. Then she tried to relax into it.

Stretching her body, she found that it ached all over; a sudden movement caused a hundred muscles to scream, but she managed to lift her hand again, touch her cheek. Cold and clammy. Her fingers trailed upward to something thick, a bandage, she assumed, on her head. I’ve hit my head is all...soon I’ll remember what happened and I’ll go home.

Even as she thought it, she knew it would not be that simple.

Some thud from her right. Movement. A voice interrupted her confusion.

“Well hello there...”

A woman’s face. Fog again... void. Fading back to white. Woman gone now.

Fog. No... white again.

“Ah, welcome back,” the new voice said. “How do you feel?”

Her eyes went to the voice. The voice is white like the walls. The voice wears white. The voice is a man.

He placed fingers in her palm. “Can you squeeze my fingers?”

She blinked at him. Fingers?

“Can you squeeze my fingers?” he asked again, tapping her palm.