www... let’s

She squeezed.

“Good.” He reached over to her other hand and did the same. “Now on this side?”

She squeezed . Why did he want me to squeeze his fingers?

“Good. You’re in the hospital, young lady. You were in an accident, but you’re going to be fine. I’m Doctor Armstrong.”

Hos...pital...a...strong arm? There was reason to it, but what did it mean?

Strong arm, like— An image came to her of a box of baking soda, with the proverbial arm and hammer. Something, some entity in her brain, seemed amused, and she stilled it to concentrate again on the words. Now the questions began to envelop her as surely as the fog had done.

He touched her eyelids. Bright light stung her pupils. “Do you know who the president is?” the white voice asked. She tried to answer, but could find no moisture in her throat; the words were trapped there, as she had been trapped in the mist.

“Try to focus, now. Who’s the President of the United States?”

She tried to retrieve the information. Saw a quick image. “Clinton?” she rasped.

“Well...close, but one administration off.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” he said, touching her arm. “We’ll talk later. The nurse will be in to help you in a minute. Rest now. You’re going to be okay.”

She strained to peer down at her body, a sharp pain in her neck giving her pause. A bandaged left arm lay by her side, numb. For a quick moment she wondered if her legs were damaged... or gone. Lifting the edge of the sheet, relief flooded her at the sight of both appendages, present and intact, although wrapped at both knees. There was some white elastic tights of some kind on her legs. Someone dressed me...she thought absently.

A deep breath sent a dagger of pain through her elastic bandaged ribs.

That’s when she noticed the tube that snaked up from between her legs, secured to her thigh with white tape. She suddenly knew what it was. Knew the name of it. Catheter. Someone did more than dress me.

She eased back into the pillow and considered her situation with controlled alarm . What happened to me? She tried to find a familiar frame of reference to start with. My name is... she began, then drew a perfect blank. How ridiculous...I’m...my name...she swallowed thickly. I don’t know my own name— touching the gauze on her head, the words “brain damage”

presented themselves abruptly in her mind. If I were brain damaged, would I be able to consider that I was brain damaged? She assured herself that she would not. What day is this? Where am I? Who am I? The questions were inane and began to pound inside her head. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to calm the questions as a fierce headache, keen and sudden, filled her skull. Where was that nurse? She took some consolation in having remembered what the doctor told her, but she had questions for the next person who came through that door, though her throat felt swollen and dead.

As if on cue, the door whooshed open, and the sound swept through her head, saber-sharp, intensifying the barbed throbbing. A nurse appeared there, smiling as she approached. Her eyes were kind. “Hello there! Glad you’ve joined us again. Are you able to talk, Brittany?”

She frowned... yes, that is my name... isn’t it? She touched her throat, trying to swallow, hoping the nurse would understand.

“Thirsty, huh?” The nurse smiled warmly. “Here—” she picked up a bowl and plucked something out pushing it into her mouth. Cold. Melting.

“Ice chips. Let them dissolve.”

As Brittany felt the cold permeate her tongue and dribble into her throat, the nurse pored water in another plastic bowl on the table over the bed, dipped a cloth in it, and pressed it to Brittany’s parched lips. It felt better. She mashed her lips together, forcing the moisture to soak in. The nurse dipped the cloth again and moistened her lips a second time. “Better?”

Brittany nodded almost imperceptibly. The nurse gave her more ice chips and Brittany suckled them greedily, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat and swollen tongue, and then took the cloth away, waiting for Brittany to swallow the desert in her mouth.

“You’re in Montrose Memorial Hospital, Hon’. You’re recuperating from a serious accident. But you’re gonna be okay.”

Brittany took a cautious breath and asked roughly. “How long... have I been here?”

“About a week.”

Brittany’s eyes grew wide, as the nurse replaced the clamp on Brittany’s finger, glancing at the machine. “Your body just needed time to heal, that’s all... you had a car accident... you remember?”

Brittany tried to conjure the image, but nothing came to mind. “No.”

“What we know, is that you swerved off the road somehow, and ended up in the water. You were soaked when you were brought in.”

Brittany’s eyes grew again, and her words were pumice across her throat.

“How did I—?”

“A young man pulled you out of the car. You’re very lucky to be alive.” She fitted the prongs of the cannula back into the young woman’s nostrils.

“Who?”

“Max. We don’t know his last name. He brought you in, and stayed long enough to see that you were taken care of, and then he left.”

Brittany looked down at herself. “How bad?” The words were coming a bit easier.

“Well,” she said, checking the screen of a machine near the bed. “The doctor will explain all that.”

“Please... I’m scared...”

“Hon’, you’re gonna be just fine.” She closed a hand over Brittany’s.

The door swooshed open again and Doctor Armstrong entered, tall, broad-shouldered, with a Kirk Douglas dimple in his chin, and a touch of gray at his temples. Brittany had not noticed this before. All she could focus on in their initial meeting was the white that saturated the room, and the smooth baritone of his voice. Now, she saw him talking, but she faded in and out of listening, endured the searing beams of the penlight, and his attempts to be reassuring. Periodically, her attention fastened on certain words he said.

Bruising... impact injury... ribs... Swelling... head injury...

Brain damage? She found herself thinking again, with some alarm. She didn’t like the taste of her tongue... what was he saying, now?

“...kneecaps... forearm and wrist... hypothermia... avoid pneumonia...”

His voice seemed somehow connected to a bad radio signal. Except she couldn’t seem to turn the dial and make him come in any clearer. “How long...will I be here?” she heard herself say.

“Depends on... heal. Plus... haven’t... locate any of your family... name on a watch... who I should call?”

Who should he call? Who should he call? Brittany imagined her memory as a freshly-cleaned chalkboard: dark, dusty, empty, useless. “I can’t...I don’t know—”

“Don’t worry... memory loss... common... head trauma... quite an ordeal...

the brain just gives you a vacation—”

Did he say my brain was on vacation?

“...time. Do you remember anything before the accident?”

She concentrated on this, and tears came to her eyes. “No.”

Brittany’s head began to swim again, and all she wanted to do was sleep.

No more questions, no more thinking... just sleep... She closed her eyes and a tear released and moved down her cheek.

Tru’s parents were on a cruise to Greece for the holiday, and she didn’t see the point in ruining their vacation with the recent turn of events in her own life. They wouldn’t be back until after New Year’s Day. Her mother could hear something in her voice, though, and she only half-lied by telling her she was just tired.

She was tired. The street maps, photocopied telephone listings, and gas credit card receipts lay in a pile on the kitchen table where they had been gathering for the last week. Thursday she had tossed them there, prepared to give up the ghost, for only a little while. How many more police stations would she call, how many more salvage yards would she have to wander through, praying to find Brittany’s car, and praying not to find it?

The Nissan had been a gift from her only surviving Uncle. Her previous car’s transmission was sounding the death knell anyway so the timing had been perfect. Her Uncle had been a hermit, and Brittany was the only visitor he ever got. The neighbor-lady had contacted Brittany when her uncle passed away, and had told her that her Uncle would want her to have the car. She hadn’t had a chance to switch the title into her own name.

With all the computerized information, Tru could not fathom why nothing turned up in the uncle’s name. It was as though Brittany and the Nissan had been abducted by aliens.

6

BRITTANY MADE HER WAY BACK TO HER ROOM, moving carefully down the corridor, and saw the officer at the nurse’s station. The nurse pointed to her, and the officer moved in her direction.

“Miss... uh, you’re Brittany?”

“Yes.”

“I’m investigating the accident... can I have a few minutes with you?”

He was young, a bit nervous. They had assigned a rookie. An obvious illustration of where

her case fell on the list of priorities. “Sure.”

He took her arm at the elbow and walked slowly beside her until they came to her room and

she sat on the bed.

“We found a gray Nissan in the river near Gunnison. I’m assuming it’s yours?” He dropped

his memo pad and picked it up quickly, leafing through until he found his page again. “Sounds like it, but really, I can’t tell you what my car looked like.”

“The nurse briefed me on your condition... but can you recall anything that might help?” She folded the bedding back and climbed in. “I can’t even remember my last name, officer.” He released a resigned breath. “Well... the license plate was missing, and there was no

identification inside. We ran the VIN number and it was registered to Henry Long. Does that

name ring a bell?”

Her eyes moved left to right, reading something inside her mind. She shook her head. “I’m

sorry, I can’t remember.”

Nodding, he checked his notepad.

“Did you talk to him?”

He pressed his lips together, sheepishly. “I went to the address, and the house was being

renovated by the owner. He said that Henry Long had died a few months earlier.”

Brittany knew she would normally feel remorse or grief, but had no feelings attached to

Henry Long. “Can’t you find out who his relatives are, and maybe find out who I am that way?”

“Well, that’s what I thought. I spoke with a man across the street, and he told me he had seen a woman fitting your description several times, visiting Mr. Long. But he said that Henry Long had no relatives that he knew of, and kept to himself. A lady next door said she only spoke to you once, after his death. She said she gave you Mr. Long’s car, at his request. But she didn’t know if you were related to him. That explains why the car was registered in his name. I guess you hadn’t changed it over yet.”

Brittany sighed. “Did the neighbor lady know my last name?”

He shook his head. “And there’s no record of a Brittany Long, either.”

Brittany released another pent-up breath. “So I’m right back where I started.”

The officer closed his notebook. “Well, for now. Someone must be looking for you and they

would probably know to look for accident reports involving Henry Long’s car. I’ll see if I can

find some history on him. Meanwhile, I’ll have something published in the local paper. If

anything turns up, I’ll let you know.” He stood. “If you remember anything at all that might help, call me.” He handed her a business card.

Brittany pushed the nurse’s hand away, insisting on climbing into bed on her own. “You’re awfully stubborn, young lady,” Nurse Sturgis grumbled.

Brittany tugged the covers up under her arms and pushed her hair away from the scar on her

forehead, considering the churlish woman who had been her night-shift nemesis since day one.

“The harder I work, the quicker I get out of here, right?”

The nurse frowned. “That’s true in theory, but if you overdo it on these little walks down the hall, you’ll be right back where you started.”

“Ridiculous,” she sneered. “I feel better every day.”

Nurse Sturgis nodded without conviction. “Stay in bed the rest of the day.”

“Nurse Sturgis, can I ask you a question?” Brittany inquired sweetly. The old nurse grunted

her permission. “Why do you always wake me up at night to give me another sleeping pill?”

Nurse Sturgis scowled at her, annoyed by the impertinence of the young woman. “Doctor’s orders, Missy. You should let us do what’s best for you, and stop trying to do everything by yourself.”

The rotund woman turned to go, and Brittany thought of how much she resembled a bloated marshmallow. “Oh, Nurse—” Brittany called. “I am allowed to get up and piss by myself, aren’t I?”

The nurse grunted and squiched out of the room on her white crepe soles.

Brittany released a groaning breath, clutching her side, and stifling a smile.

She took the tabloid from the night stand, anxious to finish the ridiculous story about the woman who gave birth to a lizard.

Tru checked her watch. Five a.m. Tuesday? Wednesday? She had come home late Sunday night, after a long night of driving, searching... realizing in a stupor that it was New Year’s Eve. Thankfully, the last holiday of the year; Christmas had only been bearable because she had refused to put up the tree, avoided the obligatory It’s a Wonderful Life on T V. In fact, she had kept both the TV and the radio off, except for news, that way she wouldn’t have to listen to the plethora of Christmas cheer permeating the airwaves.

The only acknowledgment she had allowed herself was the Cinnamon Schnapps she had bought at a ratty old liquor store Sunday night on her way home from searching.

She had brought in the New Year watching videos of she and Brittany, playing in the snow. They put the camera on a tripod and built a snowman, and Brittany insisted on giving the snowman a cucumber penis. They laughed at passersby, who stared as they drove up the winding road.

“You’re going to cause an accident,” Tru had said, her chastisement met only by giggles of delight.

The videos seemed endless, a history that had become antiquity, while she warmed her throat and deadened her nerves with frequent shots of the Schnapps. She stayed there well past midnight, into that Monday morning.

She had given up on writing a new song, burdened by the difficulty of creative concentration. She had only managed to break a string, from strumming too hard on the Ovation Adamas.

All she could think about was how she used to come running into the living room with her guitar to share it. She could still see her lover’s face as she sang each new song to her. Brit was gone now.

So she had stumbled in the back door Monday night, after another fruitless search, shuffled through the kitchen, and collapsed on the sofa for a few hours. Had she slept since then? No... she went searching again and came home last night to sit at the table and drink more coffee.

Coffee had become a drug for her; she often thought the effects would be the same if she merely leaned over the canister and snorted the black grains directly, or grabbed a handful, and munched them like the dry Shredded Wheat she had eaten days ago, straight from the box.

Tru had endured another sleepless night here at the kitchen table; sleepless, save the nap she had taken with her head on her arms just before she had reached for her eCig. It was Tuesday...

Tru put her head down on her arms again and closed her eyes, banishing the images of Brit, if only for an hour. Long enough to rest—

The sound of the paper boy’s Toyota jarred her awake again as she drifted off. A double beam of headlights flashed over the walls when he turned around in the driveway. Mechanically, she pushed herself up and went through the living room to the front door. Dropsi followed her and darted out to tiptoe cautiously in the snow. Leaving the door open, she watched the calico pounce on the orange polybag in the slush of the yard, rolling on it as if it were filled with catnip. Tru wandered across the drive to drag the paper out from under the writhing cat, brusquely aware that her well-worn sweatshirt didn’t possess enough thickness to fend off the cold, and moved slowly back into the house, as if an army of leeches had also sucked her as dry as the Shredded Wheat.

She held the bagged paper by the open end with two fingers, avoiding the muck that slid down the plastic and slapped onto the concrete walk that led to the porch. No matter how often she had reprimanded that delivery boy,

the kid always threw the paper in the yard. Drying out papers by the fireplace had become a habit for her and Brit—

Tru shook off the memory and freed the paper from the bag, dropping it flat onto the fireplace ledge to dry. She could have spared her weary brain cells the task of figuring out what day it was, by merely waiting for the paper—

another indication of her exhaustion, she guessed.

She stared at the front page of the Denver Post, the headlines shouted foreign policy, inflammatory comments made by the some politician about his gay sister, and another report about The Highwayman. He had claimed his third victim. She whispered a silent prayer that Brittany was safe somewhere, and would not become the fourth on his list.

The newspaper was a frightening place to search for news of a missing loved-one, unless it was in the want-ads. But when will I stop? Staring at the paper, splotchy with the moisture from the ground, she left it on the hearth and went to turn down the bed.

Removing her jeans and Naropa University sweatshirt, she likened the hard void inside herself to the cliché, you don’t miss the water ‘til the well runs dry. She had no idea how deeply rooted in Brit her world had been, nor the value of that bond, until severed. Another dull pain thumped through her chest and she knew it as a pain impervious to any human-made panacea.

Sleep would be the only offering of release—if only from the exhaustion.

Finally, that idea alone was enough.

Tru slid beneath the black sheet and matching geometric design of the comforter that used to warm her and Brittany on those cold Colorado nights, recalling the vividly unsettling images of that evening, weeks ago, with Travis in that hotel. Did she deserve, then, the emptiness that had taken over her life since it all crystallized into this current hell? Was she singularly at fault? Tru did not have the strength to will her eyes dry again.

She sighed, letting go of the churnings in her mind, focusing only on the gentle purring of Dropsi, who had taken her usual place on the pillow above Tru’s head. She drifted into a deep sleep, feeling the slight vibration of the cat’s internal motor on her scalp, knowing that by morning the tears would be a memory soon refreshed.

Brittany lay in her hospital bed, knowing she’d be released today, and wondering where the hell a person goes when she doesn’t know where she belongs. The Women’s Shelter would be the temporary solution. A solution, Nurse Sturgis told her, that was standard operating procedure for the hospital in cases like hers. She looked at the clock. Eight a.m. The sun tried to shine, but the bitter cold kept it from warming the window and permeating the room. Feeling a chill, she got up carefully and put on the robe and slippers. Nobody’s robe, nobody’s slippers—some articles of clothing that had been given to someone with only one name, by a nurse who took pity.

She strayed to the window and examined the new day. The first day of a new life which would be full of searches for the old one. The first day of the rest of her past.

The hospital staff had taken up a collection so that she would not be penniless when she walked out of here, along with the directions to the shelter, and a list of other organizations that might help her. She had refused psychological counseling because it made her feel somehow threatened; still not used to this disconnected universe her memory loss had caused, she certainly didn’t want some stranger with a psychiatric degree poking around in her head when she wasn’t sure what was in there, trapped beyond her grasp.

A perky volunteer named Trina picked her up outside the hospital entrance, her hair thin and a dull blond, her birdlike arms reminiscent of recent heroine-abuse ads. The young woman tried to make conversation, but Brittany didn’t feel particularly talkative. Trina seemed not to notice, one hand clenching a newly lit clove cigarette, periodically thumping the ash out the cracked

window. She launched into a waterfall of information about all aspects of life at the women’s shelter, crediting them for her newfound purpose in life.

They had helped her find the job she had after she’d escaped an abusive husband. As she drove with her left leg bent, foot in the seat, Brittany hoped, with a generous amount of anxiety, that the girl’s reflexes were quick enough to get her right foot off the accelerator and onto the brake, should the need arise.

Trina’s words faded back into Brittany’s awareness.

“...not that everyone down there isn’t nice, it’s just that, well, they all have their little problems or else they wouldn’t be there, ya know?”

The door to the Shelter’s community room opened, and Brittany placed the paper down on her lap, anticipating the appearance of her visitor.

A young man in his early thirties, wearing round spectacles, strode up to her. “Hi,” he said simply.

“I’m sorry—” she began.

“I know.” He held up his hand. “The hospital told me about your amnesia.

My name is Max. I’m the one who brought you in after the accident.”

Her face softened. “Oh, Max... I’m... what can I say? You saved my life. A thank-you seems a little inadequate.”

“Good enough for me.” He dragged a chair back as if to sit, but didn’t. “Are they treating you okay?”

“They’re great. I don’t think I’m an easy border, though.” She guessed by his demeanor and the glasses that he wasn’t a Casanova. He wore a thick MIT sweatshirt, khaki pants and old dirty sneakers.

He ran his fingers through the shock of brown hair at his forehead, and flashed a charismatic smile. “I guess that’s understandable.” Then adding a bit sadly, “I’m sorry you don’t know where home is—”

She watched him sit down, cross his ankle over his knee and struggle with some discomfort that seemed to be about a deficit in social interaction.

“How did you happen to find me after the accident?”

He snapped his head up, seemingly pleased for some prompting. “Oh, I was, um—I saw the accident happen... I was coming around the curve after supper with my mom, and I was behind you about the time your car went

—” he stopped himself. “I’m sorry. That was very insensitive of me.”

She shrugged. “It’s okay. I haven’t been able to remember the accident, either. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.”

“Maybe.” He pushed out of the chair, plunging his hands into the front pockets of his slacks, and strode to the window. “Where will you go when you leave here?”

“That’s a good question.” Brittany rolled the tabloid she was holding into a tube and bounced it on her leg, noticing the way he continually jingled the change in his pocket. “I don’t know if I have an answer to it yet. I’ll stay here until I figure it out.”

“Well, hey, it seems...” He looked around. “like a nice enough place to be...” An awkward silence ensued, and he jingled more change, his eyes wandering to the windows. “I’m sorry. I’m... I’m not a big people-person.

I’m a bit of a nerd, I’m afraid.” He punctuated this information by pushing his glasses up higher on his nose.

Brittany’s face relaxed into a half-grin. “That’s all right.”

“You’re a strong young woman.” He moved back to the chair, but again, did not sit. The smile reappeared briefly. He grasped the back of the chair with both hands, regarding her timidly.

“Thank you.”

“So. Will you leave a forwarding address...when you—when you know where you’re going, so I can at least send flowers?” He shoved his hands in his back pockets, then, and studied his dirty sneakers.

“You don’t have to send flowers, Max. You saved my life. I’d say that was quite sufficient.” She tried to smile warmly.

“Um... ok. Maybe we could... um... go get lunch sometime—” –adding quickly, “Or not, that’s up to you, I mean—” He rubbed the palm of one hand hard with his other thumb.

Brittany nodded. “Well, maybe. I think I have a lot on my plate right now.

Anyway, thanks for coming by. I wish I could repay the favor, but—” she shrugged, smiling.

“Forget it. Just get better.” He smoothed the front of his slacks. “Good luck.” He lifted his hand in a brief wave and backed away, turning to stride from the room. Brittany noticed that he walked with more deliberation in his departure than in his arrival. Probably relieved to go back to his little basement and into the cyber world where he was more comfortable. Shy young man. Not many of those left.

She touched the white gold watch at her wrist. The one that she had been wearing when she arrived. They gave it back to her along with some other jewelry in a zippy bag when she checked out. The engraving on the back had given hospital personnel her first name.

Precious little existed to reveal who she was. Most of it was white gold jewelry: a small band ringed with tiny turquoise stones, a nugget ring and the matching wristwatch, which was still ticking, even after being dunked in a river; a necklace with a strange emblem dangling from it that appeared to be an upside-down y, and a few crumpled dollar bills. Nothing that spoke of her identity. She unclasped the watch and read the engraving.

Merry Xmas ‘04, Brittany. I love you. T.

Who was “T”? Someone who loved me, obviously... She focused intently on the letter “T,” hoping a name would come to mind this time, but instead exhaled her frustration, put the watch over her wrist and fastened it again.

7

POISED ON THE THRESHOLD BETWEEN DREAMS AND REALITY, distracted by the noise which niggled her eyes almost open, Tru guessed that the phone had been ringing for some time. She lifted the handset at the bedside table and rolled over on her back as she put the receiver to her ear.

Her voice crackled like January leaves as she said hello. The voice at the

other end identified itself as Macy, and she forced herself to sit up and rub her eyes, clear her throat. “Oh, Macy... I’m sorry... what’s—what’s up?”

“You sound terrible—”

“I was asleep.” Tru tried to focus on the crystalline snow clinging to the window pane across the dim room.

“I’m sorry. I almost hung up,” Macy said. “but I really feel like we need to talk.”

Tru rubbed her neck. “What’s wrong?”

“You are, kiddo. Your mother called me. She’s worried about you. You’ve got to snap out of it.”

“Macy, please, I—”

“Tru, I know what you’ve been going through, and believe me, I understand. But life goes on, or at least it’s supposed to. You’re going to lose everything you’ve worked so hard for if you don’t start thinking about yourself.”

Unaware that she cried, until a tear fell onto her hand, Tru wiped it away gruffly. “I know, Macy, but I... I don’t know if she’s even alive, dammit! If I knew she was okay, maybe—”

“Sweetheart, listen to me. You have done everything in your power to find her. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. In the meantime, your career is going down the tubes. I can’t keep rescheduling these gigs. You’ve got to get back in the studio and back on stage—soon.”

Tru felt her defenses go up. Macy didn’t seem to get it. Brittany was not some bed-buddy, she had been her lifemate. It had been as meaningful a union as any heterosexual marriage license would testify. And in one quick series of events, it had disappeared like melting snow in noonday sunshine.

Tru experienced her absence as a quickening in her heart, a void space in her stomach, a dread. Something happened to her.

Macy waited on the line for Tru to answer, and it seemed long minutes before she heard her sniffling. “Tru? Honey, listen—do you need me to come up there?”

Tru lifted the neck of her T-shirt up to wipe her eyes. “No. I’m just worn out...”

“Didn’t you get some sleep?”

Tru blinked her vision into focus on the clock. “I had about six hours.”

“What are you going to do, Darlin’?” Macy’s voice came softly over the line, almost coaxing.

Tru’s attention was caught by the Raven beyond the window as it used a pine tree branch for a trampoline; the snow from the brittle limbs fell in puffs to the frozen ground. Tru wished her life were as simple as finding limbs to bounce on. She remembered a literature class in college, where they studied Poe’s, The Raven, and how it represented change and death.

She had chosen Raven as her stage-name for the aspects of change it represented. Now she wondered if she’d only see it as a harbinger of death.

No. Brittany was not dead. She wouldn’t allow herself to go there. Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore...’

“Tru?”

The bird launched into the sky in a flurry of snow and feathers. Maybe it was a sign. “When do you want me in the studio?”

“Can you make it in the morning?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Good girl. There’s money to be made with those golden pipes of yours.

Hang tough, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Try to catch up on the rest of your sleep before then, okay?” Macy’s voice had softened a bit more. “Do you still have Xanax?”

“Yeah.”

“Take one. Or take two. But get some rest. Give your mind and body a chance to recover.”

“I’ll try.” Tru tossed the receiver back into its cradle and pushed her fingers through her hair, scratching her scalp. Macy was right, of course. She had to start focusing on her career. The funds were getting low and she’d be getting behind in the bills in another month. Tru pushed herself up and went into the bathroom.

Facing herself in the mirror, she said, “Life’s a bitch, Private Morgan. Suck it up and drive on. Be all that you can be—” The pep talk was without sincerity, and she shook her head at the sad, dark-rimmed eyes of the young woman in the mirror. Maybe one more search... one more town today, and then she’d throw in the towel. She’d sleep for awhile and then get up and give it one more time.

She opened the bottle of Xanax.

Tru slid into the cold seat of the Cherokee and started the engine, feeling more rested since her additional five hours of sleep. As she waited for the heater to warm, she stared at the square panels which made up the garage door in front of her. If those squares were counties, she would surely have driven in all of them, searching for the one love who had given her life some color. Tru poured herself a cup of coffee from the thermos, knowing it to be the first of many, and

fastened the seat-belt. She backed the Cherokee and turned around, beginning a cautious journey down Castle Mountain Road.

Her cell phone chirped, and she grabbed it off the console, flipping it open.

Helki.

“Hey girl Just wanted to call and check on you.”

“Hey. Thanks.”

“What cha doin’?”

“I’m on my way to check out another crop of salvage yards.”

An awkward silence, then: “Tru...I’m really sorry things are so...”

“I know. Thanks. When are you going be back?” Helki was visiting her family in Alaska for the holidays.

“My return flight is on the fifth, but, if you need me to—”

“Oh no. Don’t even go there. I’m okay. You need to be there. You don’t get to visit with your family very often. There’s nothing you can do anyway.”

“I can be there to support you, help you look for her... something.”

“You are being supportive. Just enjoy your visit. I’ve got to lay down the new guitar tracks and scratch vocals anyway starting tomorrow. We’ll hook up when you get back and go through the set list again, just you and me.”

After she closed the phone, she made a mental note to herself to spend more time developing a friendship with Helki. It was rare to find her sort these days, and she was a little fearful that she might need that very soon.

She released the direction of her thoughts to the fates, and focused on driving. Careful of slippery patches on the asphalt, Tru glanced over the map she held at eye level, noting its red circles; each circle signifying a town she had driven through, hoping for a sign of Brittany. She had called every police station, scouted every salvage yard, until the map looked like a polka-dotted swatch of fabric, without the dots colored in. With a Sharpie marker from the console, she drew the last circle around Montrose, tossed the map in the seat beside her, and settled in for another protracted, vexing journey down the mountain toward the miniscule hope of finding her lover.

Climbing back into the Cherokee, Tru grabbed the notebook from the dash, crossing out another address to another salvage yard, and stared at the only

two left on the page for Montrose. If both of them yielded nothing, she would surrender to this vicious spiral of fate.

She drove to the address listed, and parked in front; it was a small yard. On foot, she searched the rows of cars to one side and began to make her way back up the other. As she stepped over a bumper in front of a jacked-up and recently rolled Bronco, she stopped. The silver paint caught the light and flashed in her eyes like a signal. The metal logo with the chrome letters, NISSAN, dangled bent, from the front fender.

Her knees began to quake, her heart hammering in her ears, as she moved around the mangled left front fender, the metal twisted, the paint removed in an ugly path of grooves and gouges. She bent to view the interior through unbroken windows. The seats and carpeting had sustained obvious water damage.

Her hand fluttered out for the stabilizing edge of the roof, and she moved toward the rear of the vehicle, turning toward the dash with her eyes closed.

There’s nothing to indicate it is Brittany’s, she reassured herself, there are lots of Nissans this color, this year model... she opened her eyes and saw that the knobs on the radio were covered by two Coke bottle caps.

She tried to step back, but in a quick whirl of grief, she stumbled, fell, got up and began to pace back and forth, the length of the car. Finally, she stopped at the driver’s door and stared through the window at the bottle caps. Her hands shot out and flipped up the door handle, firmly at first, then violently when it did not open. Desperately, she searched the ground around the vehicle until she found a rock. Heaving it into the window, the glass shattered and she kicked out

the remaining webbed pieces, and pushed it through onto the seat, leaned in, and pressed the waistband of her jeans on the jagged edges of the window to wrench the bottle caps from the radio knobs.

She held them, studying the red and white colors of the logo. Then, clenching them in her fist, she turned and ran back to the gate, barely missing a collision with a greasy old man holding a grimy brake drum. Still running, she stepped onto the sidewalk and ran faster, her legs pumping

harder, harder. Soon, the walk fed into the main street of the tiny burg. She passed the shops in the small town—the bakery, the clothing store, the shoe store, the hardware store, and kept running, tears flowing like water from a faucet, her lungs heaving the frigid air in and out in a burning, rasping succession of breaths. Her body began to ache all over and she felt her muscles giving in to the burn. Finally, she stopped to lean against the brick building, her breath making long, streaming clouds in front of her.

She licked her stinging lips and let the tears keep falling. “Brit...” she whispered weakly, sorrowfully, “God, Brit—what happened?” She took a deep breath and drew her sleeve under her nose.

A creaking sound took her eyes to the shingle swaying above her in the breeze. ED’S CAFE. She rubbed her eyes dry on her sweatshirt and pushed the door open. Numbness descended on her as she found a booth near the back of the thankfully quiet diner. She heard herself order coffee from a tired waitress, felt her hands fumbling for the eCig in the pocket of her leather jacket. As she thrust the bottle caps into another pocket and filled her aching lungs with the feathery vapor, the waitress set the cup down in front of her, and she began to drink from it, thankful for the way it burned her already-raw throat.

Tru leaned her forehead into her hands, elbows braced at either side of the cup, its steamy, strong contents snaking upward to tickle her nose.

A heart could be broken, a heart could ache, a heart could be sick...Tru wondered why she never heard of anyone getting heart cancer. It seemed the most logical organ to be afflicted with cells that attacked themselves.

Maybe it was because the heart could be in enough pain all by itself. Just from having loved. From having lost.

Long moments later, she had calmed. She was empty. The tears were gone, and she sat there, staring at the red vinyl of the booth seat across from her; her eyes were fixed on the brown foam rubber which seemed to have exploded from a small tear in the redness of it. She thought of how much it resembled a wound, and how much she felt like her insides were that foam rubber stuffing.

Across the aisle, a man got up from his booth and left an empty coffee cup, a dollar and a crumpled newspaper on the Formica tabletop, tossing her a brief expression of sympathy. Tru slid out of her booth and went over to get the paper. When she sat back down, she began to turn the pages, trying to focus on something other than the pain she knew lurked somewhere deep inside her like a swelling hunk of foam rubber.

Near the last page of the small gazette, was a photo: a young blond woman, eyes stark against an obviously bruised and tumescent face, sitting up in a white bed... Tru jerked spasmodically, knowing, and yet afraid to believe...her eyes fell to the caption: ‘Amnesia Victim Searching For Family...Do You Know Me?’ Below the question, the address of Montrose Memorial Hospital, and a phone number. Tru lifted the paper to her lips, pressing the photo against them. New tears began to stream down her cheeks. “Brit...” she whispered into the newsprint.

8

THE SNOW WAS TORRENTIAL. IT REMINDED HER of last night’s dream... she was out in the snow, feeling every bite of the icy wind, wishing she was warm again. And all she could see in the dream was her black boots; all she could hear in the dream was the crunch crunch crunch rhythm of other boots in the snow; and all she could feel in the dream was the wind