Yesterday Lost Page 3

  They turned off the interstate, passing through a couple of tiny, grocery-gas-and-post-office towns, but the country grew ever more wild and rugged as the paved road narrowed and then turned to gravel. Log trucks occasionally roared by, trailing clouds of dust and the heady tang of freshly cut timber. Creeks danced down mountainsides and plunged over boulders in the brushy ravines; prolific blackberry bushes crowded the road, and oak and sleek-barked shrubs that Mrs. L. called manzanita vied with fir and pine for space and sunshine on the hillsides. Occasionally they passed modest farmhouses set in the midst of a few cleared acres, but after turning off the main gravel road, even those signs of civilization vanished.

  Once, crossing a wooden bridge, a sharp apprehension jarred Katy as she looked down at whitewater thundering over huge boulders below, but she recognized the logical source even though it was something else she couldn’t remember. She’d been found in the surf-lashed rocks on the Oregon coast; her subconscious undoubtedly recognized dangerous, rough-water similarities here even if her conscious mind couldn’t remember.

  The setting of the house was exactly as Mrs. L. had described: lush green meadow surrounded by thick forest, with masses of juniper and other shrubs framing the log house. But this was no primitive log cabin. This log house was two stories, central front portion all glass soaring from floor to ceiling, heavy wooden railings enclosing wide decks. The steeply sloped metal roof was the same rich color as the russet bark of the manzanita, with elegant skylights gilded by the setting sun to islands of gold.

  Neither was the house as lonely and isolated as Katy had begun to expect after their long drive through the wilds. Across the road a carved wooden sign swung between two tall, weathered poles: Damascus Boys Ranch. Beyond the rail fence, lawns, garden and orchard surrounded a neat compound of dark brown buildings. A sweet scent of wood smoke hung in the air, a lazy haze of it drifting on the meadow, and the shouts of unseen boys suggested that somewhere beyond the buildings a lively ball game was in progress.

  “What’s that?” Katy asked.

  “It’s a Christian ranch school for problem boys. When we first came here I was afraid the boys might be troublemakers, sneaking across the road to do who-knows-what, but there’s never been a problem. Then I worried maybe it was run by some weird cult, but they seem normal enough.” Mrs. L. shook her head and laughed. “Dyed-in-the-wool worrier, that’s me.”

  “I’m glad you worried that the battered woman in a newspaper photo might be me, or I’d still be on the Oregon coast wondering who I am.”

  Mrs. L. reached across the seat and squeezed Katy’s hand. “You’re my family too, you know, every bit as much as my Evan.”

  With her crutches, Katy maneuvered up the three steps to the front deck, Mrs. L. solicitously hovering over her every awkward clump of the way. Once inside, she leaned heavily on the crutches, only then realizing how exhausted she was after the long day in which her life had changed so drastically.

  “You sit down and rest.” Mrs. L. patted her arm with motherly concern. “I’ll turn the heat on. These spring days are warm, but it’s still chilly at night here, and we don’t want you catching cold. I’ll fix a bite to eat.”

  Katy dropped her crutches on the colorful Navajo rug and gratefully eased into a soft chair. The interior of the house was as impressive as the outside, and Mrs. L. had done a fine, conscientious job of taking care of everything during Katy’s absence.

  Lush ferns and ivy trailed from planters near the windows. A huge, rock fireplace dominated one corner, its mantel a single thick slab of polished redwood, with a massive chimney rising to the vaulted ceiling above. The hardwood floor, beyond the central square of Navajo rug, gleamed with polish, and red and turquoise pillows scatted on the ivory leather furniture picked up the colors of the rug. To the rear, stairs led to a second-story balcony opening onto a hallway, the balcony railing draped with a smaller Navajo rug.

  Katy turned, not realizing until that moment that one wall of sparkling glass framed a magnificent view of Mt. Shasta. The massive peak, snow-covered and serene, rose between a cut in the closer, less spectacular mountains, its breathtaking beauty soaring beyond the glory of any man-made creation. A scarf of windswept cloud clung to the glistening peak, the snow now tinted a rosy pink sculpted with violet shadows in the slanting rays of the setting sun.

  She looked around again with a mild feeling of astonishment. This morning she was a woman without an identity, her only possessions a hospital-issue toothbrush and the clothes donated by Dr. Fischer. Now she had a name, an identity, a home! And soon it would feel like home, she vowed with sudden fierceness. Soon she’d remember everything.

  She jumped as something landed in her lap. The cat, boldly planting its forelegs on her chest, stared in her face with jewel blue eyes. Its fur was marked like a Siamese, silvery tan with darker points, but it had a mere button of a tail. A moment later another cat joined the stare- down, this one orange, with golden eyes gleaming and long tail twitching. Do I like cats? Katy wondered, momentarily uncertain.

  “Maggie and Tillie! You naughty girls!” Mrs. L. sailed in from the kitchen and swooped up the cats, one under each arm. “You know you’re not supposed to be in this part of the house.”

  The big cats, obviously not intimidated by the scolding, merely purred complacently.

  “It’s okay. I like cats,” Katy said. Yes, she did, she thought with a pleased sense of discovery. She liked cats.

  “You do?” Mrs. L. hesitated. “Well, yes, of course you do!”

  The cats had their Fancy Feast cat food, and Katy ate the homemade chicken soup Mrs. L. speed-thawed in the microwave, along with grilled-cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate. Her favorites when she was a girl, Mrs. L. reminded her. Comfort food. Katy smiled to herself. Definitely no den of iniquity here. Afterward Mrs. L. led her to the master bedroom opening off a hallway tucked behind the stairs to the balcony.

  “You always stayed in a room upstairs when you came to visit before Thornton and Mavis’s accident, but this last time you took over the master bedroom. It’s much larger, of course.”

  Did she detect a faint note of disapproval in Mrs. L.’s voice? Actually, peering at the bedroom that was homey and cozy in spite of its size, Katy did feel as if she were intruding on the privacy of strangers. The furniture was charmingly mismatched, as if each piece had been lovingly chosen: antique trunk as a nightstand on one side of the gleaming brass bed, round table covered with a ruffled pink cloth on the other. Wicker chairs by the window, a roll-top oak desk, and a big cherry chest of drawers. A faint, pleasantly lemony scent of furniture polish hung over all. The only discordant note was a long, dark stain on the carpet, as if something had splashed there. Katy stopped short. Blood?

  Mrs. L. read Katy’s shocked first impression. “Wine, I think. I never could get it out,” she said apologetically.

  Katy hadn’t much choice about where to sleep, even if Mrs. L. disapproved; she couldn’t navigate the stairs to the second-floor bedrooms with her crutches. Then she noticed all the boxes and cartons stacked near the chest of drawers.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Before you left, you asked me to contact your roommates in New York and tell them you wouldn’t be back and to ship all your things out here. There’s also a stack of mail,” Mrs. L. added, gesturing to piles on both the desk and the chest of drawers.

  “I was giving up modeling?”

  “I don’t know, Sweetie. That was one of the things you wanted to go off somewhere and think about, I guess.”

  Katy assumed she’d have some insight into her own thought processes eventually, but at the moment this decision about getting away to think simply bewildered her. After New York, wouldn’t this isolated ranch be the perfect getaway spot for thinking? Why go somewhere else?

  “Mrs. L., do I seem different to you?”

  “Why, uh, no, I don’t think so, Sweetie. Why do you ask that?”

  “Dr. Fischer sa
id she’d read that amnesia can cause minor, sometimes even major, personality changes, and everything I hear about myself just seems so . . . strange and foreign.”

  “Maybe you are a little different in some ways,” Mrs. L. conceded, “but you’re still you. Sweetie, while we’re on this subject there’s something I wanted to mention to you.” Mrs. L., as if uncomfortable with this, twisted the pocket on the flowered apron she’d tied over her polyester pants. “I think it would be best if you don’t mention anything to people about this little memory problem.”

  The advice startled Katy. She didn’t see how she could avoid the subject of her “little memory problem.” “People are surely going to know something’s wrong when I can’t remember them or anything that’s happened! Why not just tell the truth?”

  “If you’re careful, people will probably never even notice. Your folks moved out here after you’d started your modeling career in New York, and you’ve only been here a few times, so people don’t really know you. If something awkward comes up you can just pass it off as, oh, a little minor forgetfulness or strain from your accident. A car accident, you can call it. I hate to say this about people, but they can be so unkind, even prejudiced about mental . . . irregularities.” Mrs. L. shook her head and patted Katy’s arm a little helplessly. “I had an aunt who was in a mental institution for a while, and after she got out some people avoided her as if they thought her problems were catching. I just don’t want you to be hurt.”

  How well Katy remembered Stanton Riker’s attitude that her loss of memory signified other mental shortcomings, plus his obvious distaste with her general situation. She didn’t like to be less than up front about this; she somehow felt that she was basically an honest person. But perhaps in this instance. . .

  She finally nodded slowly. “Although, from the looks of things, I won’t be seeing much of anyone anyway. We’re not exactly a center of social activity here, are we?”

  Mrs. L. smiled. “That’s true. But there are people around, some of whom seem to think it’s their sworn duty to spread gossip. The postmistress in Wilding, and the people who run the little store there, the Carltons. Old Joe Barnes, the handyman over at the Boys Ranch, who helps me out occasionally. Although I don’t mean to say he’s a gossip, just a little nosy in a friendly sort of way. It might be best if your roommates back in New York don’t know either, in case you decide to go back to modeling. You’ve complained about how catty and competitive everyone in the modeling business is. It might somehow wind up being used against you.” The faint lines between Mrs. L.’s good-hearted blue eyes deepened with worried concern.

  Katy squeezed her hand. “It’ll be our secret. Hopefully it won’t be long before I’m remembering everything anyway.”

  “The doctor said you might never remember.”

  “But I’m going to,” Katy stated firmly. Although, at this point, she had to admit that statement was more hope than rooted belief.

  Mrs. L. turned back the covers on the bed. The sheets were a lovely soft cream, patterned with tiny flowers, the spread an old-fashioned quilt with a design of interlocking rings. She picked up the phone from the table by the bed, checking to be certain it was working. “There’s no intercom system because your father thought they were rude, but if you’ll leave the door open, I can hear if you call for me.”

  “What about a cell phone?”

  “Cell phones won’t work here. No signal. Although they work fine over at the Boys Ranch. Something to do with the mountains, I guess. Very frustrating.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  ***

  She had evidently already removed her parents’ things from the walk-in closet, and it held only some casual pants and sweaters, plus a burgundy robe, and a short, silky black nightie. She undressed and slipped into the skimpy garment, laughing when she spied herself in the full length mirror on the closet door. Glamorous she was not, with the awkward cast sticking out from under the silky material and her hair closer to bowling-ball smooth than shampoo-ad lush. Actually, she thought uncomfortably as she tried to stretch the skimpy fabric to cover a bit more exposed skin, she didn’t really feel like a glamorous-nightie person. More a flannel-pajamas type. Which was perhaps one of those little personality changes Mrs. L. had hinted at.

  She was curious about the contents of the boxes and the stack of mail but too tired to investigate tonight. She simply took a sponge bath in the big bathroom, where pink dolphins danced on the shower curtain, brushed her teeth with the familiar hospital toothbrush, slid into bed, and fell instantly into dreamless sleep.

  In the morning she woke to the tempting smells of coffee perking and bacon frying. She dressed in underthings she found in a drawer, a sweater from the closet, and her slit-legged jeans, reluctant to ruin a pair of the expensive, slim-legged pants in the closet. She clumped out to the kitchen, where a radio blared a cheerful country and western song and the cats purred from their perches snuggled between more green plants in the sunny windowsill of the breakfast nook. Mrs. L. stood by the calendar tacked to the wall, hands on hips, a frown on her face.

  “Will you look at that? I completely forgot I have a dentist’s appointment in Yreka this morning! I’ll have to call and cancel.”

  “Oh, no need to do that.” Katy assured her. “I can manage by myself for a few hours.”

  “But—”

  “And while you’re in town, perhaps you could pick up some pajamas for me? Just plain cotton ones. This evening we’ll go into the financial situation and see about getting a check off to the hospital and your money returned to you.”

  Mrs. L tapped her jaw on the lower left side. “Well, if you really don’t mind staying alone. I hate to drive into town again, but this tooth has been nagging at me.”

  “Maggie and Tillie and I will be fine, won’t we, cats?”

  Mrs. L. served Katy’s breakfast and fussed over showing her what was in the refrigerator for lunch before hurrying out to the car. Katy lingered over coffee after she was alone, feeling as purry and relaxed as the cats in the spring sunshine. Finally, with her curiosity fueled by the hearty breakfast and morning energy, she went back to the bedroom, cats tagging along, and started opening the stacked cartons.

  Her roommates, who were as lost to her memory as everything else, were not the greatest packers, she decided with a certain annoyance. The clothes looked as if they’d simply been yanked off hangers and jammed into the boxes. The high heel of a silvery sandal snagged the sleeve of an expensive angora sweater, and a belt wound like a leather snake around a tangled lump of lingerie. Carelessly tossed-in makeup had leaked and ruined a silk blouse.

  The first two boxes were easy to get to, but the others were stacked higher. Was there anything breakable in them, or could she just shove the top one to the floor where she could get at it? Shove, she decided, and did so.

  Except that at the same moment she shoved, Maggie crouched to leap for the box. Katy tried to stop the box from falling on the cat . . . stumbled into the big chest of drawers . . . thumped her cast down on the other cat’s tail . . . felt the chest of drawers wobble as she clutched it to keep from falling… And the next thing she knew she was in an avalanche of falling cartons, tumbling chest of drawers, flying photos and mail, the entire disaster punctuated by clawing, screeching cats.

  Then she was on the floor, boxes around her like fallen monuments and cast-bound leg trapped under the chest of drawers. The cats eyed her reproachfully from the safety of the bed.

  “Well, of all the dumb, clumsy . . . and I’m talking about you, cats, not just myself,” she muttered.

  She raised up on her elbows to assess the situation and immediately got jabbed in the middle by a carved corner of the chest of drawers. She was on her back with the heavy chest crunched down on the cast. Broken glass from a framed photo, a photo of herself, stabbed the carpet beside her head. She gingerly shoved the glass aside and checked for damages and injuries, wiggling toes and finger
s and cautiously exploring scalp for reopened wounds. Except for a cat-scratched arm and a crampy feeling in her injured right hand, everything seemed okay. No serious damages.

  But there was one slight problem. She couldn’t move.

  Ridiculous. Of course she could move. All she had to do was wiggle out from under this awkward weight—

  She wiggled. She squirmed. She twisted, pushed and pulled. She panted and rested and struggled again.

  No use. She couldn’t reach the cast to move it with her hands, and she couldn’t lift the chest. She couldn’t even sit up, with the corner of the heavy chest poking her middle every time she tried. An odd scratching noise outside the window suddenly made her stiffen. Something . . . someone . . . trying to get in? And she was trapped here, helpless—

  Just a rose bush brushing against the house, she realized, feeling foolish about the instant panic. She commanded her rigid spine and clenched fists to relax. She might be flat on her back, even trapped, but there was nothing to be afraid of. Mrs. L. had lived here alone for months. After a few more moments, the faint sound ceased.

  Her tense awareness did not.

  Now there was only silence, an oddly disturbing, even eerie silence. The cats were gone, quietly vanished. The intricate design of the bedspread looked different from this point of view, something oddly menacing about the labyrinth of interlocked rings, like a maze from which there was no exit. No song or chatter of birds outside, no hum of household appliances quietly going about their everyday business. It was like a moment suspended in time. And with it came a strange, disturbing feeling that everything here was wrong, all wrong, that somehow it was all a complicated illusion, a stage set. Her parents were dead, her memory in limbo. If someone wanted her dead all they had to do was walk in now and here she was, trapped and helpless.

  She shivered, body taut as an arched bow, gaze riveted on the doorway, ears straining.

  Then Tillie peered in the doorway, meowed, and the strangeness whooshed out of the moment like water spiraling down a drain. For a woman with an undersupply of memory, she scolded herself, she definitely had an oversupply of imagination.