Picture Perfect

  She would wait.

  She opened her eyes, hoping for answers, but all she could see were clouds that covered the sky like a bruise.

  THERE WASN'T ENOUGH LAND IN CALIFORNIA.

  He couldfeel it, beating like a hammer at the base of his throat, this claustrophobia born of the hissing asphalt under his tires and the condos pressed so close they left no room to breathe. So he kept driving west to find the ocean, hopefully before it got dark. He had never seen it. There had only been pictures, and accounts from his mother and his father.

  He remembered stories his father had told him, stories he hadn't believed at the time, of Indians jailed in the 1800s who died overnight because they couldn't stand the confinement.

  He thought of the statistics from the Bureau of Indian Affairs, which said that sixty-six percent of Indians who left the reservations returned, unable to live in the cities. Of course, he was not entirely Sioux. But he was not entirely white, either.

  He smelled it before he saw it. The wind carried him the salt from the waves. He parked the rusted secondhand pickup on the shoulder of the road and ran down the sloping dune. He did not stop running until his sneakers were submerged, until water stained the thighs of his jeans like tears.

  A gull screamed.

  William Flying Horse stood with his arms outstretched, his eyes fixed on the Pacific Ocean but seeing, instead, the brindled plains and rolling Dakota hills that he would not call home.

  ON THE PINE RIDGE RESERVATION IN SOUTH DAKOTA, ROUTE 18 took you into town, and if you wanted to get anywhere else you navigated by natural landmarks or long-abandoned vehicles, since there weren't many other roads. But it had been three days since he'd moved to Los Angeles and Will had yet to get his bearings.

  He was renting a little row house in Reseda, which was close enough to the LAPD to eliminate the need for a long commute, and far enough away for him to feel like he wasn't attached to his job. He didn't have to report to work until tomorrow--the paperwork for the position had been done through the mail--and he had planned to use this time to find his way around L.A.

  Will slammed his fist onto the steering wheel. Where the hell was he? He groped along the front seat, looking for the map he'd tossed away minutes before. He squinted at the tiny red roads, but the overhead light in the pickup had been one of the first things to go, so he pulled to the curb underneath a streetlight. He peered at the map in the soft glow. "Shit," he said. "Beverly Hills. I was here an hour ago."

  For the first time in decades, he wished he was more of an Indian.

  He blamed his faulty sense of direction on hiswasicun blood. All his life he'd heard stories of his grandfather's father, who tracked the goddamned buffalo by the slightest rising of the wind. And when the woman his father loved had left without a word, hadn't he ridden for miles using only his intuition to find her? Compared to that, how difficult could it be to find the San Diego Freeway?

  Once, when Will was little, he'd followed his grandmother into the woods to collect roots and leaves for her medicines. He'd picked the ones she pointed to, cedar and sweet flag and wild licorice. He'd turned his back only for a moment, and his grandmother had disappeared. For a while Will had wandered in circles, trying to remember his father's lessons about footprints left on broken leaves, snapped branches, the sense of movement in the heavy air. It was hours before his grandmother found him again, cold and curled beneath the burl of an oak. Wordlessly she pulled him by the hand in the direction of home. When the small log house came into view, she turned and cupped Will's chin in her hand. "You," she sighed. "So white."

  He had only been ten, but that was the moment he knew he would never be like his grandparents. To them, to everyone who lived around him, he would always beiyeska , a mixed-blood. He had spent the next twenty-five years acting as white as he could, figuring if he could not be like his father's people, he would be like his mother's. He threw himself into his schoolwork so that he'd be able to go to college. He spoke only English, even at his grandparents' home where Lakota was the primary language. He nodded when his white bosses described the Sioux as lazy alcoholics and when the words ran cold through his blood; he wrapped his indifference around him like a cloak.

  Well, he was white now. He was off the reservation and he was planning to stay, and as for finding his way out of Beverly Hills, he'd do what every other white man would do: he'd find a gas station and get directions.

  Shifting gears, Will eased the truck away from the curb and started down the street again. The opulence of Beverly Hills amazed him--the wrought-iron gates and the pink marble fountains, the lights that winked from great Palladian windows. There was a party going on at one of the houses. Will slowed down to glimpse the silent ballet of waiters and guests and it took a moment for him to notice the flashing lights of the police cruiser pulling up behind him.

  Co-workers, he thought, as he stepped out of the pickup to ask directions. There were two officers. One was blond, and that was all Will had time to notice before the man slammed his head against the cab of his truck, pinning his arm behind him.

  "Look what we got here, Joe," he said. "Another fucking spic."

  "Listen,"Will heard himself rasp, and the cop brought his free hand down between Will's shoulder blades.

  "Don't talk back to me, Pedro," he said. "We've been following you for ten minutes. What the hell business do you have in a neighborhood like this?"

  "I'm a cop." Will's words fell heavy to the pavement.

  The man released his wrist, and Will pushed away from the truck and faced him. "Let's see your badge."

  Will swallowed and looked him in the eye. "I don't have it yet. I don't have my piece, either. I just got here; I start work tomorrow."

  The officer's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, well, if I don't see no badge, I don't see no cop." He nodded to his partner, who started to walk back to the cruiser. "Get the fuck out of here."

  Will clenched and unclenched his fists as he watched the cop's retreating back. "I'm one of you," he shouted, and behind the thick plate glass of the police cruiser's windshield, he saw the officer laugh. Walking back to his truck, he stared at the people at the party on the hill, laughing and drinking like nothing at all had happened.

  The moon slid behind a cloud as if it were embarrassed, and at that moment two truths struck Will: He did not like L.A. And he was not white.

  WHEN SHE AWAKENED THE SUN HAD SET. SHE SAT UP AND LEANED against the familiar gravestone. Somewhere to the east, a searchlight was cutting across the sky, and she wondered if some awards show was scheduled for that night--they were a dime a dozen in L.A.

  She pulled herself to her feet and began to walk toward the gate. With each footstep, she spoke aloud a different female name, hoping that one might jar her memory. "Alice," she said. "Barbara. Cicely." She had gotten to Marta by the time she reached the street--Sunset Boulevard, she knew it right away and she realized she was making progress, since she hadn't remembered that earlier. She sat at the curb, in front of the sign that listed the name of St. Sebastian's priest and the hours of confession and masses.

  She knew she wasn't a member of the congregation--that she wasn't even Catholic--but she felt she'd been there before. She felt she'dhidden there, really, or taken refuge. What would she possibly have been running from?

  Shrugging, she dismissed the thought and peered into the distance. Across the street and down the block was a billboard for a movie. "Taboo," she read aloud, wondering if she'd seen it, since the title seemed so familiar. The poster showed a man half in silhouette, but even with the shaded features it was easy to tell that the actor was Alex Rivers, America's sweetheart. He'd successfully starred in everything from action thrillers to Shakespeare, and she remembered reading somewhere that his Q-rating for recognition ranked above the President's. He was smiling at her. "At theaters everywhere," she read, hearing the catch in her own voice.

  LATER ON, WHEN WILL THOUGHT BACK TO THE MOMENT, HE REALized it was the owl's fault. If he hadn't braked at the
sound of that screech owl, he never would have stopped; and if he had never stopped, he wouldn't have made all the wrong decisions.

  By some stroke of luck he'd found Sunset Boulevard, and although he knew Sunset Boulevard ran into the freeway, he wasn't sure if he was going in the right direction. The two gas stations he'd passed had been closed, and by now his right eye had nearly swollen shut and all he wanted to do was crawl into his bed and try to forget what had made him move to California in the first place.

  He had just passed a McDonald's when he heard the call, sharp and piercing, like the cry of a child. Will had certainly heard owls before, but not since he'd left South Dakota. His grandparents, like many people on the reservation, believed strongly in the omens of birds. Since birds took flight, they were closer to the spirit world than man was, so ignoring a message from a bird might mean missing some warning or promise from powers greater than oneself. Will, in keeping with his rejection of the Sioux culture, had shrugged off the significance of hawks and eagles and ravens, although he couldn't bring himself to completely disregard owls, which his grandmother said were signs of death.

  "Maybe it's the car," he said aloud, and almost simultaneously he heard it again, a shrill scream that pulled at his insides.

  He braked. Behind him, a van swerved, its driver cursing through the open window. Will pulled over in front of a Catholic church and parked in a towaway zone.

  He got out of the truck and stepped onto the sidewalk, lifting his face to the sky. "Okay," he said sarcastically. "Now what?"

  The woman who came through the gate at the side of the church was faintly outlined in white, like a ghost. She saw Will and started to walk a little faster, a smile breaking across her face. Stunned, Will stared at her. She reached just as high as his shoulder and she had dried blood at the edge of her scalp. She came closer, until she stood just inches away, looking at the bruise above his eye. She reached out, this woman Will did not know, and brushed her fingers over the skin. He had never felt anything like it: a touch more quiet than a breath. "Not you too," she whispered, and then her eyes rolled back and she started to fall to the ground.

  Will caught her and settled her in the passenger seat of his truck. When she started to stir, he sat as far back against the driver's-side door as he could, certain she'd scream when she found herself in a stranger's car. But her eyes blinked open and she smiled so easily that Will found himself smiling back.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  She swallowed and ran her hand over her hair, smoothing it away from her face. "I think so," she said. "Have you been waiting long?"

  She spoke as if she had known him all her life, which made Will grin. "No," he said. "I just happened to be passing by." He stared at her for a moment. "Listen," he said, "if you're waiting for someone, I can wait with you until they get here."

  The woman froze. "You don't know me?" Will shook his head. "Oh God." She rubbed her eyes. "God." She looked up at him through tears. "Well, that makes two of us."

  Will wondered what he had gotten himself into, sitting in his own truck with a woman who was crazy, or so high she couldn't think clearly. He smiled hesitantly, waiting for her to fall back to reality. "You mean you don't know me either."

  "I mean I don't knowme ," the woman whispered.

  Will looked carefully at her clear eyes, at the clotted cut on her temple.Amnesia , he thought. "You don't know your name?" He switched automatically into the questioning he'd learned as a tribal police officer in South Dakota. "Do you remember what happened to you? What brought you to the church?"

  The woman glanced away. "I don't remember any of that," she said flatly. "I suppose I should turn myself in to the police."

  The way she said it, like she'd committed a capital crime, made Will smile. He thought of driving her downtown to the Academy, the headquarters of the LAPD. Even if he wasn't officially on the roster, he surely could pull some strings and check the APBs, see if in fact anyone had been looking for her. He shifted slightly, wincing at the pain that shot over his eye. He remembered the blond cop in Beverly Hills, and he wondered if they all would be like that come Monday.

  "I'mthe police," he said quietly, and even as the words were forming Will knew he would not take this woman to the LAPD, not after what had happened to him, not right away.

  Her eyes narrowed. "Do you have a badge?"

  Will shook his head slowly. "I just moved here. I live in Reseda. I start work tomorrow." He caught her eye. "I'll take care of you," he said. "Do you trust me?"

  She looked at the sharp angles of his face, at the light shifting over his black hair. Nobody else had come. Yet when he had appeared, she'd run to him without any hesitation. Surely for someone who was not thinking with reason, but only with gut instinct, that had to count for something. She nodded.

  He held out his hand. "I'm William Flying Horse. Will."

  She smiled. "Jane Doe." She placed her fingertips against his palm, and with her touch this strange city fell into place. Will thought about the song of the owl, and this gift that had literally dropped into his arms, and as he glanced at her he knew that in some way she was now his.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHE kept skipping October. She was supposed to be reciting the names of the months in reverse order, as per instructions of the emergency room doctor, but she kept jumping from November to September. Her face flushed, and she looked up at the man who had been examining her. "I'm sorry," she said. "Let me try that again."

  From across the room where he'd been watching for ten minutes, Will exploded. "Jesus," he said, moving closer. "I'm perfectly fine, and I wouldn't be able to do that without messing up." He glared at the doctor. He'd brought the woman to the emergency room because it was correct police procedure, at least in South Dakota, but now he was having second thoughts. As far as Will could tell, these stupid exercises had done nothing but make her more frazzled.

  "She's lost consciousness at least twice in the past few hours," the doctor said dispassionately. He held up a pen, inches from her face. "What is this?"

  She rolled her eyes. Already she'd answered questions about where she was, what day it was, who the President was. She'd counted forward and backward by threes and memorized a short list of fruits and vegetables. "It's a pen."

  "And this?"

  "A pen cap." She glanced at Will and grinned. "Or is it a cow?" As the doctor's eyes snapped up to hers, she laughed. "I'mkidding ," she said. "Just a little joke."

  "See?" Will said. "She can make jokes. She's fine." He crossed his arms, uneasy. Hospitals made him nervous; they had ever since he was nine years old and had watched his father die in one. Three days after the car accident, his mother already buried, Will had sat with his grandfather waiting for his father to regain consciousness. He had stared for hours at his father's lax brown hand contrasting against the white sheets, the white lights, and the white walls, and he knew it was only a matter of time before his father left to go somewhere he belonged.

  "All right." At the sound of the doctor's voice, both Jane and Will stood straighter. "You appear to have a mild concussion, but you seem to be on the mend. Chances are you'll recover your more distant memories before you recover the recent ones. There may be a few minutes surrounding the actual blow to the head that you never recall." He turned to Will. "And you are...?"

  "Officer William Flying Horse, LAPD."

  The doctor nodded. "Tell whoever comes to get her that she should be observed overnight. They need to wake her every few hours and just check her level of alertness; you know, ask her who she is, and how she's feeling, things like that."

  "Wait," Jane said. "How long until I remember who I am?"

  The doctor smiled for the first time in the hour he'd been with her. "I can't say. It could be hours; it could be weeks. But I'm sure your husband will be waiting for you downtown." He slipped his pen into his jacket pocket and patted her shoulder. "He'll be filling you in on the details in no time."

  The doctor swung open the door
of the examination room and left, his white coat flying behind him.

  "Husband?" she said. She stared down at her left hand, watching the diamonds on the simple band catch the fluorescent light. She glanced up at Will. "How could I have missed this?"

  Will shrugged. He had not noticed it himself. "Can you remember him?"

  Jane closed her eyes and tried to conjure a face, a gesture, even the pitch of a voice. She shook her head. "I don'tfeel married."

  Will laughed. "Well, then half the wives in America would probably kill for your kind of blow to the head." He walked to the door and held it open for her. "Come on."

  He could feel her one step behind him the entire way to the parking lot. When they reached the truck, he unlocked her door first and helped her into the seat. He turned the ignition and fastened his seat belt before he spoke. "Look," he said. "If your husband's looking for you, he can't file a missing persons report until twenty-four hours go by. We can go down to the station now if you want, or we can go first thing in the morning."

  She stared at him. "Why don't you want to take me there?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You're hedging," Jane said. "I can hear it in your voice."

  Will faced straight ahead and put the truck into reverse. "Well, then you're not listening too well." A muscle jumped along the side of his jaw. "It's up to you."

  She stared at his profile, a chiseled silhouette. She wondered what she had said to make him so angry. For right now, at least, he was her only friend. "Maybe if I get some rest," she said carefully, "I'll remember everything when I wake up. Maybe everything will look different."

  Will turned to her, taking in the tremor of her voice and the hope she was holding out to him. This woman he knew nothing about, this woman who knew nothing abouthim , was putting herself in his hands. It was the most he'd ever been given. "Maybe," he said.

  JANE WAS ASLEEP BY THE TIME THEY REACHED THE HOUSE IN RESEDA. Will carried her back to the bedroom, settling her on the naked mattress and covering her with the only blanket he'd unpacked. He took off her shoes, but that was as far as he'd go. She was another man's wife.