Chapter One
With the hot Santa Ana winds at my back and a stogie between my teeth, I rolled into the canyons of LA, a city that appeared to me to be way too small for so many people and their pets. The vast sea of humanity and strange smells made me homesick for the Oregon desert and my dog. I parked the rental car in one of the special spots reserved for clients like myself who were paying too much for the convenience and stepped out into the 110 degrees, happy that today was to be the end of a seemingly worthless expense.
I reached the lobby of my shrink’s high-rise without getting mugged or shot and stopped to take in a marvel of engineering. A waterfall six feet wide cascaded from under an observation platform fifty feet overhead onto huge chrome steps that spiraled down into a black granite-lined pool. The electric bill for pumping that water would probably cover the power for the whole town I was from for a week. I stuffed myself into an elevator thick with city creatures dressed to the nines, strutting their stuff and careful not to smile. On the first few days, I had tipped my black cowboy hat to them in greeting, but I think the Western style dress made them want to call a cop so I saved my greetings for the little birds hopping along the sidewalks looking for crumbs. After too many stops in the eighty-story building, I stepped out onto the top floor where really important people worked.
Greeting me was an atrium of giant jungle plants with hidden speakers pushing jungle sounds through the vines. If the designer of the place was trying to imitate nature, he had never been there sober. If memory serves, real jungles are unfriendly, dark, and dangerous. To my left was a pair of tall beveled glass doors, one inscribed with small gold gothic letters that read, Dr. Susan Roark. My hand pushed the glass aside, and I entered a small waiting room of cherry wood walls and mint carpet.
A large bouquet of fresh-cut tropical flowers in a heavy crystal vase graced the center of a cherry wood coffee table in front of a burgundy leather couch. Forbes, Road Runner, and The Robb Report were the three magazines available for passing the time while waiting. Sitting behind a polished black granite slab, a cute little Asian girl shot me a fine smile and in broken English, said, “Mr. Mackenzie, you go right in now.” She smiled again and added, “Doctor has good coffee.” I said, “Thank you, Noelani,” returned the smile, tipped my hat, and pushed open one of a pair of tall cherry wood doors to a thousand-square-foot cherry wood cube.
This doctor really liked cherry wood.
Oil paintings of seventeenth-century sailing ships hung in each of a dozen panels on three of the four walls. An enormous disc of thick glass balanced on a block of black granite occupied the center of the room surrounded by ten plush burgundy leather chairs. A fourth wall of glass revealed the tops of sunlit skyscrapers piercing a deadly brown smog that cloaked the millions of souls below gasping for air—but they just luuuved the place. A long cherry wood desk sat in front of the glass wall with four burgundy leather chairs facing my doctor. She sat erect behind the polished surface reading as I closed the door and strolled across a soft pale green carpet toward her. I stopped a few feet from her desk and checked my snakeskin boots for smudges, adjusted my jeans, and checked the zipper with a quick flick of my finger. She didn’t look up as usual and seemed to enjoy making me wait. So, I waited with thumbs in the front pockets of my jeans as she continued reading. I was reminded of a time long ago in front of the captain’s desk, waiting for a scathing lecture regarding some military transgression. Finally, she closed the folder and looked up, as if she hadn’t known I was there. Her large brown eyes moved slowly from my silver belt buckle up my light blue cotton shirt to my mustache. She slowly rose from her chair, extended the long thin fingers of her right hand, and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Mackenzie.”
I stepped forward and slid my hand into hers, returning the faint smile.
“Cheers, Suzie Q.”
I give everybody I know a nickname, easier to remember. I had told her that she reminded me of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s song of the same name, and she had made it very clear that she disliked me calling her by that name; but after the first few visits, she realized that I really didn’t give a damn what she thought, and she dropped the subject.
She studied my eyes for a moment and replied, “So, this is our last visit.” Her voice was crisp and cold—a pretty voice but cold.
“Yes, it is . . . I’m sorry to say,” I lied. Sorry to get away from her, I was not!
Being a private sort, I didn’t enjoy spilling my guts to a woman I didn’t know that thought she was an expert on the mind. Old age was the only thing I knew of that could hope to understand the mind.
I checked her eyes for some sign of emotion but found none. “By the way,” I asked, “what’s the total on my bill?”
She released my hand after what I thought was a second too long and eased her tall, slim figure back into an oversized burgundy leather chair. She reached over to her left, picked up a file, and opened it. She read, “Four thousand five hundred.” When her eyes came back up to mine, I noticed a new sparkle as she added with a straight face, “However, I will disregard our contract if you would rather not pay me.”
I slid my Stetson back on my head with a finger and quipped, “Yeah, right . . . fourteen days of two hour sessions each and you’re going to just give it away!” She shook her long shiny black hair from side to side. “I’m serious, Bo . . . you haven’t gotten what you came here to learn.”
I dropped into one of the chairs and studied her eyes . . . no sign of a joke there. “I don’t understand,” I said. “I’m aware that I didn’t have a guarantee that you would.”
She turned to the side in her chair and seemed to be studying the bright blue sky beyond the glass. A full minute passed before she spun around and replied,
“Your basic philosophy has caused a great distraction in my efforts to help you . . .
It hasn’t been fair to you . . .” She paused, let her head drop back on the headrest, and mumbled, “I’ve got to get out of here!”
I leaned forward, trying to understand what the hell was going on. Dr. Roark had always been absolutely professional. I knew nothing about her and had no idea that there may be a real person behind that polished, irritating exterior. Her custom-tailored gray suit fi t perfectly, and whatever lay beneath was discreetly concealed. Well, I was a bit curious—despite her demeanor.
“Did you say that you had to get out of here?” I asked.
She set her eyes on mine without expression but didn’t speak.
I finally stood up and leaned toward her, my hands spread out on the lacquered cherry. “You OK, Susan?” I had considered her to be nothing more than a well-educated android. Suddenly, she was showing real human traits.
“Yes, I’m just fine . . . well, not really.” She crossed her arms and began slowly rocking as she continued, “While I was attempting to determine why you have no memory of your childhood, I’ve inadvertently discovered something that has nothing to do with why you are here. I’m not sure how . . .”
She stopped speaking and stood up, straightened her suit, and filled her lungs with processed air. “I’m sorry, Bo, I’ve said more than I should have.”
“What the hell is going on?” I asked, turning my palms up in frustration.
She lifted a cup of coffee to her lips. “Please . . . let me think a minute.”
“Roger that,” I said as I walked over to the glass wall to study the smog, considering if I’d be able to fl y out that evening. My little airplane was not equipped for instrument flying . . . I needed fair weather to take off . . . legally.
Finally, she spoke again, “Bo, your desire to remember your childhood may not be strong enough to allow anyone to get to it. I don’t think you really want to know all the details. You have buried it so deep that it may be impossible to recover, and because of that, it may be better left alone. I have tested you in every way I know how; hypnotism has revealed nothing, no feedback, you just slept. Whatever happened in your childhood must have been very traumatic.”
“That’s probably true,” I interrupted with a grin. “But I think you just changed the subject.”
A bit more color appeared in her cheeks as her lips formed a sheepish smile.
“You’re right, I did.”
“Well, maybe I can help you with your problem,” I said with a chuckle. “And work off my bill. I consider your efforts to help me a debt whether you waive it or not. I must say that whatever my visits have done to upset you is interesting.” I shot her a smile and added, “I am more than curious, actually. Besides, at age twenty-six or so,” I guessed, “and no particular life experiences to speak of, maybe I could help.” I couldn’t think of anything more to say, so I waited. I’d already said too much. For the first time since we had met, I saw a flicker of emotion. Anger, irritation, I couldn’t tell. Her stoic clinical nature, black-rimmed glasses, and stuffy suits began losing their effect. I’d been distracted with the illusion that we all have in the company of the doctor! Suddenly, I found myself studying the details of her appearance. There was a hint of Asian descent around her eyes, set above sharply sculptured cheekbones. A cute little nose sloped down toward full supple lips with just a touch of shiny lip-gloss. Those eyes. I couldn’t be sure at a distance, but the rich dark brown appeared to have flecks of metallic blue.
She poured more coffee from a silver pitcher, locked her eyes on mine, and said, “My age is of no concern to you.” She paused and relaxed her glare. “That’s rather bold to think that I’m lacking in experience!”
“I’ve been studying you too,” I answered with a chuckle, pouring myself some coffee. “What else did I have to do while you fried my brain with questions? Why, am I wrong about your lack of experience or age?”
She ignored my question, glanced at her watch, and picked up the phone. “Judy, cancel my remaining appointments for the day, and call for my car, thank you.” She came around her desk and stood a couple of feet from me and asked,
“Would you like to go to the beach . . . on a professional basis, of course? I need some fresh air . . . and we can continue this discussion in the ocean air.”
Too many interesting possibilities were wrapped around the question to refuse.
I shrugged my shoulders and replied, “I was planning to fl y out this evening, but the smog has visibility by the throat . . . so . . . why not?”
I had come to Dr. Roark on the recommendation of an attorney that had kept me out of jail a few times over the years. He had met her at a conference and kept bugging me to go see her, knowing of my memory problem. It was obvious that she was from a very good stock and of considerable wealth. If she had a husband, there was no ring on her finger or picture around to indicate one. Until that moment, she had been what one would expect: cold, articulate, professional, and a pain in the ass to be around. I was seeing her for the first time as a woman, and it threw me off balance. I tried real hard to be cool at all times.
Suzie Q. excused herself and disappeared through one of the wall panels, leaving me to watch flames dancing above a cluster of tall white candles on the conference table, unaware that my life was about to take a major detour. Only a few minutes had passed when she emerged without her glasses and tailored suit. I glanced around the office, but my doctor had suddenly vanished.
The white shorts, white short-sleeved cotton blouse, and brown sandals had transformed her into a stranger. Her features reminded me of the Polynesian girl I’d seen on the cover of a fashion magazine that morning in a café. As she walked toward me, my eyes drifted slowly from her stunning face, down the lines of a trim body then back to her face. What a sight!
“It is very hot out. Good choice,” I said through a smile as I pushed open the door, taking my hat in hand and motioning for her to pass with a slight bow. As she whisked by, ignoring my wandering eyes, they followed to check her aft side, which was an engineering masterpiece!
We were down the elevator and standing at the curb in no time, breathing brown air as her red Jaguar XKE rumbled up to our feet and stopped. Suzie opened the passenger door and invited me in. I slid into the leather and watched her jog around to the other side, tip the valet, and jump behind the wheel. She buckled up, checked her face in the rearview, and said, “Hang on, here we go.” The tires chirped, our heads snapped back, and we were off to the beach.
Neither of us spoke as she weaved through traffic way too fast, ignoring yellow lights and most traffic laws. Twenty minutes of shear terror through the canyons of LA, and I was beginning to admire this lady—she definitely had a wild streak. After narrowly escaping collision with several cars along the way, we slid to a stop at the edge of the long narrow band of white sand that separates salt water from madness. The heat and smog were held at bay along the shore by those glorious trade winds that once powered the great sailing ships and later brought plumes of our own radiation from Bikini Island back to us.
We removed our shoes, walked through the hot sand, and sat down at the surf’s edge. Waves raced up, lapped at our feet, then retreated for another try as the minutes ticked by without a word. Clean salt air and a warm breeze. That was my kind of therapy.
Finally pointing to the west, Suzie asked, “Out there . . . is where it all began for you, right?”
I raised my hand to my eyebrows to shade the sun and peered out toward my first-grade school. “Yep, kindergarten in the Philippine Islands.”
“So, the only events you can remember while there are shooting your friend in the ass with a BB gun, and the air force bombing Japanese supporters in the mountains not far from your house?”
“Yep, that, and wearing two different colored socks to school once.”
She nodded and said, “And your first clear memory is of Gloria, the English girl?” She paused a moment then added, “When you were fifteen, right?”
“Well, it’s a fuzzy memory. While in England, I ran away from home and met her, but that’s about it. I think some school buddies were with me, but I’m not sure. I remember her face and her . . .” I stopped and glanced at Suzie Q.
“What?” she asked with a little grin.
“Well, I think I slept with her.”
“You think you did?” She laughed aloud and shook her head.
“Like I said, Suzie, it’s fuzzy.”
“OK, OK, after that period your memory seems to be intact,”
“That’s about it. Before that, it’s mostly a blank.”
“Your mother didn’t want you at birth because you were a boy, right?” She had an annoying habit of repeating what I had told her, but I ignored it and played along.
“Yep. At least that’s what my grandmother on my dad’s side told me. Didn’t see my mom again after age three, so the story goes.”
“Who else told you that?” she asked.
“I don’t know if anyone else did. I’m not even sure it was Grandma.”
“And your dad was also in the Philippines when you were born?”
“Yep, the war was over, but the Japanese were still in the jungles raising hell with our military. I was apparently shuffl ed between my grandparents on both sides of the family. And as I’ve told you, during that period my dad divorced my mom, my mom disowned me, and that was that!”
“Not a bad childhood compared to some of my clients.” She mused with a shrug.
“But that doesn’t help you.” She paused and joined me in watching a commercial jet descending from the west with its landing gear down, then continued once the roar subsided. “Don’t be surprised if you start dreaming about your childhood.
The type of questions I’ve posed to you during our sessions could trigger that kind of response. You could still talk to your father about it, but you said that isn’t going to happen.”
“Roger that!” I agreed with a nod. “I don’t want to know that badly!”
“OK. Sorry.” She placed her hand gently on my shoulder. “Anyway, I gave you some suggestions while under hypnosis that may help.”
“What kind of suggestions?”
“Self-analysis type, maybe dreams, maybe thoughts, who knows?”
“I already dream a lot, but not about my childhood.”
“Don’t worry about it, Bo, you’ll be OK.” Suzie leaned back on her hands and stretched her long finely sculptured legs toward the ocean and pointed her toes like a compass pointing the way to my childhood mystery. The late-afternoon sun had found its way through the smog and set her bronze skin aglow. She watched the surf explode on the sand and said nothing for some time. I was comfortable watching her watch the waves, but I did wonder if the hourly rate might be higher sitting out in the sun and sand. It was clear to me that she was dancing around something that had nothing to do with my memory. I’d figure it out soon enough.
The sun had moved a full five degrees before she spoke again while watching the waves. “Bo, you have a rare belief system. You actually seem to live your life with little regard to expected behavior patterns.” She looked over at me and asked,
“Suffer any cost to be you, right?”
“Not always, but I try real hard.”