Distant Memory Read Free

the most obvious possibility broke the surface of her mind. Her body was sore, her lip was split, and she had no money or credit cards. Had she been robbed? It was logical and it would answer many questions, including her physical condition. A robber might have attacked her and in a struggle beat her and—
    The last thought was unwelcome and sickening. Had it been more than a robbery? Had more than her money been taken? Had she been—?A cold finger ran up her spine, and she shuddered. Surely she would remember that. If nothing else, she would have to remember being attacked, being violated. Or would she? Wasn’t it just such a thing that - could push a woman into a psychological hole—a place to hide from something so horrific, so appalling? In such cases, it wasn’t just the body that was raped. The rapist also violated the mind, the character of the woman, the fragile psyche of a human, and that often took much longer to heal than any bodily wounds.
    Returning to the mirror in the bathroom, she once again studied her image. This time she removed the white cotton T-shirt she wore. Pulling the garment over her head caused her side to ache and her head to throb. She continued disrobing, removing her loose-fitting jeans and undergarments. She studied herself in the mirror and was shocked to see a large, narrow, bluish bruise that ran from her left shoulder to the bottom right of her rib cage. In addition, a deep purple discoloration covered the upper part of her left arm and shoulder. Another bruise ran across her hips just behind where the elastic band of her underwear would be. Her right arm bore no marks. Raising her hands, she studied her wrists. They too were unmarked. If she had been in a struggle, there would have been bruises on her wrists and upper arms. An ache in her foot caused her to look down. She was still wearing the Nikes. She had tugged the jeans over her shoes. Placing a foot on the edge of the toilet, she untied the laces and removed the sneaker and white sock. She repeated the act with the other foot. It had been her right foot that ached and she examined it closely. It too was bruised, and the skin at the top of her foot was broken.
    She continued her self-examination until she had checked every part of her body. Finally, she dismissed the idea of a physical attack. The markings seemed wrong. But something had happened to her, and she was at a loss to explain what.
    She dressed again, washed the blood and makeup from her face, and exited the bathroom. The unsettled feeling of panic rose in her again.Nothing made sense. Once more, her eyes traced the room, looking for any clue that would help her to discover who she was. If there were any clues, they were well hidden. Maybe there was something out there, outside the room.
    The thought made her uncomfortable, although she could not tell why. Walking to the drapes, she pulled them aside and peeked out the window. The white sun shone down through a cloudless sky. Just outside her room was an asphalt parking lot in grave disrepair. Small but persistent weeds had pushed up through cracks in the macadam. Walking across the lot was an elderly Hispanic woman. She was pushing a maid’s cart. The cart had a wobbly front wheel. Only two cars were parked on the lot: an old, heavily dented, beige Volkswagen Beetle and a yellow Ford Pinto with oxidized paint and a cracked windshield. An eighteen-wheeler was parked curbside, where the lot met the road that ran along the front of the property. The road itself was wide, with two lanes of traffic going in each direction. Cars and tractor-trailer rigs drove noisily by the motel.
    The surrounding terrain was sparse and foreboding. Thick-limbed trees, their pointed leaves aimed skyward like upraised organic spears, dotted the empty field across the road. The ground was a depressing brown. She was in the desert, that much was clear.
    Closing the curtain, she stepped away from the window and waited for her eyes to readjust