Waiting for the Moon

She was lying on the floor beneath the bed, talking in some nonsensical way. Words that made no sense, strung together as if they were a sentence.

"Peach . . . chair . . . mouse."

"Selena?" He couldn't keep the dread out of his voice.

She made a sharp, grunting sound and crawled back toward him, her pantalooned fanny high in the air.

He saw the back of her head first, her long, tangled

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locks separated to reveal the triangular swatch of shaved skin, covered now in a peachy fuzz. Her healing scar was a blistering red trail through the new growth.

She turned suddenly and thrust her hand out at him. There was a dead mouse in her palm. She stroked the soft gray fur and smiled up at him.

"Jesus!" He surged down and batted the thing out of her hand. It plopped on the floor and skidded back under the bed.

Her smile slowly fell. "I am ... Ian?"

Christ, he didn't know if she was talking to him or the mouse. He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair, trying to hold on to his temper, trying harder to hold on to his hope.

"Come here, Selena." He reached down and grasped her hand, leading her to the bed. She sat on the soft mattress, her bare feet swinging above the floor, her hands clasped together in her lap. Turning, she gave him a look of such pure, childlike confusion that he wanted to cry.

"Can you understand my words?"

She stared at his mouth a long time, and he could see her struggle, see her trying to understand and answer. It took her about three minutes, but finally she nodded. "Bowl." Her mouth twisted in what had to be a smile.

"Good. Let's try a few questions again, shall we? I think we'll st?"

She touched his arm. "Slow."

"I'm sorry. Questions . . . tests. Yes?"

Two minutes later, she nodded. "Yes."

"Do you know me?"

Slowly she nodded. "Ian-God."

He couldn't help himself, he laughed. "Ian. Only Ian."

"Ian," she repeated, staring at his mouth.

"Where are you?"

He could see her surprise at the question and knew

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that she understood. He watched her frown deepen. Finally she shook her head. "Cup."

He thought she was trying to say no. "You don't know where you are?"

"Don't . . . know." Her face scru

nched up in a frown. A few moments later, she managed to say, "Should .. . know?"

He shook his head. "No, you shouldn't." It was true. There was no reason for her to know where she was. He told himself it didn't matter that she didn't ask. "Who are you?"