"Selena."
"No. Before Selena. Who were you before Selena?"
It took her at least a minute to answer, but this time when the words finally came out, they were stronger and clearer. "Don't . . . know . . . who."
He waited for her to ask a question, battling disappointment and anger. She looked up at him, through her dark, mysterious eyes, and he felt as if he were being strangled. Time stretched between them as he waited for her to ask the all too obvious question. He noticed a dozen tiny things in that moment, the maple-syrup hue of her eyes, the quiet sound she made when she breathed, the pale triangle of milky skin at the collar of her nightdress. With every second, every breath he drew, he felt his hope that she could ever be normal fade.
She wasn't going to ask if he knew who she was. It seemed completely unimportant to her. "Can't answer or don't know?"
"Don't know."
He spoke very slowly?too slowly?trying to keep the rising frustration from his voice. "Do you want to know?"
"Why?"
The question stunned him. Jesus, how could she not care? She woke up in a strange bed, tended by strangers, and she didn't have the least interest in her past, her
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history? "Family," he said, clutching at straws. "You might have a family out there who loves you, who's looking for you." He knew he was speaking too fast, but he didn't care anymore.
"Ian." She frowned, touched his cheek.
He pulled back and stood up. The game slipped through his nerveless fingers and thudded to the floor, forgotten and unimportant now. What did it matter if she could fit a square peg in a square hole? She had no mind left. She was a blank slate, a childlike adult who didn't remember that fire was hot or glass was solid .. . or that dead mice weren't family pets.
Irreparable damage to the brain.
She couldn't be his miracle. She could get better? might even one day be able to formulate a complete sentence, but no more. His dreams of redemption were just that. Dreams. As unattainable as the stars.
And if his life looked bleak, hers was unimaginable.
She looked up at him. He saw the first sheen of tears in her eyes. "Ian .. . test?"
It hurt to look at her. He glanced at the ceiling and gave a bitter laugh. The puppet master had won again.
God had given Ian the only patient whom he could touch, and she was damaged beyond repair.
Ah, the irony. The only person who was immune to his powers . .. and she had no mind. No mystery to unlock, no secrets to reveal. He could never be Pygmalion to her Galatea. He was closer to Mary Shelley's famous Dr. Frankenstein, pining to be a god, wanting to create articulate, intelligent life from a lump of animated flesh.
Madness . . .
"Test," she whispered in a small, stricken voice.
"No." He backed away. "No more tests today. I've seen enough." He turned and headed for the door. As he reached for the knob, he couldn't help himself. He turned back to her.
She sat slumped on the bed, her matted, dirty hair streaming down her back. Tears spilled from her eyes
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and splashed on the white lawn of her nightdress. He knew she didn't have an idea in the world why he was leaving, or what she'd done wrong. All she knew was that Ian-God was disappointed in her .. . and she was alone.
"I'm sorry, Selena." His voice cracked. "Jesus, I'm so sorry."
Then he ran from the room and slammed the door shut behind him.
The lunatics were in the hallway, waiting for him. The small crowd pressed in on him from all sides, talking, whispering, gesturing.
"Quiet!" Johann hissed. "What is it, Ian?"