Waiting for the Moon

"Where you're from?"

She blinked in confusion at the sudden change of topic. He was going too quickly. Her mind could not keep up. "I do not know where I was from. Could you perhaps-"

"Family?"

"I do not know of them. It would help if-"

"How about opinions? Do you have any?"

"Edith puts them in her stew."

He frowned. "What?"

Opinions. Not onions. She tried to smile, but it was difficult. He was staring at her so intently, she felt sick inside, nervous and uncertain. "Opinions. You mean beliefs."

"Yes." His pen lowered again to the page, waiting.

"I believe . . ." Her words trailed off. Frantic to impress him, she tried to remember something-anything-that Johann had said, or Edith, or Maeve. Anything that might be an opinion. Ian expected her to have some; she could see the expectation in his gaze, feel it in the ebb and tide of his breathing. "I believe ..." Her shoulders sagged, her voice fell to a thick whisper. "I believe I have no opinions."

"Really?" He drew the word out, as if savoring it, as if he were glad that she was so empty in the head.

She scooted closer to him, though it wasn't ladylike, and tilted her face up. He was so close, she could see the dark flecks in his blue, blue eyes, so close, she could feel his breath against her face. "I believe in you,

Ian."

He laughed, only this time it was a harsh sound that made her feel stupid and small. "No opinions and no intelligence," he said, making a quick note in his journal.

"I am not stupid," she said in a quiet voice.

He looked surprised by her statement. "I never said you were."

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"But you just said-"

"Oh, that." He cut her off with a wave of his pen. "That's simply sarcasm. I was saying that anyone who believes in me has no intelligence. You see, it's a joke at my expense, not yours."

She nodded, pretending to understand. But she didn't understand at all. Why would someone make a remark designed to inflict pain?

"I ... I knew you would come back to me," she said, gazing up at him, waiting for him to reach out and touch her, to see her as something more than a patient to question.

"I wish I had sooner. This damned journal would be so much more complete if I'd documented every step of the recovery process." He got suddenly to his feet and went to the bookcase behind him. "Now, let's try some coordination and dexterity tests, shall we?"

Selena watched him. He turned, carried back an armful of board games and pictures.

Something was terribly wrong, and she had no idea what it was. She felt useless and stupid. And she'd tried so very hard.... He sat down next to her. Close, but not too close. Then he picked up the pen and poised it above the paper. "Let's see if you can put the square peg in the square opening this time."

For no reason at all, she felt like crying. She didn't understand her own reaction. She ought to be happy now, ought to be grinning at the prospect of this examination. She'd practiced it several times, so many that she could perform it in her sleep. For weeks, she'd looked forward to impressing him with her mastery of this very test.

But now, somehow, things were different. It felt as if passing wouldn't matter to him, wouldn't make him put down that pen and truly look at her.

She realized suddenly what the matter was. It came to her in a swift, breathless jab of pain.

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He didn't care about her.

Oh, he wanted to understand her, wanted to take her apart and test her and see how she'd survived whatever it was she'd survived. He wanted to write down her thoughts and feelings and reactions, wanted to understand why she couldn't remember her name and why she had no opinions, but he didn't want to know her.