Waiting for the Moon

She moved closer, lifted her gaze to his. "You will help him." She'd meant to frame the words as a question, but somehow they ended up as a statement.

"He doesn't need medical care."

"You will help him," she repeated herself, softly.

He surged to his feet and backed away from her. "Enough of the hero worship, Selena. I'm not capable of he

lping people. Besides, what Andrew needs isn't possible. We can't change the past."

"Then change the future."

"Ah, Selena." Ian's whole body seemed to sag at her simple words. He turned and looked at Andrew. "This is a dangerous time for him. After a short period of cat-

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atonia, he usually tries to kill himself. Fortunately, he isn't very good at it. Last year-"

She gasped.

Ian glanced down at her. She could see that he had no idea how callous he had just sounded, how ugly his detachment was.

The insensitivity hurt her more than she could have imagined. It made her feel fragile, uncertain, as if she'd just discovered that the anchor in her world was wrought of spun glass. She touched his arm, curled her fingers around his wrist, tried to find the familiar strength and warmth in simply being beside him. But for once there was nothing strong or solid about him. Beneath her fingertips, he felt as ephemeral as a ghost.

She gazed up at him, knowing her eyes held the heartbreak in her soul. "He needs you."

He sighed heavily and shook his head. "Ah, Selena ..."

"You will do what is right, Ian. I know you will."

She tried desperately to believe her own words, but fear was a cold, hard lump in her stomach.

She understood, finally, what a lie was.

Ian stood beside Andrew's bed. The boy lay motionless beneath the mound of gray-white bedding, his cheeks a pale chalky hue, his eyes open and unseeing.

Ian wished he'd been stronger with Selena, wished he'd turned and walked away from her pleading eyes. But he couldn't do it, couldn't destroy her so completely, even though he knew it was the safest, most honest course.

He pulled up a chair and sat down beside Andrew. The dark window shade that Andrew insisted upon covered the window, blocked the bright sunlight and kept the room shrouded in shadows. Beside the bed, a candle flickered.

Ian understood more than he wanted to now. So much more.

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Andrew's frequent bouts of depression and habitual suicide attempts were no longer a tragic character flaw or symptoms of madness.

The boy had suffered horribly in his short life, the most degrading, painful, humiliating physical abuse imaginable. And Ian would bet money that the pain had come from a relative. Perhaps even Andrew's father.

Ian felt sick at the thought. He remembered his own father, his own childhood, and suddenly the pain he'd suffered because of his mother's illness seemed immature and misplaced. What Andrew had suffered was so much worse.

On the bed, Andrew moved.

Ian leaned forward. "Andrew?"

The boy whimpered softly. Tears squeezed from his closed eyes and streaked down his temples. "Go away ... not again ..."

Instinctively Ian reached out, brushed the hair from Andrew's eyes. One casual touch was enough. The sickening images slammed into his brain. He winced, fought the pictures, held the horror at bay by sheer force of will. After a few moments, they softened, turned dim and out of focus. He let out a harsh breath of relief.

He had to help this boy. But how? How could such memories be eradicated?