Waiting for the Moon

by Kristin Hannah

Ian looked down at her in shock. "Excuse me?"

  "This is my house, I believe?"

  "Yes ..."

  Maeve grinned, as if she'd just answered a most confusing query. "Yes, I thought so. As owner and Edith's employer, I shall make a new rule. No eating in bedrooms."

  "Mother, you cannot-"

  "I have. Now, Edith, serve supper. My son and I shall be along shortly."

  Edith bobbed her head in a quick show of deference, then hustled out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.

  Maeve moved closer to Ian. "I will not let you hurt her, Ian."

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  "What do you mean?"

  "Selena has been practicing her table manners for weeks. She would be heartbroken if you didn't show up at supper."

  Ian stifled a quick urge to smile. This was an opportunity he hadn't even considered. To watch Selena's dexterity at complicated tasks, see how her impaired brain function impacted her motor skills. "Lead on, Mother."

  She frowned at him, then slowly turned and walked out of the parlor. He followed her down the hall and into the dining room.

  The scene that greeted them stopped Ian in his tracks. The room was full of people. Lara, Andrew, Johann, Dotty, Queen Victoria, Edith, and Fergus were all seated around the oval mahogany table. A dozen candles dotted the table, casting quivering pockets of light atop the burgundy tablecloth. A large silver tray held a still-sizzling roasted turkey ringed in baked carrots and onions. Beside the bird, two pewter bowls held mashed potatoes and turnips. Scattered randomly in between the serving dishes were apples, nuts, pieces of hard candy, and pickles.

  "Rather odd assortment of food," Ian murmured.

  "To feed a rather odd assortment of people," Maeve responded. She clapped her hands for attention. "Ian has consented to sup with us."

  A roar of approval went up in the room. Ian's gaze cut to Johann, who sat sprawled in a chair, one leg drawn up, his arm draped across the knee. A half-empty glass of wine dangled from his long fingers. Johann gave him a slow, sarcastic smile and tilted his glass in a mock toast. "Why, Doctor, how nice of you to join us. I'm so sorry I missed your reunion today with the goddess." His smile graduated into a grin. "Such a staggering misdiagnosis...."

  Ian ignored Johann and turned back to the table. For the first time, he noticed the room's decorations. Bright

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  gold cords were draped from the chandelier, their valleys deepened by small, hanging Christmas ornaments. There was a scrap of paper pinned to the base of the light fixture, upon which were written the words chandelier-for light.

  Ian glanced around, suddenly noticing the dozens of other notes affixed to every item in the room. He went from one to the other, reading. Sideboard-to hold hot food; table-to sit at for meals; rug; window-to see through; drapery-to keep light out.

  He felt Selena beside him without even hearing her come up. All at once, he simply knew that she was there. He turned to her. She stood tall and straight, her hair loosened around her face. She wore a baggy blue gingham dress with bits of lace at the collar and cuffs. A goddess in a gunnysack.

  Her face lit in a smile. "Andrew wrote those, to help me learn words."

  For a second, he was so lost in looking at her face that he didn't know what she was talking about. Then he realized it was the notes. "Did it work?"

  "Yes. The moment I see the word, I seem to recall its meaning. I am relearning my old life."

  "Good idea, Andrew," he said to the young man, who blushed furiously at the sudden attention. "I'd like to speak with you after supper. Perhaps you-and the others-can fill me in on Selena's recovery process."

  "I would think Selena's current state would tell you all you need to know," Johann said. "Just look at her, for God's sake."

  Ian frowned. "It's not her looks that interest me, Johann. It's her brain. How damaged is it? How difficult was the recovery process?"

  Johann's eyes turned cold. "You would see only the imperfections, Ian."

  "You will sit by me?" Selena asked quietly. The question surprised Ian.

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  "Of course he will," Maeve responded.

  Slowly Ian followed Selena to a seat at the table, watching her intently as the meal began.

  She sat very stiff and erect, her napkin spread across her lap. She carefully placed an apple, a pickle, and two pieces of hard candy on her plate. Taking up her fork, she cut the apple in small pieces and began to eat.

  Her actions were jerky and uncoordinated.

  He put on his spectacles and pulled his journal and pen out of his pocket. Patient eats with awkward, almost spasmodic motions. Appears to eat based on texture to substitute for lack of taste.

  Conversation buzzed around the table in stops and starts, people talking all at once, laughing uncontrollably and at inappropriate times. Beside him, Selena was talking earnestly-something about King George-in a voice so soft that he could barely hear her above the din.

  He couldn't handle the noise. A dull, thudding headache started at the base of his skull and radiated outward.

  He put his pen down suddenly, harder than he'd intended.

  When he glanced up, he found Selena staring at him. She looked ... uncomfortable. Like his mother when she was trying to separate fantasy from fact. Lost. A little despondent.

  He leaned toward her and picked up the pen again. "Are you feeling well?"

  The look in her eyes was familiar; it reminded him of the desperate souls who sought psychic answers from the infamous Dr. Carrick.

  "You want to know what I feel?"

  "No. I asked how you feel. Do you have a headache? Nausea?"

  "Oh, for God's sake, Ian. Let her eat in peace," Johann said before she could answer.

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  "I hate to agree fwith Herr Strassborg-he is German, after all," the queen said in a huff, "but Dr. Carrick is being remarkably rude."

  Maeve glanced up from her plate. "It's how he used to study insects when he was a boy."

  "Just before he pulled their little wings off, no doubt," Johann remarked, taking a quick sip of his wine.

  Ian rolled his eyes. He should have known better than to try to observe his patient in this crowd. Johann was his usual surly, antagonistic self, except that he'd developed a sudden paternalistic streak for their damaged goddess. Maeve and the queen were predictably incomprehensible, and Selena ...

  He sighed. She was somehow not what he expected. There was a sadness in her eyes that begged to be noticed.

  He leaned toward her and pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling for a fever.

  She gave him a quick smile that banished the sorrow from her eyes.

  He drew his hand back, and she immediately frowned. As if she'd wanted something from him. "I'll get you some headache powders. We can resume our testing tomorrow."

  "By all means, Ian, treat the body and ignore the soul," Johann said.

  Ian slammed his journal down on the table and got to his feet. The fine Sevres china rattled. "Edith, send a meal to my room. Selena, I'll see you in the morning."

  Selena stared up at him, a pathetic eagerness in her doe eyes. "Will you, Ian? Really?"

  He didn't understand her question. "Eight-thirty in the parlor." He turned to leave.

  She stopped him with a touch. Surprised, he turned back to her. "On the beach," she said in an unexpectedly firm voice. "I like the sunlight."

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  It made no sense to him, but what did a place matter? He could study her anywhere. "Fine."

  Without another word, he walked out of the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Selena sat on the bottom step, her knees drawn tightly to her chest, her arms looped around her ankles. Around her, the old house was quiet and dark. Supper had been over for hours, though the scent of turkey and cinnamon clung stubbornly in the air.

  Something was wrong between her and Ian, and she had no idea what it was. All she wanted, all she could ever remember wanting, was his smile. When sh
e first woke up, he was there, always, sitting beside her, gifting her with a glorious, loving smile, touching her brow with his strong, caring fingers. She remembered how it had felt to bask in the warmth of his smile. Peaceful. Safe. As if nothing bad could follow or find her when Ian was there.

  But it had all been an illusion, a creation of her battered mind. She wondered now if she'd imagined it all, if Ian had ever looked at her with the loving ga/e of her memories, or if it was all a lie....

  How could she know? She was brain-damaged. Ian had said it often enough, as had Edith, and now Selena was well enough to understand what it meant. She accepted it as truth that her brain-the part of her that contained her thoughts and knowledge-was irreparably damaged. Her friends wouldn't lie to her about such a serious sickness.

  So she was damaged, broken. But what did that 170

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  mean? None of them could answer that. And now she was beginning to wonder, to question everything she knew and thought she knew. She thought Ian had once touched her with caring. But how could she know for sure?

  The soft, tentative patter of footsteps broke through Selena's thoughts. She straightened. Hope filled her heart, sharp and painful. "Who is there?"

  "It's me. Maeve."

  Hope died. Selena slid closer to the wall. Maeve came down to the last step and sat down beside Selena, setting a candle on the floor in front of them.

  Selena glanced sideways at Maeve, studying the older woman's profile. She'd learned in the last weeks that there were two Maeves in the same body. One was a bright, vivacious woman with a ready laugh and generous nature; the other was morose and withdrawn and self-destructive, a woman prone to talking to invisible people and kissing stuffed animals. Selena was trying to learn how to tell the difference.

  "I thought you might still be up," Maeve said.

  The soft tones of Maeve's voice filled Selena with relief. It was the healthy Maeve, the woman in control. Trying to smile, Selena rested her head on her friend's shoulder.

  "Supper was very bad," Selena said dully. So different from what she'd imagined. In her daydreams of Ian's return, he always picked her up, swung her around, and held her closely. She'd never imagined the tension she felt in his presence or the objective coldness in his eyes. When he looked at her, all he saw was a damaged brain.

  Maeve nodded. "Yes."

  "I was . .. bad. Stupid. I wanted ..." She couldn't find the word she wanted and she was too tired to try.

  "Of course you wanted to impress him. It's only natural."

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  Selena looked at her friend in wonder. "Maeve, how is it you always understand me?"

  Maeve gave her a small smile. "You're easy, child. It's the rest of the world that confuses me."

  Selena was silent for a long time, then finally she turned to Maeve. "How do I make Ian love me?"

  Maeve squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment. When she reopened them, her hazel eyes glittered with tears. "I don't know." Her voice cracked, thickened. "But I know how much it hurts to try."

  Selena sagged forward. "I am doing much wrong with him."

  "He will keep you at arm's length now," Maeve said quietly.

  "Why?"

  It was a long moment before Maeve answered. "Because you are broken."

  Selena didn't need the words; it was what she'd already felt in her heart, and yet still they hurt. "Then there is no hope. I shall always be broken."

  "I have never found hope with Ian. He despises me because I am crazy."

  Selena heard the pain in her friend's voice and understood it, felt it. She slipped her arm around Maeve's slim shoulders and drew her close. "I feel love for you."

  Maeve released a shaky breath. "I love you, too, Selena."

  They sat that way a long time, silently, taking comfort in each other's presence. "He will see me someday," Selena said at last.

  "Maybe," Maeve whispered. "Maybe."

  The next morning, Selena dressed quickly in her oversized blue gingham gown and tied her hair back with a strip of pink satin, then grabbed the book Ian had left on her bed last night and headed outside.

  She had lain awake last night for hours, huddled next to the meager light of a candle, trying to read the small,

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  leather-bound book entitled Either/Or: A Fragment of Life. If she read slowly enough, she could comprehend the words, but making sense of them was another thing entirely. The story seemed pointless and silly.

  Obviously she was not smart enough to understand the text. The realization saddened her, for she knew what it meant. Ian would listen to her feeble attempt at what he called retention and look disappointed by her failure. Then he'd write something in that book of his. Something that captured and memorized her imperfection.

  She forced a smile. She would not think of that now. Today would be different from yesterday. She would make Ian see her, make him take her seriously. She didn't know how she would do that, but she believed in herself, in the possibility, and she would make it work.

  She raced to the edge of the lawn, her skirts held high. She meant to keep running, through the forest to the shoreline beyond. Meant to.

  But the towering old trees enthralled her, captivated her senses. She stopped and looked up. Green leaves and needles splayed out above her in a lacelike pattern that filtered the sunlight. A gentle breeze danced through, sent leaves spiraling to the lichen-covered floor.

  She dropped to her knees and crawled over the damp earth to a singular white blossom that huddled amidst the ferns. She gently took hold of it, studying the satiny green leaves and milky white petals. It smelled so nice....

  "Selena?" Ian's voice, slightly impatient, boomed into the clearing.

  She snapped back, breaking the flower in her surprise. "Oh, no ... I am so sorry...."

  "Selena!"

  She hitched up her now-dirty skirts and got slowly to her feet. With a last backward glance at the broken

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  flower, she trudged through the forest and emerged onto the gray rock beach.

  Ian was standing there, as tall and straight as the ancient trees beside him. He held a pocket watch in his hand. "Selena!"

  She stepped into the sunlight. "I am here." The watch snapped shut. He spun to face her. "Good. Then we can begin."

  She tried to give him a smile, but her lips were trembly and wouldn't cooperate. She felt like the flower. Without thinking, she moved toward him. Her skirts dragged over the damp rocks.

  He frowned, drew a step back. "What is it, Selena? Do you have a headache again?" She kept moving. "No."

  His frown deepened. "Why are you looking at me that way?"

  "Why you are looking at me that way?" "Don't repeat me. Answer me." "I did."

  "Stop." He said it so loudly, with such force, that she responded in spite of herself. She didn't know why she'd been moving toward him anyway, what she wanted of him except that he see her.

  He whipped open his journal and pen and sat down on a hulking gray stone. He directed his analytical gaze on her, narrowed and probing. "Did you try to read the Kierkegaard?" At her obvious confusion, he clarified himself. "The book. Did you read any of Kierkegaard's book?"

  She fought a rising sense of panic. Very carefully, she picked up her dragging skirts and moved toward him, kneeling on the hard, cold stones at his feet. "I stayed up early last night reading. I... concentrated very hard. I tried to understand-" She looked up at him. For you, I tried so hard. "But ... I did not understand the words."

  He scratched something in his book, then gave her a

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  smile that for a heartbreakingly perfect moment transformed his face into the angel of her dreams. Then it was gone. "Did you comprehend anything? Random words, sentences, ideas. Anything?"

  She sagged back onto her heels, "The man in the story thought that life was hopeless and without meaning and ugly. And that only by believing in the very worst could God be found. It was ... silly."

  Ian sta
red at her. "That's exceptional, Selena."

  She didn't understand the word exceptional, but she knew she'd disappointed him. Again. "I am sorry. I am too .. . brain-damaged to understand the otter's words."

  "Author," he corrected her in a soft voice. Slowly he edged off the rock and kneeled beside her.

  She couldn't look at him.

  He touched her chin, gently forced her to meet his gaze. When she looked at him, her heart caught. There was a softness in his blue eyes that stole her breath.

  He brushed a straggly lock of hair from her eyes. "You just described the theory of existentialism."

  "I did?"

  "You understood it."

  The surprise in his voice made her want to cry. He expected so little of her.

  She leaned closer and tilted her face to his. "Look at me, Ian. What do you see?"

  He frowned, drew back a little. "What do you

  mean?"

  She pulled the book from his hands and flipped it open to a random page,

  Patient exhibits expressive and cognitive aphasia. Basilar skull fracture. Prognosis: unknown. Receptive and expressive aphasia appears to be impermanent, but future uncertain. Can speak somewhat, answer questions, and retain limited understanding. But can she reason? The last sentence was underlined.

  She looked up at him through a blur of hot tears. "I

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  don't know if I reason, but I feel, Ian. Perhaps that is what saved my life."

  He looked away. A deep breath filled his chest and then released in a hissing sigh. He was quiet for so long that she thought perhaps she'd reached him, thought maybe she'd forced him to think about her, instead of her injury.

  He got slowly to his feet. "That's enough for this morning, Selena." Stepping away from the rock, he eased away from her.

  "You know, Ian," she said without looking at him. "I may be brain-damaged, but I am smart enough to know something that you do not."

  Reluctantly he turned to her. "What's that?"

  She met his gaze head-on. "You need to be saved more than I do."

  Ian stood at the window, gazing out at the front lawn. The glass of wine felt warm and familiar in his hand. Absently he twirled the delicate crystal stem.

  He couldn't stop thinking about what Selena had said to him this morning. There was a core of truth in her observation. He'd always been better with facts and figures and challenges than with people. Whenever he had to deal with people he didn't understand, especially mentally deficient people, he drew back, cloaked himself in detachment. It was something he'd learned long ago, a survival skill Maeve had taught him.

  He'd always seen mental illness in stark, black-and-white definition. A person was normal or abnormal. Period.

  When had he stopped searching for the truth? Stopped seeing anything beyond the label?

  But he knew, of course. He'd stopped a long, long time ago-with every slight from Maeve, every moment of irrationality. He'd been afraid to think of his mother as anything but irreparably broken, because if he saw her as a human-worse yet, a human in pain-he'd

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  have to change. And change would hurt, just as expectations hurt, just as disappointment hurt.