Indigo Moon

by Gill McKnight

  A rosy rash peppered her chest and belly. Was she reacting to something? The rash looked harmless and did not irritate her. She rubbed at it briskly with the towel. Another thing to ponder. She needed to find Ren and discover what the hell had happened to her.

  An unopened toothbrush packet lay by the sink. She hoped it was a guest one for her use, but was too shy to assume. She squeezed toothpaste onto a finger and scrubbed her teeth, and spat the bad taste out of her mouth. She finger-combed the damp tangles of hair and dispassionately examined her reflection again, looking past the obvious bruising for other signs of well-being, or not, as the case might be. The rash on her chest now decorated her throat. A glum sigh escaped her. She looked in her eyes and tried to peer deep within herself. Who the hell was she? She looked like someone who didn’t care about herself. She looked ill and unhappy on a world-weary level that went so much deeper than the trouble she was in now. And she knew trouble. She could feel in her bones that she knew it well.

  She gave her reflection a weary smile, really nothing more than a grim twitch of her lips and turned away. If she stood on tiptoe she could peep out the high, narrow window to see the view from this side of the cabin. She cracked the window open an inch. Outside, cedar trees swept down a steep incline, their heavy branches buried under a layer of thick, powdery snow. The crisp white ground and snow-laden trees glowed eerily under a rising moon, as atmospheric as a scene from her dreams.

  It was dusk. Overhead, a cloudless, star-bright night was unfolding. The air smelled pure and frost sharp, and she wanted to be out in it, running and rolling in the snow, to lie in it and laugh up through the treetops to the stars beyond. She felt a delightful giddiness she associated with childhood, the high energy of not having a care in the world.

  Isabelle pulled the window shut. She had drawn all the clues she could from this room and from the mirror before her. It was time to find her benefactress and thank her. It was time to ask all the questions she needed answers for.

  She left the bathroom and returned down the hallway. A murmur of voices drew her to a closed door. A woman and a man were talking in the room beyond. She recognized the woman’s voice. It was as mellow and dark as ruby wine, and had soothed her through numerous nightmares. One hand was on the door handle, the other raised to rap, when she realized the voices were hard edged with anger. Though she could barely distinguish the words, there was no doubt this was an argument. She hesitated to knock, unsure what to do.

  “Burn it—” The abrupt cessation of Ren’s sentence should have warned her. Too late she realized what it meant. The door flung open and Ren towered over her, her eyes narrowed to glittering slits. Isabelle stepped back, startled. This was her savior? This woman who pulsed with menace? For an instant they stood stiffly, then Ren’s anger melted, the tightness in her face relaxed into gentler angles. Isabelle flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and relief. She’d have died if that anger had been aimed at her.

  “Ren?” The name felt like a pure beam of light. But the person attached to it came as a surprise. Seeing her now face-to-face, Isabelle did not know this woman at all. Before, she had only been a lamplit shadow, a distant face distorted by fever and delirium. Now she finally stood before her outlined by the light, clear to her eye, and she was beautiful…but in a cruel, arrogant way, like the aquiline profile of emperors on ancient coins. Or the cold, impassive beauty of goddesses carved out of hard, unblemished marble.

  “I thought I heard something.” Ren’s voice softened. No trace of her earlier anger remained. “You’re awake.” She sounded surprised and pleased. She stood back to allow Isabelle to enter the living room.

  “Yes. I took a shower. I hope you don’t mind,” Isabelle murmured, still shy and overwhelmed.

  “Not at all. Come on and sit by the fire.”

  Isabelle looked around her with interest. The living room was small and comfortable. Old, rust-spotted watercolors decorated the walls. A mahogany bureau sat by the far wall, conspicuous in that it was the only costly piece of furniture in the room. Beside it a tall, narrow bookcase stood in a corner stuffed to overflowing. Several more books were wedged under it, replacing a missing leg. Isabelle frowned in quiet disapproval; books should be better looked after than that.

  Drawn up before the blazing fireplace sat a battered old couch, an open book and glass of wine perched on the armrest. It was a shabby and threadbare piece of furniture, but colorful throws and fat, bright cushions made her want to sink into it. The simple, homespun comfort of the room poured out warmth and drew her like a magnet. It was the perfect space to while away the long, dark winter nights. She took a step forward, then hesitated.

  “How are you feeling? I’m not sure you’re strong enough to be up and moving around just yet.” Uncertainty undercut Ren’s casual words. It was clear she was concerned and a little nonplussed at Isabelle being so well so soon.

  “I’m feeling a lot better, thank you,” Isabelle answered, aware of the young man who stood by the hearth. She drew her robe tighter around her thin body. He had just thrown a log into the fireplace and now straightened up to watch her enter. Isabelle watched the fire, fascinated. Thick wads of paper bloomed into flame sparking the log bark. He was burning a book. Behind her, Ren suppressed an angry hiss, and Isabelle bit her tongue to stop from tutting out loud. It was sacrilege to burn a book, she thought. No good could come of it. The burst of flame highlighted his thin, sharp face and pale gray eyes. He watched her coolly, with no sign of welcome.

  “This is Patrick,” Ren said, her tone hard. Their earlier argument had not been forgotten. “He’s just leaving.”

  “Good evening,” he said dully. Though he spoke to Isabelle, his gaze was glued on Ren. Before Isabelle could return the greeting, he turned away and headed for the door. “Will I see to it now?” He looked at Ren with doleful eyes.

  She gave a sharp nod and dismissed him. Ren waited until the door clicked closed before giving Isabelle her undivided attention.

  “Come and sit by the fire. Would you like something hot to drink? Tea? Cocoa?” She guided Isabelle over to the couch. “I make good cocoa.”

  “Cocoa would be lovely.” Isabelle was hungry. The mention of a hot drink made her stomach grumble, but she was too embarrassed to ask about food.

  “And perhaps some toast? How does that sound? I can’t give you anything too heavy to eat just now.”

  “Oh. Yes, please. I woke up ravenous.” She perched on a corner of the couch, holding her hands out to the fire, her toes wriggling in delight on the thick woolen rug. “It’s wonderfully warm in here.”

  “Do you want a blanket for your knees? I don’t want you chilled,” Ren said.

  “No. To be honest, my temperature is all over the place. One minute I’m shivery, the next I’m boiling up.” She blushed as she recalled Ren’s body blanketing hers last night, providing much-needed warmth. She felt the keen gaze scour her face. Isabelle drew her legs up under herself and curled into a snug ball among the plump cushions with their tired velvet covers.

  “You’ve had a high fever. I’m relieved to see you up and about so soon.” Ren’s voice was relaxing to listen to, and Isabelle melted back into the couch. “You’re a quick healer. I’m pleased.”

  She glanced up to see Ren smiling at her. A smile that played tricks with her temperature all over again. Waves of pleasure ran through her. It was luxury to be on the receiving end of that smile. No wonder she had a fever then the chills. She looked away and concentrated on the flames.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Ren left for the kitchen, leaving Isabelle alone to contemplate the fire and her strange feelings. Well, a fever would explain why my head’s so fogged up. She had a hundred questions to ask, but she needed Ren to return with the cocoa and hopefully all the answers.

  Isabelle’s gaze fell on the book lying open on the couch: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. She felt a surge of excitement. She knew this book. Her mind conjured up a tooled red leather cover, with gor
geous etchings—a cherished gift given to her at some point in the past. This was a cheap, mass-market student edition, ragged and dog-eared. A section of text was underscored. Isabelle peered at the underlined paragraph: “I am alone and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species and have the same defects. This being you must create.”

  “Try this.” A steaming mug was thrust under her nose. Isabelle jumped, the book abandoned. She hadn’t heard Ren reenter the room. The drink smelled rich and wholesome and her stomach gurgled in delight.

  “And this.” A plate with a toasted cheese sandwich also appeared. Isabelle nearly swooned with happiness; it was as if her mind had been read. Toasted cheese sandwiches were her comfort food, yet another recollection from out of the blue.

  “Mmm.” Her first sip from the mug was nectar. “This is gorgeous. It’s the best cocoa I’ve ever tasted. Is there licorice in it? I can taste something bittersweet.” She bit into her sandwich and gave another groan of appreciation.

  Ren settled beside her, sitting a little too close considering it was such a roomy old couch. Her proximity made Isabelle nervous and she took another huge gulp from her mug, eyes wide over the rim.

  “You’ve got the bluest eyes in the whole wide world.” Ren smiled at her. It felt as if the sun had broken through a brooding storm cloud. Ren’s smile lit up her entire face, the room, the cabin…the whole of Isabelle’s wide, blue-eyed world, in fact.

  “They’re cornflower blue. Like summer,” Isabelle said, uneasy that Ren studied her battered face so closely. She was the absolute opposite of Ren’s dark, animalistic beauty. Ren’s face was keen, her eyes hungry, and she moved with the grace and purpose of a predator. But when she smiled it felt like sunrise after a long, haunted night.

  “I’m not sure who told me that. But they’re cornflower blue,” Isabelle babbled on, “when they’re not all black and puffy, that is.” Her answer surprised her. The memory had floated into her head and lingered, lost without context. She couldn’t remember who had said this, or when it had been said, but she knew the memory was a true and happy one.

  “They’re my best feature,” she said trying to spin out this little thread, see what it might weave. The memory made her feel good about herself and she instinctively felt this was a rare thing. Whoever had paid her this compliment had a fondness for her. Somewhere, someone once cared, perhaps still did. She was pleased at this little series of remembrances. Favorite food, the gift book, her eye color—she was beginning to fill out from the vaporous ghost she’d awoken as.

  “They’re one of your best features. You have many, many more.” Ren reached over and casually adjusted the neck of Isabelle’s robe where it gaped open a little. “I take it your memory’s still a little vague? It will come back soon. I promise it will.”

  Her innocent gesture scraped the cotton across Isabelle’s nipple. It hardened against the friction. Isabelle flinched, but Ren seemed unaware of her reaction. Ren held a sexual charisma that confused her. She was hypersensitized to her simplest words and gestures. Yet Ren seemed curiously casual, even relaxed around Isabelle’s tense, scrawny body with its multitude of inhibitions and screaming defense mechanisms. Isabelle pulled away and curled up at her end of the couch tighter than a pink prawn.

  “What happened to me?” She cleared her throat, clinging to her empty mug. It gave her something to do with her hands and placed a small physical barrier between them. Ren’s nearness swamped her. A spicy heat rolled off her body, and Isabelle’s senses sucked it all up greedily until her head swam. “I remember a car crash. Did I hit a deer? I remember a deer with an injured leg.”

  “Your car went into a ditch. You didn’t hit a deer, but you may have swerved to avoid one.”

  “Where am I? How did I get here?”

  “You’re near the Bella Coola valley. I live in the Coast Mountains, and I found you on a branch road off Highway 20. I checked you over, and apart from your shoulder and this temporary memory loss thing, you seem fine. When the snow thaws I’ll get you to a hospital for a proper checkup.”

  The names were familiar. She’d heard of Bella Coola and the Pacific Coast Mountains. Was she local to the area?

  “So you’re a medical person? A doctor or a nurse?” Her wound had been treated professionally.

  “A veterinarian. But wounds are wounds, and stitches are stitches. I was more concerned with the bang you took to the head, but you seem to be mending well.”

  “It’s only temporary. I’m already beginning to recall some things, as if my memory is on a sort of trickle drip. Things like my eye color, and toasted cheese sandwiches. And Bella Coola sounds very familiar…” She trailed off. There was such a long way to go in reclaiming her identity. She touched the small scar at the corner of her mouth. Not every memory would be a welcome one, but she would deal with that when it happened.

  “You know my name.” She looked up. “You called me Isabelle. But Isabelle who? Do we know each other?”

  Ren nodded. “I know you, Isabelle Monk. I know you very well.”

  “Monk?” Her surname was Monk. Isabelle frowned. It didn’t sound right; it didn’t fit. “So we’re friends?” she asked, then blushed, recalling she’d asked this before when they were curled up in bed together.

  “Yes. I think of you as a friend.”

  “How do we know each other?” It bothered her that she had to drag these answers out of Ren. A real friend would tell her all she needed to know; instead, Ren was holding back. Isabelle’s anxiety levels began to rise.

  “Do I live near here? Near you?” She pushed on. “Are we neighbors?”

  Ren shifted slightly at this last question. It was the first sign of discomfort Isabelle had seen in her. She waited for an answer, watching every flicker on Ren’s closed face.

  “No.” The answer was snapped. “You live somewhere else.” This was added almost grudgingly. Isabelle frowned at this sudden mood swing. She realized that up until now this had been some sort of game to Ren. Now she was truculent when the questions weren’t so easily answered, or rather, answered to her liking.

  “Well, where then?” Isabelle pressed, aware of the change in atmosphere, as if the temperature had dropped imperceptibly by degrees as her panic rose. “Where do I live?” Ren had to tell her. Then the thunderous thought struck—what if Ren was not a friend after all?

  There was a moment of silence as Ren contemplated her answer.

  “I don’t want to tell you,” she finally said.

  “What? Why?” Isabelle was shocked.

  “Because I don’t want you to go back there.”

  “What?” Isabelle turned to fully face Ren. She was confused and angry at this response. This was no time for games. She needed to know these things. Ren reached out and held her chin in a firm grip.

  “I don’t want you to go home,” Ren repeated slowly. “You’re not safe there. You’re safe here, with me. You have to stay with me.” She leaned in and her mouth covered Isabelle’s in a hard kiss. Isabelle jerked as a tingling rush thrummed across her lips. Her heart hammered. Scalding heat rolled through her veins. Ren kissed her thoroughly and with lazy authority until Isabelle’s entire being lurched, fluttered, and disintegrated like a cherry blossom. She was captured inside this sweet, blossom-scented, and dangerous kiss. Warnings howled inside her head. She’d heard these cries before—She twisted away, breaking the kiss, and pulled her face free. She had to save herself. Isabelle didn’t need anymore fog-fueled moments. She was fractured enough.

  “Don’t,” she gasped in dismay. She did not kiss women. This she knew for certain. And not like that! “You can’t kiss me like that.”

  Ren leaned back. The muscles of her face were hard as flint, her eyes drilled into Isabelle’s until she shrank back against the couch. She felt woozy and hot and glanced at her empty cup with suspicion. Ren reached toward her and she flinched, but Ren merely tucked a d
amp curl behind her ear. “When your memory returns I think you’ll find I can,” she said.

  Chapter Five

  “What do you mean you can? What does that mean? Because let me tell you right here and now, you damn well can’t.” Isabelle’s explosion had them both blinking in surprise.

  Ren moved back, irritated. She gave Isabelle a sweeping, calculated look. Her cheeks bloomed under her tan and her eyes sparked dangerously, but she said nothing.

  “What’s going on here that you think you can just lean in and kiss me?” Isabelle said. “Are you trying to tell me we’re lesbians, because let me tell you right here and now that I am not a lesbian!” She was very firm about that. Definitely not. Ren gave her a big, black-eyed blink and her knees liquefied. Okay then…

  “What I mean is…” Isabelle blustered on, ideas and theories and guesswork bursting out of her. “What I mean is, well, I may not be totally into men…” That felt true. “But that doesn’t make me a lesbian either. In fact, I suspect I’m not very sexual at all. Why, I could be a nun!” She was grasping at straws and she knew it. Ren narrowed her eyes at this hypothesis, and Isabelle shut up. She was being ridiculous.

  A huge yawn caught her unawares. For the second time, she eyed her empty mug, sure it contained more than just cocoa.

  “No. You are not, and have never been, a nun.” Ren rose and held out her hand. “It’s time for bed.”

  “I am not going to bed with you.”

  “I’m putting you to bed, not taking you,” Ren thundered in exasperation.

  “Oh.” Isabelle accepted the offered hand and was pulled to her feet, a little embarrassed at her assumption.