Waiting For The Moon Part 12

Ian slid his hand free of Giles's grip. Immediately the images subsided and the headache began. He tried to remember what the superintendent had just asked him, but he couldn't. He looked down at the man, knowing his eyes were as blank as a lunatic's and unable to change it.

"Ian?" Giles prompted.

Johann stepped forward, his hand outstretched. "I'm Johann Stra.s.sborg."

Giles seemed startled by the interruption. He turned slowly and shook Johann's hand. A frown creased his forehead. "Stra.s.sborg? I seem to recall a patient ..." His head snapped up. The color leeched out of his fleshy face.

"I see you remember me," Johann said.

The color returned to Giles's sallow cheeks with a vengeance. He cleared his throat and turned to Ian.

"So what brings you to my little corner of the woods after all these years?"

Ian shot Johann a grateful look, then turned to the superintendent. "The last time I was here, you had just taken in a woman who'd fallen from her horse. Hit her head on a rock."

Giles nodded. "Elizabeth."

"I have a similar patient myself. A woman was brought in unconscious. A coma. When she finally came around, she exhibited profound speech problems and . .. other things."

Giles pulled at his pointy chin. "Aphasic?"

"Yes, but it seems to be more than that. Certainly the expected syntax, morphological, and semantic

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problems are in evidence. Beyond that, however, she exhibits a significant mental deficiency. Probably brain damage, but I suppose it could be an unusual form of amnesia."

"Meaning?"

"It's not merely a temporary inability to recall the experiences of her past. It's ... global. Not only does she have no idea of her name, or where she came from, or who she is; she also has no memory of the rudimentary knowledge that she must have learned at one time. She's ... childlike. Infantlike, for Christ's sake. She doesn't know that fire is hot, or that gla.s.s is solid, or that a dead mouse is not a toy. She talks to leaves and expects them to answer."

Giles frowned. "A complete loss of all previously learned knowledge as well as a loss of ident.i.ty. Most unusual. Did you want to send her here for observation? I could certainly-"

"No!"

Giles stiffened and drew back, obviously offended. "Ah, well, then. So what can I do for you?"

"I'm sorry, Giles. It isn't you, of course. I'm here because you're the best alienist I know. It's simply this place. The memories . .." He let his sentence trail off.

Giles's face softened. "I understand. And how is the lovely Maeve?"

"The same, I'm afraid."

Giles nodded slowly.

A pause enveloped the trio, then Giles cleared his throat. "So, back to the point at hand. You've come to see Elizabeth and how she's faring, I take it."

Ian's heart seemed to stop for a second. "Is she still alive?"

"Yes," Giles answered in a voice so soft, Ian could scarcely hear it. "She's still alive, and still here."

Still here. That was not a good sign.

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Ian dreaded the next question with everything in him. "Any improvement?"

"I think you'd best see Elizabeth for yourself, Ian. Then we can discuss the particulars."

Chapter Nine.

The shadowy corridor was filled with the same gray-clad people, milling aimlessly to and fro. Ian walked stiffly forward, with Johann on his right side and Giles at his left. An old, gray-haired woman hurled herself at Giles, her withered fingers clawing at him. She shrieked, spraying spittle, yanking at her clothing. "I need to leave, Superintendent Wellsby-" Giles kept moving, and the woman fell in a sobbing heap at his feet. People, everywhere people. Crying out, reaching, yelling and screaming to be heard. Their pleas jumbled together, merged into a great, keening cry. "... a terrible mistake-" "My husband, Superintendent Wellsby, have you seen my husband yet today-" "I'm drowning, drowning-" Ian tried to shut the voices out, to hear nothing except for the repet.i.tive click of their bootheels on the marble floor or the hushed jangle of Giles's keys, but it was impossible. The noise was deafening. They turned a corner, and almost as if on cue, the rabble dispersed, leaving in their wake a hallway that was lonely and dark. Closed doors lined the walls, windowless, locked. Low, moaning voices slid beneath the cracks and wafted through the dank air. 102 103 "This is the catatonic ward," Giles said. "Even the inmates are afraid to wander down this hallway." He stopped at the last closed door. Reaching down to the heavy chatelaine on his belt, he pulled up the clanking ma.s.s and extracted a single key. He fit it in the rusted lock and clicked it open. Before he pushed the door open, he turned to Ian. Giles seemed, in the pale gaslight, to have aged ten years during the short span of their walk. His cheeks were waxen, his face a map of tiny, downward wrinkles. "Once in," he said quietly, "they never come out." The door opened with a whining creak, revealing a room of surprising size and comfort. Square ivory walls, dotted with ornately framed pictures, surrounded a large, four-postered bed, its surface heaped with a snowy coverlet. An old woman sat in a wooden rocking chair, her head turned to the barred window at her left. Long strands of curly gray hair sheathed her face, fell in wispy folds to her lap. Ian heard the soft, muttering murmur of her voice, but he couldn't make out any words, just a jumble of confused, halting speech. In her lap, her hands lay curled like fishhooks. A silver and diamond ring glittered on the third finger of her left hand. "Elizabeth?" Giles said her name in a hushed tone. She didn't move, didn't look up. Giles motioned the men to follow him as he walked slowly up to her chair and kneeled at her feet. "Elizabeth, honey, I've brought some people to see you." For a long, breathless moment, she was unresponsive, then, very slowly, as if the movement hurt, she turned away from the window. Pale moonlight slid through the clear gla.s.s and iron bars, slashed across her small face. She was much younger than he'd expected, and even in the paltry light, he could see the breathtaking beauty that she had once been. Thick black lashes fringed eyes the color of whiskey; eyes that were now vacant and gla.s.sy. A silver line of saliva seeped down from the cor 104.

ner of her slack, pink lips, hung in a cobweb-thin line to a wet spot on the bosom of her blue gown.

Giles pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the drool from her lips. She blinked down at him, apparently trying to focus.

"The ... paper," she said in a scratchy voice. "Sliding or spring." She forced her chin up, gave the room a cursory, gla.s.sy-eyed glance. "Wine the drink gra.s.s." She turned away and stared out the window again.

Her rocker started moving, back and forth, back and forth, in a rhythmic, scratchy thumping.

Giles's head bowed forward. "Believe it or not," he said to no one in particular, "this is a good day for her."

Ian wanted to distinguish Elizabeth from Selena. He tried to ignore the similarity of the cases-the nonsensical sentences, the injury itself-and searched for a disparity, some small thing that separated Selena's prognosis.

Giles hadn't tried enough. Yes, that could account for a difference. Maybe Giles had given up too early and there was still hope....

He clung to the notion. "What treatments have you tried?"

"Everything. Shock treatments, sheet treatments, ice baths. Every half-baked psychological theory to come along-even that crazy Freud's psychoa.n.a.lysis. Nothing worked. She's not crazy, Ian. She's brain-damaged. Pure and simple." He shrugged. "Her brain just doesn't work anymore. She can parrot a few words, she can feed herself and walk if she really wants to, but that's about it. Every once in a while she surprises me with a sentence that makes sense, but not often, and she never gets any better."

"Perhaps if you tried-"

Giles turned to Ian. A tear slid down his cheek and he made no effort to hide it. "She's my daughter."

For a second, Ian couldn't even respond. Shame crushed in on him. "Oh, Jesus, Giles. I'm sorry."

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Ian wanted right then to walk out of this h.e.l.lhole and never look back. But he couldn't relinquish his hold on the tender strand of hope that remained. He needed to touch Elizabeth, delve into her psyche and see what was in her head. He had to know....

"Leave me alone with her for a moment." The words were out before he could stop them.

Giles's head snapped up. Watery eyes focused hard on Ian. "Why?"

"I need to touch her hand. That's all. It won't take a moment."

"It's true, then? The rumors that with a touch you can read a person's mind."

"Sometimes," Ian answered, then amended his half-truth. "Usually."

Giles stood up and faced Ian. "What if I don't want to know what she's feeling?"

Ian's gaze was steady. "Welcome to my nightmare, Giles."

Giles turned slightly, stared dully at the window. "If it's pain ... if she's inside there somewhere, hurt and lonely and lost ... don't tell me. Jesus, don't tell me."

Without another word, Giles turned and walked out of the room. Johann followed him, and closed the door quietly.

Ian kneeled before the young woman. She didn't seem to notice him. She kept rocking, back and forth, humming quietly to herself. Another stream of spittle slid down her chin.

"Elizabeth?" He said her name softly, wanting her to respond.

She kept rocking, kept humming. A quiet giggle slipped from her mouth.

He pulled off one glove and reached for Elizabeth's hand. Her fingers were icy cold, curled as tight as steel.

The first touch brought nothing. No sensation or image or thought at all, and he had a brief thought that maybe he couldn't "read" such broken minds.

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Ian slid his hand into hers, locked his warm fingers around her cool flesh and squeezed. Heat flared in his fingertips, throbbing, burning.

An image crept into his mind, almost coyly at first, dancing at the edges of his consciousness. He had to make an effort to clasp it, had to concentrate as he'd never done before.

Greenfields dotted with flowers . .. raindrops splashing from one autumn red leaf to another ... a dapple gray pony cantering along a twisting silver river.

She stopped rocking and turned to look down at him. Her apathetic eyes fixed on him.

"Elizabeth?"

She almost smiled, or so it seemed. "Elizabeth," she repeated.

A young black-haired girl picking flowers ...

Ian withdrew his hand slowly. She wasn't in pain, of that he was certain. She wasn't in anything. She was a blank slate, a feeble, childlike adult who would never get better, never be the self she was before, a vegetable in a woman's body, granted the rudiments of speech but no ability to understand or empathize or experience.

For a second, he couldn't breathe for the pain in his chest. The last bit of his hope died hard.

He'd been wrong. He'd thought that caring for Selena was like caring for Maeve. But it was much, much worse. At least Maeve knew her name and had a few good days. Even Elizabeth, brain-damaged beyond repair, had thoughts inside that beautiful head of hers. Selena had nothing. That's why his psychic powers didn't extend to her. Her mind was gone, empty. There was nothing to see, no images to pick up.

She wasn't his chance for professional salvation.

The fisherman had been right to bring her to Lethe House. It was where she belonged, among the other half-wits and crazies who never improved. At the realization, he felt a stinging sense of shame, then a burning loss. Shame because, as usual, he'd thought only of 107.

himself, his needs, and loss because the fantasy he'd created shattered in a million broken bits. He could never heal Selena, never re-create a vibrant human being from the pathetic sh.e.l.l-like woman sitting before him. He could be Selena's keeper, but she had no need for a physician. She was nothing to him; they were simply two people who shared a roof, coexisted in a place where lost, lonely people came together but never quite connected.

It was as good a definition of h.e.l.l as he'd ever heard.

Selena. Elizabeth. SelenaElizabeth. The images of the two women blurred in his mind, merged until they were indistinguishable.

There was no future for his mysterious G.o.ddess, just a lifetime of perpetual care, years spent sitting in chairs and stroking dead animals and mumbling nonsense.

And through her, there was no future for Ian. Just the same dark, lonely present stretching out before him like a prison sentence in solitary confinement.

With a tired sigh, he rose and walked out of the room.

Outside, in the darkened hallway, Giles and Johann stood side by side. Giles looked up at Ian, a pathetic question in his watery eyes.

Ian closed the door shut behind him, trying to ignore the headache that had begun at the base of his skull.

"She's not in any pain, Giles. She's ... in the past. Her childhood, I expect. I've never felt such happy, peaceful thoughts from a person before."

Giles's face crumpled. "Oh, thank G.o.d .. ."

For the first time, Ian experienced a certain joy in his curse. "I'm glad I could tell you that, Giles."

Giles swiped at his eyes and looked up. "Now let me tell you something, Ian. I know the trials you've had with Maeve, and believe me, they're nothing compared to the h.e.l.l of brain damage. I'd trade my soul for one moment a year when Elizabeth knew who I was."

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Ian nodded. He knew that Giles expected more, but he couldn't find a voice, nor words to speak.

"Don't expect anything from your patient. Send her to Bloomingdale or Danvers. Forget about her, and don't get emotionally involved. This kind of thing . . ." Giles's voice vibrated with emotion. "It can break your heart."

Ian couldn't answer. Nodding, he turned and headed down the shadowy walk. He could hear Giles and Johann behind him, but he didn't care, didn't pay attention. He just wanted to get the h.e.l.l out of this place.

The carriage hurtled through the countryside, down one jet black dirt road after another. Wind slashed at the sides of the coach, rain thumped on the roof. Light wobbled through the dark interior from a small lantern bolted to the wall.