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chewing, now holding the two parts vertically in each fist.

  It was a fluid motion which surprised him, but he didn’t flinch. Without a word, she passed the portion in the right hand to the left, and reached out in an impossible stretch over her folded legs, taking his coffee mug from his fingers. He didn’t react at all, simply watched as she took three sips quickly. Then she reached back and returned it where she got it. He simply gripped it again when it came back.

  Then she returned one half of the burrito to her right hand again. Another pause with eyes closed, and then she nipped a small bite off each piece. He noticed her teeth were very well kept, unlike everything else he could see about her. This pattern of behavior continued, until after a few more sips from his cup, which he kept at least half full, her burrito was gone. He finished at about the same time, folded the wrapper like hers and laid it on top.

  Looking up, he said with his own rather flat tones, “I’m Thomas. What should I call you?”

  Before she answered, a well worn toothbrush came from somewhere and she scrubbed carefully every tooth from every angle possible. That explained the nice teeth, at least. She grabbed his mug again, took a larger mouthful. She held it while swishing it around. Swallowing, she took another sip, and then placed the mug back in his hand. The toothbrush had disappeared again. She wiped her coat sleeve across her mouth, then announced in that same flat voice, “Lana.”

  Pushing his back off the post, he rose, telling her, “I’m going back to my work, Lana.” Then he walked back uphill toward where his tools waited in the forest.

  5

  As he half expected, Lana followed him.

  Slowly, she got involved in the work. He was surprised Lana could do much at all, but made no comment. At most, he simply gave directions when it appeared she didn’t quite understand what he wanted. Yet he never had to tell her anything twice. Her mind seemed to work well enough, just very differently. Mostly he allowed her to do whatever she wanted.

  When he was ready to quit for the day, he noticed there was a small, yet significant difference, with a higher pile of wood. Something told him this was a very good sign. He was guessing she wasn’t useless, just had trouble functioning the way every one else did.

  Back inside the cabin, he suggested she take her coat off and have a seat at the table. He pulled out one of the chairs. Almost as if programmed to obey, she hung the coat on the back of the chair and sat down, revealing a thin pale brown long-sleeved tunic tucked into the sweat pants. She stared at the wall, sitting with her hands in her lap. He had mapped out the events in hopes it might be this easy.

  Pulling out dishes and food, he began preparing a simple meal. She turned in her chair to watch. He asked, “Ever do any cooking?”

  As usual, her verbal response was delayed by some internal activity. Eventually she answered, “Not in a house. Outside.”

  He decided to take a risk. “How much time did you spend in hospitals?”

  Again, there was the long pause. “Four countries, six hospitals, twenty six years.” It was almost like a mechanical summary of her case file.

  From childhood at least, there would have been no exposure to normal human company, normal human routines. Mental hospitals were notorious for reducing everything down to the convenience of unmotivated employees. He doubted it was any different where she had been compared to what he had seen in the States. “How long have you been out on your own?”

  This time, without the long pause: “Three years.”

  She was fortunate to be alive, he thought. Then again, she was certainly intelligent enough. Another thought occurred to him. “How many languages do you know?”

  Some delay. “English, Deutsch, Français…” Carefully naming each according to what the language called itself, she ran down the list. Thomas didn’t recognize any but the first three. He counted a total of eight.

  Having no way to test that, he let it hang in the silence. Her problem was not mental capacity, but a matter of internal traffic control. A few minutes more and he brought two plates of food to the table, some flatware, then brought two empty glasses. He filled each with some inexpensive German wine. He hoped alcohol triggered no problems, since she was probably not on any medication.

  She ate quietly, with the same precision, but with odd inventions typical of neglect. Eventually she modified some of her movements to copy his. Finally, she rested her hands in her lap. Suddenly, she looked up at him. Her gaze was softer than before, but her focus was directly on his eyes. “I hear voices, see things.”

  “So do I,” he offered. “Most people do, but they pay no attention. People like you and I can’t ignore them.”

  For once, she showed a whisker of emotion, as her head tilted ever so slightly to one side.

  He continued, “But I know where they belong. I give them a place to work and they don’t get in the way.”

  He barely finished speaking when she shot back, “Teach me that.” The intensity of her stare could have blistered paint.

  “I’ll try.” As he took the dishes and put them in the sink, he tried to explain it was not simply learning like she might learn cutting and dragging trees, or cooking, or any of the other things he wanted to teach her. She could learn handling the voices and visions only by absorption. He could explain parts of it, but only to help her find her own way of handling things.

  She stood and moved next to him, began drying the dishes. He noticed for the first time the top of her head reached about to his chin. She looked even frailer up close than before, without her coat to hide under. She needed everything, and he was hoping she could stay around long enough to gain weight, gain stability, and learn some level of mastery over the distractions inside her own head. His own distractions were probably nothing compared to hers, but he felt sure the same power was there somewhere, waiting to be identified and called upon.

  When the dishes were put away, he turned to face her. “Do you have any other clothes put away some where?”

  She looked at the floor, her lips moving silently for a moment. “No.”

  He pointed to the laundry machine. “I want to wash your clothes…”

  Before he could finish his sentence, she began undressing right there. He restrained her with both hands. “Wait.”

  She stared at him with her hands still wrapped in her shirt tail. “You’ve been allowed to develop some bad habits. This is part of why people don’t like you. Let me explain something missing from your awareness.”

  She relaxed her grip on the tunic.

  Without touching her, he leaned down. With fingers extended on his hands, he drew an invisible line across her legs about mid-thigh, moving his hands out from the center. “Starting about here,” he then turned his hands vertical, and drew long lines up, “to your shoulders, and across to the center. Imagine there is a box, front and back. Inside this box is private space, your private space. No one can see it or touch it unless you really want them to.”

  He stepped back. “You should not let me see what’s inside that box right now. There has to be a very good reason to change that rule. It’s your space; it belongs to you alone. Don’t share it too easily. Keep it covered. That’s how the rest of the world does things. I’ll give you something to wear while your clothes are being washed.”

  He walked over to the loft and went up the stairs. From the shelf he pulled out his largest t-shirt. It was solid pale green, the fabric rather thick. Stepping back down, he paused near the door of the little bathroom. “Step in here and close the door. Take off your clothes. While you are in there, take a shower if you know how.” He waited until she nodded her head in the affirmative. “Dry off with one of the towels, and put this on, then bring your clothes out to me.”

  She stood stock still for a few moments, staring at him. She breathed deeply, and then let it slowly. Walking gingerly toward him, she paused, took the t-shirt and went inside the bathroom. The door closed gently behind her.

  Had he seen a hint of tears forming on her lower
eyelids?

  6

  Tom showed Lana how to place clothing into the tiny washing machine, which made very little noise doing its work.

  Then, using his own brush, he carefully detangled her hair. It was almost white, and bore a slight natural wave. He mentally added to the list of things to buy some ingredients to make a natural hair treatment. He told her look in the mirror, turning a bit to see. “When it dries, it should be nice and full.”

  Then he explained a little about interacting with people. “If more people paid more attention to their own voices and visions, the world would be a much better place. But they don’t. You have not been able to ignore them. Instead, the voices and visions have caused you to ignore the people around you.”

  She seemed more relaxed than before. He sat her down at the table again, and told her to keep her knees together, then showed her how to cross her legs at the ankle and pull them back to one side. “It’s not always the most comfortable, but if you aren’t wearing pants, you really need to sit that way — always.”

  He pulled out a small radio. “Do you know how to sing?” She shook her head no. “It sometimes helps to make the voices quiet, and the visions not so blinding.” He turned on the radio, and then dialed it around a bit until he found something he recognized, old pop music. He began singing in his best voice to the songs, and encouraged her to try making some of the