The Woman in Blue

Misha heard movement but was too groggy to open her eyes at first. When she did, the ceiling came into view. She moved her eyes downward and found she was in a large bed. Just then, a naked woman with damp hair entered the room and began to towel-dry her hair. The woman was extremely beautiful, tall and slender. She looked to be in her early thirties. As if sensing her eyes on her, the woman suddenly turned to look at her. “Hi there, sweetie pie,” she said with a smile, showing off a set of brilliantly white, even teeth. “Getting up now, sleepyhead?” Misha rose up on her elbows and eyed the woman curiously as she plucked out a pair of black panties from a tall dresser at the foot of the bed. “Well?” asked the woman when Misha didn’t respond. The woman slid her panties on, then reached for a black sports bra. Her expression was changing to one of concern and confusion. She slid into a pair of deep-purple shorts. Then she sat on the bed a foot or so away from Misha. “What’s going on, babe? Talk to me.” Dale examined Misha’s blank stare. She appeared completely clueless as to her surroundings or even as to who she was. She reached out her hand, but Misha only shrank away as if she were scared of her. Dale’s frustration grew. “Misha, if this is an act you’re pulling on me, it’s time to cut the shit and come back to earth.” Misha continued to stare, wide-eyed. This was when Dale began to seriously doubt that Misha could be such a perfect little actress. Again, she reached for Misha. Misha shrieked with terror as if Dale’s touch might poison her. “What is wrong with you?” Dale asked, unsure of what else to say or do. Misha kicked the blanket off her and stared down at her naked body as if it were some strange, foreign object. It registered then that she was in intimate relations with this woman. “You touch me, don’t you?” she asked in a small, timid voice. Dale lowered her head slightly while keeping her eyes level with Misha’s. “What kind of a question is that?” Misha remained silent. “Please tell me this is a joke, Misha.” More silence. “Fine,” declared Dale as she slapped her palms against her thighs. “What do you want me to do then? Huh?” Misha sat upright and swung her legs toward the side. Then she took hold of a clump of her hair and gazed at it curiously. She looked up at Dale. “You cut my hair.” “No, Misha. You did. What the hell’s wrong with your memory, girl? You got Alzheimer’s all of a sudden or what?” “Alzheimer’s?” Dale sighed. “Misha, do you need me to bring you to the hospital?” Misha frowned, then shook her head and returned her gaze to the clump of hair in her hand. “Then what’s going on? Why are you acting like this?” Misha looked back up at Dale. Dale studied Misha intently, her expression now a bit worrisome, for it was becoming more and more obvious that Misha was not faking. “¿Su mi amante?” “I don’t speak Spanish, Misha.” Misha now sat with her arms wrapped around her legs. After a moment’s silence, Dale spoke up. “Misha, how about if you come downstairs with me and have some coffee and maybe even a bite to eat? Perhaps you’ll feel better then and things will be clearer for you.” Misha nodded and followed Dale downstairs. As Dale poured Misha some coffee, she noted her expression. It was now that of childlike innocence as she gazed at her surroundings, wide-eyed and timid. As a test, Dale asked Misha what she wanted in her coffee. Misha seemed like she was about to answer, then closed her lips and frowned with confusion. Dale added cream and sugar and set the mug on the table before taking a seat next to Misha. Misha stared dumbly at the steaming mug before her. She then looked up at Dale, who sat staring at her, chin resting in her hand, still appearing somewhat skeptical. “Well? Are you going to stare at it or drink it?” Dale questioned. With two hands, Misha lifted the mug to her lips as if it were very heavy. The phone rang and Dale went into the living room to answer it. It was Meagan. Dale lowered her voice and recounted to Meagan the strange behavior Misha had been displaying. “This has been going on since yesterday,” she told her. “I don’t know what to make of it.” “How strange,” said Meagan. “You’ve never known her to act like this before, have you?” “No, never. Doesn’t sound at all like the Misha I know.” “So she’s never put on an act like this as a joke?” “No,” Meagan said with a chuckle, “I’m afraid your girl isn’t that creative.” “Hmm,” said Dale, not sure what to say next. “I know she’s been through a lot, but I really thought she’d gotten over it. She seemed to have pulled through just fine, especially with your love and concern. What do you think is going on?” asked Meagan. “I haven’t a clue. Would you like to talk to her?” “Sure.” Without a word, Dale walked back into the kitchen and handed Misha the phone. Misha gazed curiously at it for a few seconds before placing it to her ear. “Hello?” “Hey, buddy, what’s up? I hear you’ve been rather out of it.” The voice was familiar. “Yeah, I guess I have been.” Then it clicked. It was her friend Meagan. “I know this is Meagan.” “Very good,” Meagan laughed sarcastically. “Want a medal for it?” Misha laughed. The two chatted like they usually did for a little while, then Misha hung up and found Dale at the computer up in the loft. “Feeling better now?” Dale asked. Misha nodded. Although Dale was no doctor, be it for the body or the mind, she couldn’t fathom how Misha could slip in and out of her memory lapses as she did, but she did, nonetheless. For a while, Dale got used to it, learning to live with it and just accept the fact that Misha wasn’t always with it. Many times she suggested bringing her to see a doctor, but Misha adamantly refused each time she brought it up. Dale’s love for Misha never diminished, but her patience was wearing thin, and she became increasingly worried that Misha might accidentally hurt herself—or someone else, for that matter. Dale had been sitting on the couch watching TV when Misha came storming down the stairs one day in a rage. “I do not want you snooping through my private things again!” she screamed. Dale’s eyes widened in shock. Never had she seen Misha this angry. Not even close. “What are you talking about now?” “My journal! My fucking journal!” “Misha,” Dale said, rising to her feet, “I didn’t even know you had one. Now why don’t we—” Misha charged at Dale. Dale never would’ve guessed Misha to be nearly as strong as she was in a million years. That was okay, though, for Dale was still the stronger one. Misha screamed, struggling to break free of Dale’s fierce hold as she held her back against the front of her. “Stop it, Misha!” Dale ordered. “Stop it!” Misha stilled. “That’s it, girl. You get ahold of yourself right now.” She turned Misha to face her, holding her firmly by the upper arms and speaking with firmness. “You got a problem with me, you use your mouth to tell me about it, not your fists. You understand?” Misha nodded her head quickly, tense with fear. Dale released her, keeping a bit of a defensive stance in case Misha should try and attack again. A moment later, tears began to stream down Misha’s face. “I’m sorry, Dale,” she cried. “Oh God, I’m so, so sorry!” “It’s okay,” said Dale, gathering her into her arms and patting her on the back. “It’s going to be just fine, sweetie.” The two embraced for a few minutes, then Dale gently pulled back and gazed down into Misha’s eyes, which no longer seemed like the vivid blue color they had always been. Quite often, they were now a dull gray, void of emotion, recognition, or understanding. “Now, where is this journal of yours so I know not to touch it?” asked Dale. Misha stared up at Dale, confusion evident in her eyes. “What journal?”