Still Life with Shape-shifter (22 page)

For a moment I was frozen beside him, then I scrambled up to a sitting position. “What if you could?” I said, speaking slowly, though my mind was seething with excitement. “What if there
was
a pill? I mean, people use drugs to control diabetes and blood clots and—and—well, other diseases. Maybe there’s a chemical way to control
your
changes.”

At first he looked hopeful, but then his expression clouded over again. “Maybe, but how would I ever find out?” he asked. “It’s not like I can go to a doctor and say, ‘Hey. I’m a shape-shifter, but I don’t want to be. Got a cure for that?’ He’d call the zoo—or the cops—so fast I’d never be able to run away in time.”

“Maybe,” I repeated. “But I’m taking all these chemistry and biology classes. Maybe I can be some kind of researcher. Maybe
I’ll
be able to study your blood.
I
can do experiments. Maybe
I’ll
find the cure for you.”

He gazed up at me. In the wide eyes, the full lips, the dark hair, I saw the poet, the lover, the artist, the man I adored; but I also saw the wolf, the wild creature, who would do anything he had to in order to survive. “Yes,” he whispered. “Oh, I hope you do.”

I bent down to kiss him. “I will,” I said, and kissed him again. I thought about the chemistry professor’s words about synergy. I didn’t have to wait until I found a position in a lab, I thought. I could take what I was learning in all my science classes and start conducting tests right now. “I promise.”

His hands came up, and he pulled me down on top of him, and for a long time the only words between us were spoken in breathless whispers. But I had my cause now; I had my
raison d’être
. I would study and learn and experiment, over and over again, until I found the cure for Cooper. I would change his life, I would give him what he wanted. Because he was
my
life, because he was what
I
wanted. I could hardly wait for dawn to come, so I could begin.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MELANIE

I
don’t know what to do.

For the next two hours, I simply hover anxiously, watching over Ann. I rest my hand on her forehead, checking for fever, but her body temperature seems close to mine. I press my fingers to her wrist, feeling for her pulse, but I don’t know if the heartbeat I find is too rapid, too slow, too weak, too urgent. Once I have wiped the smear of red from her face, there is no more blood. Her breathing seems a little labored but no worse than you might expect from someone with a bad cold.

And she has woken once, long enough to smile and say my name, before falling back asleep.

So I don’t know if I need to take her to a doctor. I don’t know if the risk of
not
taking her to the ER outweighs the risk of
taking
her. Will she die if I don’t? Will she expose her terrible secret if I do? How can I possibly know?

William is as alarmed as I am though he shows it differently. Mostly he sits, very still, in a chair he has pulled over next to the sofa, and does nothing but watch over Ann. He hasn’t had much information to give me about what has driven her to this state. No, she hasn’t been injured. Yes, he would know. Yes, he’s been concerned lately. She hasn’t had much energy or appetite, but she hasn’t seemed any worse than she did when he first told me he was worried. Until this morning. When he woke up—in a ditch or under a bridge, I’m sure, though he’s not specific—and she did not.

“Do
you
think she’d want me to take her to a doctor?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “We’ve never talked about it. But I don’t think so.”

“Would you want her to take you if
you
were the one lying on the couch?”

His brooding eyes don’t leave her still form. “No,” he says. “Unless there’s a broken bone or a wound that’s been ripped open—something that can be fixed—I don’t think doctors can help people like us.” He makes a slow, broad gesture that seems to indicate his heart, or his chest, or maybe his whole body. “I think we’re too different inside. They could hurt one of us instead of helping us.”

But I’m still not sure.

“Let’s keep watching her,” I say at last. “If she seems to get worse, if she can’t breathe, if she starts bleeding again, then I’ll take her to the ER. If she’s not better by—” I hesitate. I have no idea what deadline would be reasonable. “By tomorrow morning. I’ll take her in. And then—whatever happens, happens.”

William glances at me with those hooded, unreadable eyes and makes no comment. I don’t know if he agrees or disagrees. I don’t know if I’m right or wrong. I don’t know, I don’t know.

It’s clear Brody has tried to stay out of the way while William and I hash through the dilemma. After taking a quick shower, he’s been working in the kitchen, making coffee and cooking a light breakfast. I’ve already gulped down some coffee, but my stomach has been too knotted up for me to tolerate the idea of food. Once I arrive at my nebulous decision, I feel a little better. Almost hungry. I leave William to keep vigil and slip inside the kitchen to find Brody.

He turns from the stove, where he appears to be making pancakes, and draws me into a long hug. “Any change?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“Do you think we should try to get her to eat or drink something?”

“Maybe later. William said they ate a pretty solid meal last night, so I don’t think she’s in immediate danger.”

“Could you eat something? I can make toast if you can’t face pancakes. Or scrambled eggs.”

“Actually, the pancakes are starting to smell really good.”

William declines to join us, so Brody and I settle around the oak table, me choosing the seat that allows me to view the sofa where Ann is sleeping. The pancakes are delicious; he must have added something to the basic Bisquick recipe. I feel better instead of worse once I’ve eaten, which isn’t always the case.

“So are you going to take her to a doctor?” Brody asks.

“Only if her condition deteriorates or isn’t better by tomorrow morning.”

He nods, as if he approves, but I have the sense he would try to support any decision I made at this juncture just because he realizes how close I am to disintegrating into a wild, rotating frenzy of panicked atoms. “If you’re open to suggestions,” he says, “I may have one.”

I tense up, because additional input can only undercut the fragile state of balance I’ve achieved, but I say, “What’s that?”

“I met this woman in central Illinois a few months back. She’s a vet. A vet who specializes in shape-shifters. Maybe you could take Ann to see her.”

I stare at him for a moment because it takes me that long to absorb what he’s said. Somewhere in the world is a medical professional who knows about people with Ann’s condition and is actually qualified to treat them? Someone to whom I can tell the truth—someone I can trust with Ann’s secret and Ann’s life? “Are you sure?” I ask, a not very cogent question, but he seems to know what I mean.

“I was at her place the day I saw those three people turn into animals. She takes care of all of them. She’s not about to betray anybody.”

I lean my elbows on the table because suddenly my body feels so heavy that my spine won’t hold me upright. “That would be—I can’t even tell you—such a relief. Such a gift. If you think she’d be willing to see us. If she takes strangers as patients.”

“I think she’d want from you what you’d want from her. Discretion and silence.”

“Then yes. Sign us up. How do we get hold of her? Where exactly in Illinois?”

“She’s got a place a little east of Decatur, but I think she keeps offices in Springfield, too. Might take us three hours to get there. And I don’t know if you want to wait until Ann’s in better shape for travel—”

I shake my head. “I want to go the minute she’s willing to see us.”

“Then I’ll give her a call.”

*   *   *

F
rom Dr. Kassebaum’s name, I am expecting someone ample, fair and pale, but in fact she’s almost the exact opposite: a small-boned woman, not very tall, with olive skin and glossy black hair. She’s wearing big silver hoop earrings, a crinkly ankle-length skirt in bright red and orange, and a denim vest. Although she’s friendly enough, she’s a little remote. This is not a warm, empathetic counselor; this is a survivor who’s willing to share her hard-won knowledge to help you pull through as well.

It is close to sunset Sunday evening when I meet her, and my head is still spinning at how quickly events have unfolded on what is looking like it will be a very long day. The minute Brody calls her and explains the situation, she agrees to join us in Springfield that evening. If she does, in fact, have an office in that city, she doesn’t want us to come to it. Instead, she gives us directions to a motel that she says is on the outer edges of town. A place, I gather, where nobody asks questions and nobody pays much attention to the guests. Perfect for our purposes.

It takes me a little time to organize my life to make even this short a journey. I have to call Debbie to warn her that I won’t be at work in the morning (to which she replies, “Are you
kidding
? Go, go!”) I have to pack clothes and close up the house and assemble food to take us at least part of the way to our destination. William and Brody outfit the Jeep with enough blankets and pillows to allow Ann to travel comfortably in whichever shape suits her best. I am certain that William would prefer to be in animal form and that he remains human because he feels he can be more useful in this incarnation, at least for the moment.

All of this takes time, so it is past three before we all climb in the Cherokee and hit the road. Brody drives because I am too distracted to focus. We find the motel with no trouble, and drive around to the back of the long, narrow building where the less desirable rooms look out over the desolate parking lot. Dr. Kassebaum has told us she’s in room 105; it’s the only one on this side of the building where there appears to be a light in the window.

Ann has regained consciousness, though she’s drowsy and disinclined for conversation. When William lifts her out of the Jeep so he can carry her inside, she snuggles against him, her hair half obscuring her face. The motel door opens before we even have a chance to knock. And there’s Dr. Kassebaum, with her unsmiling face and her sober professionalism. Almost on the instant, I feel myself subtly relaxing. I am certain, for the first time in my life, that I’ve found someone who understands exactly who and what it is I love. I feel like I can transfer some of my burdens to her, and she will know how to dismantle them. She will turn them light as air.

The room is small, most of the space taken up by two queen-size beds, and she motions for William to carry Ann to the one farthest from the door. Brody and I perch on the edge of the other bed, while Dr. Kassebaum pulls up a round-backed chair that looks like it was manufactured in the sixties and uncomfortable even then.

“Can you give me a quick family history?” she asks, opening a notebook and picking up a pen. I like that; my own primary-care physician has begun typing all her notes into a computer, and she never looks up at my face while I’m speaking.

I strive to be concise. “Ann’s twenty years old. Her mother was a shape-shifter, her father was fully human. I haven’t seen her mother for about nine years and believe she’s dead. Our father died six years ago from complications of dementia and pneumonia. There’s no history of heart disease in my family, that I know of, or diabetes or anything like that. Our father’s mother died of breast cancer, but no one else in our family has had cancer of any kind.”

“I assume she’s sexually active?”

God, could all this lethargy have a simple, almost joyful root cause—could Ann be merely pregnant? But then I remember. “Yes, but her boyfriend has had a vasectomy.”

Dr. Kassebaum nods and makes a note. I can almost hear what she’s thinking.
She could have had sex with someone besides her boyfriend.
That would suck for William, but if it means Ann doesn’t have any terrifying fatal disease, I’ll welcome the news.

But do I really have the strength and courage and sheer tenacious bloody-mindedness to raise another shape-shifter child—?

“Can you describe her exact symptoms and when you first noticed them?”

I think back. It was about six weeks ago that William first confided his concern, and about the same time that I’d started to notice her loss of energy, her tendency to sleep away half the day. Well, if I’m being honest with myself, I’ll admit that I started getting anxious about Ann last summer, and none of my fears had been assuaged when I saw her over Christmas. She’d been her usual happy self, but a little vague, a little scatterbrained. Once or twice I’d found myself wondering if she was falling prey—far, far too soon—to the carelessly destructive disease that had claimed my father’s memory.

But now I’m afraid it’s not her mind that’s failing her. It’s her body.

“There have been—inklings—faint suggestions of things that could be wrong—for about a year,” I tell Dr. Kassebaum in a halting voice. “A sort of forgetfulness. A deep exhaustion. Small things that by themselves don’t seem to mean much. But lately. The past couple of months. They all seem to be magnified.”

“Has she complained about pain or weakness? Has she exhibited any typical signs of illness, such as fever or coughing?”

“No—not around me.” I glance toward the other bed. Despite the fact that Ann and William are in the same room with us, neither one seems to be paying attention to a word of this conversation. “You could ask William. He’s been spending more time with her than I have.”

She nods. “I’ll interview him, too. Have you noticed any correlations between her level of exhaustion and her transformations between animal and human state? That is, is she most likely to be tired on the first day or two after she’s turned human again, then she seems to recover her strength?”

I frown, thinking it over. “I’m not sure. I didn’t notice.”

“Have there been any changes in her typical cycle?”

Does she still think Ann might be pregnant?
“Her menstrual cycle?”

“Her shape-shifting cycle.” She glances up from her notebook. “Most shape-shifters have a pattern. Some are human twenty-five days of the month and animal five days. In others, it’s reversed. Some alternate between shapes every three or four days. Some always become the same animal, while others might be anything from a rabbit to a buffalo.”

I shake my head but, again, I’m not sure. “I don’t think that’s changed, but you might ask William. Ann has always turned into the shape of a white dog—a husky—ever since she was a little girl. And she’s always been able to transform more or less at will.”

“That’s unusual,” Dr. Kassebaum comments.

“William can control it, too. But his brother can’t.”

“That’s unusual, too. Siblings.”

“Really? Why?”

Dr. Kassebaum lifts her dark eyes to mine again. It strikes me that what I first took as professional gravity on her part is really sadness. I wonder if she, too, loves a shape-shifter; heartache guaranteed. “When humans learn their partners have burdened them with a shape-shifter child, they tend to terminate the relationship—so, no second babies. And few of the shape-shifters I’ve met have been eager to bring more of their kind into the world. Their own lives have been hard enough. They don’t want children of their own to face the same challenges.”

“So maybe one day all the shape-shifters will be gone from the world.”

“Maybe,” Dr. Kassebaum says. “But if folklore is any guide, they’ve been around a long time, and I expect they’ll be with us to the end of the world.”

“I can’t decide if that’s comforting or not.”

“No,” she says, “neither can I.” She closes her notebook. “Now I’m going to talk to William and examine Ann. Perhaps it would be best if you and Brody were out of the room. There’s a vending machine in the lobby if you wanted to get a soda or a snack.”

Brody takes my hand as we step outside, and the slanting rays of the setting sun hit me squarely in the eyes. I’m surprised to learn it’s still daylight and that the day itself is rather fine. I would have said I was living in perpetual night, perpetual chill, a gray, drab corridor of hell.