Still Life with Shape-shifter (23 page)

“What do you want to do about tonight?” Brody asks as he shuts the door behind us.

“Can you be more specific?”

“We could book a room here and spend the night. A couple of rooms, if we get one for us and one for Ann and William. Or we can drive back to your place. If we leave by seven or eight, we’ll be back by midnight. I’m up for it either way.”

“I don’t know,” I answer at last. “I guess it all depends on what Dr. Kassebaum says about Ann.”

He leans over to kiss the top of my head, but doesn’t say
Everything will be all right
or
Stop worrying so much
. For a man who talks as much as Brody does, he has an uncanny gift for knowing when to be silent. There’s really nowhere else to sit, so we climb back into the front seat of the Jeep and wait there, holding hands, and bracing ourselves for whatever dread news the day might bring.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

D
r. Kassebaum has a few tests she wants to conduct on Ann, and these include drawing blood and letting it ferment overnight, or something, so there’s no question of returning home right away. Brody and I have already decided to take a room for the night, and Dr. Kassebaum turns her key over to Ann and William. She needs to return to her office to perform the tests, she tells us, but she’ll be back before noon to tell us what she’s discovered.

In her absence, the four of us head out to a nearby Pizza Hut for a mostly silent meal. Ann’s sleepy, William is never talkative, I’m too tense to make conversation, and even Brody can’t overcome all those obstacles. Back at our rooms, we separate for the night. Brody and I watch mindless sitcoms until we fall asleep by ten.

I wake in the morning with a sense of doom. Maybe it’s because I’m in strange surroundings—maybe it’s because I’m alone in the bed—maybe it’s because the situation that brought me here will shortly be explained, and chances are slim that I will hear good news.

I take a quick shower, and by the time I’m out, Brody has returned with orange juice and bagels that he’s found at some nearby QuikTrip. “The bagels are stale,” he says, “but I figured they were better than starvation.”

I’m finishing mine off when I see Dr. Kassebaum step out of a car that’s just pulled into the parking lot. I knock back the last of the juice and hurry out the door. “What have you found out?” I ask.

She gestures at the door of room 105. “Let’s all talk about it together.”

As it did the night before, the motel room seems like an incongruous place to discuss medical mysteries and receive news that will change your life. Dr. Kassebaum places the round-backed chair halfway between the two beds; William and Ann sit on one, backs against the headboard, legs extended before them, and Brody and I take similar poses on the other. It seems like we should be having a slumber party, not girding ourselves for battle, which is what I feel like I’m doing. “So,” I ask, “have you come to any conclusions? Do you think you know what’s wrong with Ann?”

Dr. Kassebaum nods, her face in its usual grave lines. “I have a theory. At this point, it’s all just guesswork, because there is so little we know for sure about shape-shifters and their physiology.”

“But you think—?”

“I think the stress of frequent and lifelong transformation between states has worn Ann’s body out to a dangerous degree,” she says. “I think, as she goes forward, she’ll find that the more often she moves between shapes, the weaker she’ll become. Furthermore—although this is not usually the case—her body seems to degrade more sharply when she’s in her human shape. In her canine form, she seems healthier and stronger. I’m guessing it’s because the animal’s organs are smaller than the human’s, and when she shifts to the larger shape, the organs don’t enlarge correspondingly as they should. But as I say, that’s just a theory.”

“Huh,” Ann says. “It makes sense, though.”

Dr. Kassebaum goes on. “I’ve written up a suggested nutritional plan and identified various supplements she might take when she’s human, and I’d like to give her some inoculations that will help her fight off disease no matter which form she takes. Unfortunately, there’s not much else I can do for her. My advice—and I cannot say it strongly enough—is that Ann should greatly curtail how often she shifts between shapes and drastically limit how much time she spends in human form. If she doesn’t, I’m afraid she doesn’t have too many years left to her.”

The words strike me with the force of boulders, burn me like firebrands held against my skin. “She doesn’t have—what do you mean? Are you saying she could
die
?” Of course that’s what she’s saying. She’s tried to phrase it as gracefully as possible, but there’s no graceful way to pronounce a death sentence.

She fixes me with her dark eyes. “Shape-shifters in general tend not to live long lives,” she says. The compassionate tone does nothing to soften the brutality of the words. “I’ve rarely known one to live past fifty.”

“But Ann’s only twenty! She should have—if she lives to fifty, she should have at
least
thirty more years!”

Her voice gentles even more. “None of us are guaranteed a particular life span,” she says. “Bodies wear out at different rates, and Ann’s, unfortunately, is a fast one. She can’t reverse the damage she has absorbed so far, but she can be careful about how much new damage she inflicts.”

Ann speaks again, sounding incredulous. “So you’re telling me I should take husky form and stay that way? Not become human
ever
? I don’t think I can live like that.”

Now Dr. Kassebaum rests her gaze on Ann. “I’m afraid it’s the best of two bad choices.”

Ann shrugs, her usual insouciant nature partially reasserting itself. “And if I just do what I’ve always done? Change shapes when I feel like it?”

“Then I doubt you’ll live out the year.”

The sudden silence is so startled, it’s as if someone has slapped the room itself. Then I jump from my bed and scramble over to Ann’s, grabbing her hands with both of mine.

“Do it,” I say frantically. “Take your husky shape now, before we even leave for home, and stay that way. I don’t care. Take off with William as soon as we get back and go hang out in the parks and woodlands for six months. Or come to the house and stay there as long as you want—just don’t shift back. Just don’t become human.”

She leans forward until her forehead is touching mine. “You’d miss me,” she says.

“I’d still get to hang out with you, just like I used to,” I reply. “Don’t you remember? When you were a kid, you’d be a puppy for weeks at a time. We’d go running in the yard or playing in the creek. I’d tell you all about what I did at school or what Debbie said or what the cheerleading coach made us do. You’d sleep at the foot of my bed. It’s not the
same
, it’s not like having a conversation with you—me telling you something and you saying something back—but it’s still you. I know what you’re thinking. I can see
you
in your eyes. I’d miss you, but you’d still be there.”

She makes the smallest motion with her head, a negative shake that I can feel more than I can see. “I’d miss you,” she says softly.

“You wouldn’t. Most of the time you’d be off having adventures with William—” I glance at him for corroboration, and he nods. “But when you came back to the house, we’d watch TV together. Go for walks. Whatever. You’d just be in your other shape. You’d get to be with me as much as you wanted.”

Her eyes, so close to mine, flick to one side. “Would Brody be there some of the time?”

I catch my breath, but he answers before I can. “I’ll be there a
lot
,” he says. “I’ll take you for rides in the car. That’ll be fun.”

I add, “But we’ll make him leave the house when we just want to have girl time.”

She repeats my own words. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s not,” I agree. “But it’s better than nothing.”

She straightens up, pulls away from me, moves restlessly on the lumpy bed. “I don’t know,” she says. “It seems so extreme.” She gives Dr. Kassebaum a look that’s just a shade less than accusatory. “What if you’re wrong?”

“I don’t think I am,” Dr. Kassebaum says. “But of course you have to make your own choices.”

Brody’s the one to break the brief silence that follows. “So what now?” he asks, directing his question at Dr. Kassebaum.

“I’ll give Ann some immunizations and other boosters. Make a list of recommended nutritional supplements. But there’s really nothing else I can do.” She glances at me, where I’m still kneeling beside Ann on the bed. “You’re welcome to call anytime you have questions or anytime there’s a change in Ann’s condition. And I imagine there will be some changes.”

“So. If we do this. If she stays in her other shape all the time—will she live out the normal span of her life?” I ask. Fifty years is too short; I will only be sixty, with the potential for another twenty or thirty years ahead of me. I can’t imagine navigating all those long, dreary decades without Ann’s sunny presence in my life.

Dr. Kassebaum hesitates. “It’s hard to predict,” she says at last. “But I doubt it.”

A bony skeleton hand has wrapped itself around my gut, and now it squeezes hard. I feel its desiccated nails pierce tissue and slit arteries. “How long, then?” I manage to choke out.

“Nothing is certain in medicine.”

“I realize that. Give me an estimate.”

“Probably not more than two or three years.”

I gasp. The cramped hotel room is suddenly airless, or my lungs have ceased to function. In any case, I can’t get a breath. “That can’t be true,” I whisper.

“I’ll do what I can to extend the time,” Dr. Kassebaum answers. “But she has to change her lifestyle, or nothing I do will matter.” She gives Ann a straight and level look. “It’s up to you. You have to decide how long you want to live.”

*   *   *

I
make William ride in the front seat next to Brody, an arrangement that clearly thrills neither of them. They don’t complain, but Brody immediately tunes the radio to some unobtrusive jazz station to obviate the need for conversation.

I ride in back with Ann and argue for three and a half hours.

“I don’t like it. This is stupid,” is her primary form of rebuttal to every point I make. “What does she know, anyway? She’s just guessing.”

“She might be guessing, but she knows more than any of us do. Ann, admit it, you haven’t felt well for weeks.”

“I’ve been
tired
, but I haven’t been
dying
.”

“But you feel better when you’re in your other shape.”

“I suppose, but—”

“Let’s just try it for a while. A few months. Promise me you’ll go three months without being human. See how you feel.”

“I don’t want to go three months without talking to you!”

I try to speak lightly. “You’ve done it before. Disappeared for
longer
than three months. Making me worry about you every day.”

“See? You’d be worried this time, too!”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t be gone that whole time. You’d come visit me. You’d just be a dog.”

“Woof,” she says bitterly. “That’s a great conversation.”

I reach over to tug on a lock of the yellow hair. “Hey, I’ve had worse. I’ve had worse conversations with
you
.”

“Very funny.”

“So do you promise? Three months?”

She tosses her hair. Under the aggrieved petulance, I sense a real fear; she is responding childishly because she cannot bear to face the news head-on like an adult. I don’t blame her, but I can’t let her get away with it. I can’t let her pretend this isn’t happening and blithely refuse to moderate her behavior. I can’t let her die one day before she has to.

“I can’t tell time when I’m a dog,” she says. “How will I know when three months are up?”

“I’ll make signs and put them in the backyard. A countdown of days. You can read numbers, can’t you, when you’re a husky? And words?”

“Simple words.”

“So if I make a sign that says ‘NOW!’ you’ll understand that the three months are up?”

“I suppose.” She gives me a darkling look. “But don’t cheat. Don’t pretend it’s only been three months if it’s really been four.”

I’m surprised into a guilty laugh. I was already planning to do just that, except I was considering six months instead of three. “All right, I won’t. So is it a deal? Do you promise?”

She’s silent a moment, looking out the window. “I’ll think about it,” she says at last.

“Ann!”

And then we start all over again.

By the time we make it back to my place, I’m exhausted, Ann is still being stubborn, and William has reached his limit. He’s barely out of the car before he transforms into the golden setter and goes bounding up the road. Ann glances after him, but not as if she’s annoyed. More than the rest of us, she understands his inability to endure confinement or prolonged human contact.

Brody circles the Jeep and puts an arm around each of us. “Let’s just have a nice quiet afternoon followed by a nice quiet dinner,” he says. “I can barbecue again, or maybe make tacos. Unless this is one of those nights you just want sister time. And then I can head on home.”

“No,” Ann and I say in unison.

“We might need a distraction,” she says.

“Or a referee,” I add.

“Happy to be either,” he says. “Let’s go on in.”

*   *   *

T
he next few days are tense, emotional, and wearing, and it’s hard to look ahead and anticipate things getting much better. It’s actually a relief to go into PRZ in the mornings and bury myself in work. Debbie has pried the entire story out of me in five minutes, but its sheer irreversible horribleness leaves her with almost nothing to say.

“Fuck” is all she has to offer.

“Yeah,” I reply. “That about sums it up.”

Through it all, Brody is a rock. When my constant pleading has left Ann ruffled or angry, he’s able to tease her back into a good mood. When I find myself at the oddest moments—putting away dishes, washing my face, going through laundry—succumbing to inconsolable tears, he finds me, he puts his arms around me, he lets me cry against his shoulder. If he has a life of his own, he’s subjugated it to our crisis. I figure, once the immediate danger is past, he’ll make a dramatic decision; he’ll either tender his regrets and light out for good or pack up his stuff and move in.

I hope it’s the latter. I have leaned against him so much this past week that I’ve begun to think I can no longer stand up straight on my own.

“Tired of me yet?” he asks Thursday night as I come home from work to find cookies cooling on the kitchen counter and a chicken casserole in the oven.

“Are you kidding? This is every woman’s fantasy come true. A man who’s good in the kitchen
and
the bedroom. If only you’d do the ironing, too.”

“Yeah, Brandy tried to teach me to iron once. Well, it was really punishment for something I’d done, I can’t remember what. Broke her music box or ran over her Barbie with my bike, something like that. But after I burned two of her favorite shirts, she said I could never touch an iron again. And honestly, I never have.”