Linger (16 page)

The pizza sat in front of me, looking like nothing I could imagine swallowing.

I felt so much more vulnerable than I'd felt in the woods with the wolves around me. I didn't want Isabel with me now. Not Mom. I wanted Sam.

• ISABEL •

Grace looked gray. She was staring at her pizza as if she was waiting for it to bite her, and finally she said, her hand on her stomach, “I'll be right back.”

She pushed up off the couch, a little lethargic, and headed into the kitchen. When she returned, holding another ginger ale and a palm full of pills, I asked, “Are you feeling sick again?” I turned down the volume on the television a little, even though it was my favorite part of the movie.

Grace tipped all the pills into her mouth and swallowed them with a quick, efficient slug of ginger ale. “A little. People feel sicker in the evenings, right? That's what I read.”

I looked at her. I thought that probably she knew. I thought probably she was already thinking what I was thinking, but I
didn't want to say it. Instead, I asked, “What did they tell you at the hospital?”

“That it was just a fever. Just the flu,” she said, and the way she said it, I knew she was remembering telling me about when she first got bitten. How she had thought she had the flu. How we both knew that it hadn't been the flu then.

So, finally, I said the thing that had been bothering me since I'd gotten to her house. “Grace, you smell. Like that wolf we found. You know this has to do with the wolves.”

She rubbed a single finger back and forth on the rim of her plate where the decorative swirl was, as if she would rub it right off. “I know.”

The phone rang, just then, and we both knew who it was. Grace looked at me and her fingers all went perfectly still.

“Don't tell Sam,” she said.

• SAM •

That night, because I couldn't sleep, I made bread.

Most of my sleeplessness was because of Grace; the idea of going up to bed and lying there alone, waiting for sleep again, was completely intolerable. But part of it was because Cole was still in the house. He was so full of restless energy — pacing the floor, trying out the sound system, sitting on the couch, watching television, then jumping up — that I was, too. It was like being in the presence of an exploding star.

So, bread making. It was something I had learned from Ulrik, who was a tremendous bread snob. He refused to eat most store-bought bread, and combined with the fact that when I was ten, I refused to eat anything but bread, a lot of baking got done that year. Beck thought we were both impossible, and wouldn't have anything to do with our neuroses. So that meant plenty of mornings were spent in each other's company, me on the floor leaning against the kitchen cabinets, curled around the guitar that Paul had gifted me, and Ulrik pounding some dough into submission and swearing pleasantly about me being in the way.

One day not long into the year, Ulrik pulled me to my feet to have me make the dough; it was also the same day that Beck had found out about Ulrik's doctor's appointment, a memory I'd been considering since I'd seen Victor struggling to stay human. Beck came storming into the kitchen, clearly furious, while Paul drifted in behind him, hovering in the door, looking less like he was concerned and more like he was hoping for an interesting collision.

“Tell me that Paul is a liar,” Beck announced, while Ulrik handed me a can of yeast. “Tell me you did not go to a doctor.”

Paul looked like he was about to bust out laughing, and Ulrik looked pretty close to that as well.

Beck raised his hands up like he wanted to strangle Ulrik. “You did. You really went. You crazy bastard. I told you it wouldn't do any good.”

Paul finally started laughing as Ulrik grinned. Paul said, “Tell him what he gave you, Ulrik. Tell him what he wrote you.”

But Ulrik seemed to realize that Beck wouldn't get the punch line, so, still smiling, he just pointed toward the fridge and said, “Milk, Sam.”

“Haldol,” said Paul. “He goes in for werewolfism, comes out with a script for antipsychotics.”

“You think this is funny?” Beck demanded.

Ulrik finally looked at Beck and made a
so what
gesture with one hand. “Come on, Beck. He thought I was crazy. I told him everything that was going on — that I turned into a wolf in the winter, and the — the — what is it? — nauseous? nausea? — and the date I turned back into a human this year.
All the symptoms. I told him the honest-to-God truth, and he listened and nodded and wrote me a script for a crazy drug.”

“Where did you go?” Beck asked. “Which hospital?”

“St. Paul.” He and Paul hooted at Beck's expression. “What, you thought I marched into Mercy Falls General and told them I was a werewolf?”

Beck wasn't amused. “So — just like that? He didn't believe you? Draw blood? Anything?”

Ulrik snorted and, forgetting that I was supposed to be making the dough, started adding flour. “He couldn't get me out the door fast enough. Like crazy was catching.”

Paul said, “I wish I could've been there.”

Beck shook his head. “You two are idiots.” But his voice was now fond as he pushed past Paul, out of the kitchen. “How many times do I have to tell you, you want a doctor to believe you, you're gonna have to bite them.”

Paul and Ulrik exchanged looks. “Is he serious?” Paul asked Ulrik.

“I don't think so,” Ulrik said.

The conversation drifted to something else as Ulrik finished the dough and put it in to rise, but I never forgot the lesson for the day: Doctors weren't likely to be any help in this particular battle of ours.

My mind returned to Victor. I couldn't shake the image of him sliding effortlessly from human to wolf and back again.

Apparently, Cole couldn't, either, because he walked into the kitchen and hiked himself up onto the center island with an annoyed expression. He wrinkled his nose at the heavy yeast scent in the kitchen and said, “I should be surprised that you're
baking, but I'm not. So, I'm again struck with the unfairness that Victor can't stay human and I can't stay wolf. Should be the other way around.”

I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice as I replied, “Yeah. I get it. You want to be a wolf. You do not want to be Cole. You want to be a wolf. You've made it really clear. Well, I have no magic formula to make you stay a wolf. Sorry.” I noticed that he had a bottle of whiskey sitting on the countertop next to him. “Where did that come from?”

“Cabinet,” Cole said. His voice was pleasant. “Why does it bother you so much?”

“I'm not really crazy about you getting drunk.”

“I'm not really crazy about being sober,” Cole replied. “I mean, you never really said what your big problem was with me wanting to be a wolf.”

I turned away from him to the sink to scrub the flour off my hands; it became gluey between my fingers as the water hit it. I considered what I wanted to say, while I slowly scrubbed both hands clean. “I went through a lot of trouble to stay human. I know someone who died trying. I would give anything to have the rest of my family back right now, but they have to spend the winter in those woods, not even remembering who they are. Being human is a …” I was going to say
extraordinary privilege
but thought it sounded too grandiose. “There's no meaning to life as a wolf. If you don't have memories, it's like you never existed. You can't leave anything behind. I mean — how can I defend
humanity
? It's all that matters. Why would you throw that away?”

I didn't mention Shelby. Shelby, the only other person I'd ever known who wanted to be a wolf. I knew why she had
abandoned her human life. Didn't mean that I agreed with it, though. I hoped she'd gotten her wish and was a wolf for good now.

Cole took a mouthful of whiskey and winced as he swallowed it. “You already answered the question right in there. The not remembering bit. Avoidance is a wonderful therapy.”

I turned to face him. He seemed unreal in this kitchen. Most people had an acquired kind of beauty — they became better-looking the longer you knew them and the better you loved them. But Cole had unfairly skipped to the end of the game, all jaggedly handsome and Hollywood-looking, not needing any love to get there.

“I don't think so,” I said. “I don't think that's a good reason.”

“Don't you?” Cole asked curiously. I was surprised to see that there was no malice in his expression, just vague interest. “Then why do you piss in the upstairs bathroom?”

I looked at him.

“Oh, you didn't think I noticed it? Yeah. You always go upstairs to pee. I mean, I guess it could be because the downstairs bathroom is gross, but it seems fine to me.” Cole jumped down from the counter, slightly unsteady when he landed. “So seems to me you're avoiding that tub. Am I right?”

I didn't see how he could know my backstory, but I guessed it wasn't a secret. Maybe Beck had even told him, though it made me feel a little weird to think that he had. “That's pretty minor,” I said. “Avoiding a bathtub because your parents tried to kill you in one isn't the same as avoiding your entire life by becoming a wolf.”

Cole smiled widely at me. The alcohol was making him an extremely jovial Cole. “I'll make you a deal, Ringo. You stop avoiding that bathtub and I'll stop avoiding my life.”

“Yeah, right.” The only time I'd been in a tub since my parents was when Grace had put me in one to get me warm last winter. But at that point, I'd been halfway to a wolf. I barely even knew where I was. And it was Grace, who I trusted. Not Cole.

“No, seriously. I'm a very goal-oriented person,” Cole said. “Happiness, I think, comes from achieving goals, right? God, this stuff is good.” He put the whiskey down on the counter. “I feel überwarm and fuzzy. So what do you say? You jump in that bathtub and I devote myself to keeping myself and Victor human? I mean, since the tub is such a minor thing?”

I smiled ruefully. He had known all along that there was no danger of me getting close to that bathroom. “Touché,” I said, randomly remembering the last time I'd heard the expression: Isabel standing in the bookstore, drinking my green tea. It seemed like years ago.

• COLE •

I smiled broadly at him. I was infused with the pleasant, slow warmth that could only be achieved through the consumption of hard liquor. I told him, “You see, we are both majorly messed up, Ringo. Issues up the wazoo.”

Sam just looked at me. He didn't really look like Ringo; more like a sleepy, yellow-eyed John Lennon, if we were being specific, but “John” wasn't as catchy of a name to call him. I felt
a sudden rush of compassion toward him. Poor kid couldn't even piss downstairs because his parents had tried to kill him. Seemed pretty harsh.

“Feel like an intervention?” I asked. “I think tonight feels like a good night for an intervention, man.”

“Thanks, I'll deal with my issues on my own,” Sam said.

“C'mon.” I offered him the bottle of whiskey, but he shook his head. “It'll make you relax,” I informed him. “Enough of this and you'll be paddling that tub to China.”

Sam's voice was slightly less friendly. “Not tonight.”

“Dude,” I said, “I am trying to bond here. I am trying to help you. I am trying to help me.” I took his arm in a comradely way. Sam pulled at my grip, but not like he meant it. I tugged him toward the kitchen door.

“Cole,” Sam said, “you're completely smashed. Let go.”

“And I'm telling
you
that this entire process would be easier if you were, too. Are you reconsidering the whiskey option?” We were in the hall now. Sam tugged again.

“I'm not. Cole. Come on. Are you serious?” He jerked at my grip. We were a few feet away from the bathroom door now. Sam bucked, and I had to use both my arms to keep him moving forward. He was surprisingly strong; I hadn't thought someone as weedy-looking as him could put up such a good fight.

“I help you, you help me. Just think of how much better you'll feel when you've faced your demons,” I said. I wasn't sure if this was true, but it
sounded
good. I had to admit, too, that a big part of me was curious as hell to see what Sam would do when faced with the mighty bathtub.

I jostled us both into the doorway and used my elbow to hit the light switch.

“Cole,” Sam said, his voice suddenly quieter.

It was just a bathtub. Just an empty tub of the most ordinary variety: ivory-colored tile surrounding it, white shower curtain pulled aside. A dead spider next to the drain. At the sight of it, Sam suddenly struggled in my arms, hard enough that it took all my strength to hold him. I felt his muscles knotted beneath my fingers, straining against me.

“Please,” he said.

“It's just a bathtub,” I said, bracing my arms around him. But I didn't need to. He'd gone completely limp in my arms.

• SAM •

For one spare moment, I saw it for what it was, the way I must have seen it for the first seven years of my life: just an ordinary bathroom, faded and utilitarian. But then my eyes found the tub and I couldn't stand. I was sitting at my dining room table. My father sat next to me; my mother hadn't sat next to me in weeks. My mother said

I don't think I can love him anymore. That's not Sam. That's a thing that looks like him, sometimes.

There were peas on my plate. I didn't eat peas. I was surprised to see them there because my mother knew this. I couldn't stop looking at them.

My father said

I know.

Now I was being shaken by Cole. “You aren't dying,” he said. “It just feels like it.”

And then my parents were holding my thin arms. I was being presented to a bathtub, though it wasn't evening and I hadn't been undressed. My parents were asking me to get in, and I wouldn't, and I think they were glad, because my refusal made it easier for them than trusting compliance. My father lifted me into the water.

“Sam,” Cole said.

I was sitting in the bathtub in my clothing, the water turning my dark jeans black, feeling the water wick up through my favorite blue T-shirt with the white stripe, feeling the fabric stick to my ribs, and I thought, for a minute, for one, merciful moment, that it was a game.

“Sam,”
Cole repeated.

I didn't understand, and then, I did.

It wasn't when my mother wouldn't look at me, just gazing at the edge of the bathtub and swallowing, over and over. Or when my father reached behind him and said my mother's name to get her to look at him. Or even when she took one of the razor blades from his proffered hand, her fingers careful, as if she were selecting a fragile cracker from a plate of delicacies.

It was when she finally looked at me.

At my eyes. My wolf's eyes.

I saw the decision in her face. The letting go.

And that was when they had to hold me down.

• COLE •

Sam was somewhere else. That was the only way to put it. His eyes were just — empty. I hauled him out to the living room and shook him. “Snap out of it. We're out! Look around, Sam. We're out.”

When I let go of his arms, Sam slumped to the floor, back against the wall, putting his head in his hands. He was suddenly all elbows and knees and joints folded up against one another, making him faceless.

I didn't know how I felt, seeing him there. Knowing I'd done it, whatever
it
was. It was making me hate him. “Sam?” I said.

After a long moment, he said, not lifting his head, his voice strange and low and thin, “Just leave me alone. Leave me alone. What did I ever do to you?” His breaths were uneven; I heard them catching in his chest. Not like sobs. More like suffocation.