Linger (26 page)

• SAM •

When we got back inside, it was hard to tell who looked worse — Cole, so racked with grief, or Grace, her eyes looking huge in her pale, pale face. It hurt to look at both of them.

Cole sank down into one of the chairs at the dining room table. I led Grace to the couch and sat next to her, meaning to turn on the radio, to talk to her, to do something, but I was all used up. So we all sat in silence, lost in our thoughts.

An hour later, when we heard the back door come open, all of us jerked, relaxing only a little when we saw that it was Isabel, bundled in her white, fur-lined jacket and her usual boots. Her eyes slid from Cole sitting at the table, his head on his crossed arms, to me, and then finally to Grace, who lay against my chest.

“Your father was here,” I said, stupidly, because I couldn't think of anything else.

“I know. I saw, after it was too late. I didn't know he was going to bring it here.” Isabel's arms were held tightly to her sides. “You should've heard him crowing when he got back. I couldn't get away until after dinner; I told him I was going to the library, because if there's one thing that man doesn't know,
it's the hours the library is open.” She paused, half turning her head back toward Cole's still-motionless form and then back to me. “Who was it? The wolf, I mean.”

I glanced toward the dining room table, just visible from where we were on the couch. I knew he could hear us. “It was Victor. Cole's friend.”

Isabel jerked her attention back to Cole. “I didn't realize he had any …” She seemed to realize how awful that sounded, because she added, “Here.”

“Yes,” I said emphatically.

She looked uncertain, glancing back at Cole and then back at us. Finally, she said, “I came to see what the plan was.”

“Plan?” I asked. “For what?”

Isabel looked at Cole again, and then at Grace a little longer, and then she pointed a finger at me. With a gritted smile, she said, “Can I have a moment with you? In the kitchen?”

Grace lifted her head dully and frowned at Isabel, but she moved off me so that I could follow Isabel to the kitchen.

I had barely crossed over the threshold when Isabel said, voice biting, “I
told
you that the wolves were around our house and that my father was not a fan. What were you waiting for?”

My eyebrows raised at the accusation. “What? What your father did today? I was supposed to prevent that?”

“
You're
in charge. They're your wolves now. You can't just sit there.”

“I didn't really think your father was going to go out —”

Isabel interrupted me. “Everyone knows my dad will shoot at anything that can't shoot back. I expected you to do something!”

“I don't know what I would do to keep the wolves from the property. They go around the lake because the hunting's good there. I really didn't think your trigger-happy father would blatantly flout hunting and firearms laws to prove his point.” My voice came out accusing, which I knew wasn't fair.

Isabel laughed; it sounded like a bark, short and humorless. “You, of all people, ought to know what he is capable of, for God's sake. In the meantime, how long are you going to pretend there's nothing wrong with Grace?”

I blinked at her.

“Don't give me those lamb eyes. You're sitting there with her, and she looks like a cancer patient or something. I mean, she looks awful. And she smells just like that dead wolf. So what's going on?”

I winced. “I don't know, Isabel,” I said. My voice sounded tired, even to me. “We went to the clinic today. Nothing.”

“Well, then, take her to the hospital!”

“What do you think they'll do at a hospital? Maybe,
maybe
they'll do blood work on her. What do you think they'll find? I'm guessing ‘werewolf' won't show up on most panels, and there isn't a diagnosis for ‘smells like a sick wolf.'” I didn't mean to sound so angry; I wasn't angry at Isabel — I was angry at me.

“So you're just going to — what? Wait for something bad to happen?”

“What am I supposed to do? Take her into the hospital and demand they fix a problem that hasn't really appeared yet? That isn't in their
Merck Manual
? You don't think that I've been worrying about this all day? All week? Don't you think it's killing me to not know what's happening? It's not like we can be
sure. There's no — no precedent. There's never been anyone like Grace. I'm stabbing in the dark here, Isabel!”

Isabel glared at me; I noticed her eyes were a little red behind her dark eye makeup. “
Think.
Be proactive instead of reactive. You ought to be looking at what killed that first wolf instead of just staring at Grace with moon eyes. And what were you thinking, letting her stay over here? Her parents have left me voice-mails that could cook bacon. What happens if they find out where you live and show up here while Cole's shifting?
That
would be a great conversation starter. And speaking of Cole — do you know who he is? What the hell are you doing, Sam? What the hell are you waiting for?”

I turned away from her, linking my hands behind my head. “God, Isabel. What do you want from me? What do you want?”

“I want you to grow up,” she snapped. “What did you think, that you could just work in that bookstore forever and live in a dream world with Grace? Beck's gone. You're Beck now. Start acting like an adult, or you're going to lose everything. Do you think my dad is really going to stop with just one? 'Cause I can tell you right now, he's not done. And what do you think is going to happen when people come after Cole? When whatever happened to that wolf happens to Grace? Were you
really
at a
recording studio
yesterday? Unreal.”

I turned back around to face her. Her hands were fists stuffed in her armpits, her jaw was set. I wanted to ask her if she was doing this because Jack died and she couldn't stand to see it happen to someone else. Or if she was doing it because I had lived and Jack hadn't. Or was it because she was a part of us now, inextricably tied to me and Grace and Cole and the rest?

Ultimately, it didn't really matter why she was here, or why she was saying what she was saying. Because I knew she was right.

• COLE •

I looked up when I heard the raised voices in the kitchen; Grace and I exchanged looks. She got up and came to sit across from me at the table, holding a glass of water and a few pills in her hand. She swallowed the pills and set the glass down. The entire process seemed to take a lot of effort, but I didn't say anything, because she hadn't. She had dark smudges under her eyes and her cheeks were bright red with a rising temperature. She looked exhausted.

In the other room, Sam's and Isabel's voices were raised. I felt the tension in the air, stretched between all of us tight as wires.

“I can't believe this is happening,” I said.

Grace asked, “Cole? Do you know what will happen when people find out you're here? Do you mind me asking?” The way she asked it was completely frank and simple. No judgment about my famous face.

I shook my head. “I don't know. My family won't care. They gave up on me a long time ago. But the media will care.” I thought about those girls snapping photos of me on their cell phones. “The media will love it. It would be a lot of attention for Mercy Falls.”

Grace exhaled and laid a hand on her stomach, carefully, like she was afraid of crushing her skin. Had she looked like that earlier?

Grace asked, “Do you want to be found?”

I raised an eyebrow at her.

“Ah,” she said. She considered this. “I guess Beck thought you would be a wolf more.”

“Beck thought I was going to kill myself,” I said. “I don't think he thought about it any more than that. He was trying to save me.”

In the other room, Sam said something inaudible. Isabel said, “I know you and Grace talk about everything else, so why not that?”

Just then, when she said that, the way she said it, like the knowledge was painful, made it seem like Isabel had a crush on Sam. The possibility of that gave me a weird, numb feeling.

Grace just looked at me. She had to have heard it. But she kept her reaction to herself.

Isabel and Sam came into the living room then, Sam looking hangdog, Isabel looking frustrated. Sam came over behind Grace's chair and slid a hand onto her neck. It was a simple gesture that didn't say
possession
so much as
connection
. Isabel's eyes were on that hand, the same way I guess mine were.

I closed my eyes and opened them again. In between, I saw Victor. And I just couldn't do it anymore — be conscious.

“I'm going to bed,” I said.

Isabel and Sam stared at each other again, a silent argument still waging, and then Isabel said, “I'm leaving. Grace? Rachel said you were staying at my place. I told them you were, too, but I know they didn't believe me. Are you really staying here tonight?”

Grace just reached up and held Sam's wrist.

“So it comes down to me being the voice of reason,” Isabel snapped. “How ironic. The unlistened-to voice of reason.”

She stormed out. I waited a second, and then I followed her out into the black night, catching up with her by the door of her white SUV, the night air cold enough to burn the back of my throat.

“What?” she said. “Just,
what
, Cole?”

I guess I was still raw from hearing her voice when she talked to Sam. “Why are you doing that to him?”

“To Sam? He needs it. Nobody else is telling him.” She stood there, furious, and now that I'd seen her crying on her bed, it was easy to see that the same emotions were chewing her up inside right now, only she never let them out.

“And who's telling you?” I asked.

Isabel just looked at me. “Believe me, I do it to myself all the time.”

“I believe you,” I said.

For a second, she looked like she was going to cry again, and then she got into the driver's seat and jerked the door shut behind her. She didn't look at me as she reversed out of the driveway. I stood in the driveway, gazing after where she'd gone, the cold wind tugging at me without enough force to change me.

Everything was ruined, and everything was wrong, and not being able to shift should've been the end of the world. But instead, for once, it was okay.

• SAM •

Here we were again, always saying good-bye.

Grace lay on my bed, flat on her back, knees up. Her T-shirt had pulled up just a little, revealing a few inches of her pale belly. Her blond hair was spread out on one side of her head as if she were flying through the air or floating in the water. I stood by the light switch, looking at her and just … wanting.

“Don't turn it off yet,” Grace said, her voice a little strange. “Just come sit with me for a little bit. I don't want to sleep yet.”

I turned off the light, anyway — in the sudden darkness, Grace made an annoyed noise — and then I leaned down to hit a switch, turning on a string of Christmas lights stapled around the ceiling. They sparkled through the strange shapes made by the slowly spinning birds, and cast moving shadows, like firelight, across Grace's face. Her noise of annoyance changed to one of wonder.

“It's like …” she started, but didn't finish.

I joined her on the bed, sitting cross-legged next to her instead of lying down. “Like what?” I asked, running the back of my fingers across her stomach.

“Mmmm,” said Grace, half closing her eyes.

“Like what?” I asked again.

“Like looking at the stars,” she said. “With a giant flock of birds flying past.”

I sighed.

“Sam, I really want to buy a red coffeepot, if they exist,” Grace said.

“I'll find you one,” I said, and laid my hand flat on her belly; her skin was shockingly hot against my hand. Isabel had told me to ask Grace how she felt. To not wait for her to tell me, because she wouldn't until it was too late. Because she didn't want to hurt me.

“Grace?” I said, removing my hand, scared.

Her eyes drifted from the birds spiraling slowly above us to my face. She caught my hand and moved it so that our hands cupped around each other, her fingertips on my lifeline and mine on hers. “What?” When she spoke, her breath smelled both copper and medicinal; blood and acetaminophen.

I knew I should ask her what was happening, but I wanted just one more minute of peace. One more moment before we faced the truth. So I asked a question that I knew, now, had no correct answer. A question that belonged to a different couple, with a different future. “When we're married, can we go to the ocean? I've never been.”

“When we're married,” she said, and it didn't sound like a lie, though her voice was soft and sad, “we can go to all the oceans. Just to say that we did.”

I lay down beside her, our hands still in a knot on her stomach, shoulder to shoulder, and together we looked up through
the flock of happy memories flying above us, caught in this room. The Christmas lights winked above us; when the swaying wings eclipsed the bulbs, it made me feel like we were moving, rocking on a giant boat, looking up at unfamiliar constellations.

It was time.

I closed my eyes. “What is happening with you?”

Grace was quiet for so long that I started to doubt that I'd said my question out loud. Then she said, “I don't want to go to sleep. I'm afraid to go to sleep.”

My heart didn't so much skip a beat as slow to a crawl. “What does it feel like?”

“It hurts to talk,” she whispered. “And my stomach — it really …” She laid my hand flat on her stomach and then put her hand on top of mine. “Sam, I'm afraid.”

It almost hurt too much to speak after her confession. I said, softly, because it was all I could manage, “It's from the wolves. Do you think you caught it from that wolf, somehow?”

“I think it
is
a wolf,” Grace said. “I think it's the wolf that I never was. That's what it feels like. It feels like I want to shift, but I never do.”

My mind riffled rapidly through everything I'd ever heard about the wolves and our brilliantly destructive disease, but there was no precedent for this. Grace was the only one of her kind.

“Tell me,” she said, “do you still feel it? The wolf inside you? Or is it gone now?”

I sighed and leaned to rest my forehead against her cheek. Of course it was still there. Of course it was. “Grace, I'm going to take you to the hospital. We'll make them find out what's
wrong with you. I don't care what we have to tell them to make them believe.”

Grace said, “I don't want to die in a hospital.”

“You're not going to die,” I told her, lifting my head to look at her. “I'm not done writing songs about you yet.”

Her mouth smiled on one side, and then she tugged me down so she could rest her head on my chest as she closed her eyes.

I didn't close mine. I watched her and I watched the birds' shadows flit across her face, and I … wanted. I wanted more happy memories to hang up on the ceiling, so many happy memories with this girl that they would crowd the ceiling and flap out into the hall and burst out of the house.

An hour later, Grace started throwing up blood.

I couldn't call 911 and help her at the same time, so I left her curled up against the hallway wall, a thin trail of her own blood showing our path from the bedroom, while I stood in the doorway with the phone, never taking my eyes off her.

Cole — I didn't remember calling for him — appeared at the top of the stairs and silently brought towels.

“Sam,” Grace said, voice miserable and thin, “my hair.”

It was the smallest thing in the world, blood on the ends of her hair. It was the biggest thing in the world, her being out of control. While Cole helped Grace press a towel to her nose and mouth, I clumsily pulled her hair back into a ponytail, out of the way. Then, when we heard the ambulance pull into the drive, we helped her to her feet and tried to get her downstairs without her throwing up again. The birds fluttered and flapped around us as we hurried out, like they wanted to come with us, but their strings were too short.