Springing through the air, I extend my body, and at the same moment the male flings the meat outside. I swipe the air with my paw and feel my nails slice through the brown one’s face, her blood splashing onto my teeth and spraying my tongue. I push the door with my paws, and it easily opens; finally I’m outside, free. As I ravage the first piece of meat, I can hear her screams of agony like wisps of a breeze around my ears. They’re recognized, but unimportant. Nothing is as important as my hunger.
I barely look up when I hear the commotion behind me. Two bodies fall into the silver machine next to me, and I watch them start to roll then speed away, making thick tracks in the fresh snow. That means the other two still remain in the house, but in the distance I see a fox getting too close to the other piece of meat. How dare he sniff around my food?
One howl sends him on his way so I can eat my second meal slowly. And when I’m done I can rest in a soft, cool bed of snow.
I don’t make a final decision until I walk into Arla’s hospital room the next morning and overhear her doctor talking to her father.
“Your daughter’s very lucky, Louis,” the doctor says. “A millimeter higher, and she would’ve lost her eye.”
“Will she be okay?” Louis asks, his voice trembling.
“She’ll have a scar, which should fade, but no, there won’t be any permanent damage.”
Courageously, Arla smiles when I walk into the room followed by the others. Her father gives her a hug and multiple kisses on her face and leaves the room to avoid breaking down in front of her friends.
On the way over Archie explained to me that after Caleb whisked Arla off to the hospital, I finished eating and spent the rest of the night sleeping outside while he and Nadine locked themselves in the bathroom of the cabin. They found me in the morning naked, but uncursed, so to speak.
“I told my father that I was attacked by a cougar or a mountain lion, I couldn’t tell which,” Arla explains. “Thanks to Lars and the Three W, he believed me.”
He believed you because it isn’t that far from the truth.
“Guess we’ll have to get you a stronger cage for next month,” Arla jokes.
I smile along with the rest of them, but I know that next month is going to be different. That’s when I’m going to follow Luba’s instructions and give in to my father’s wishes so I can put an end to this curse once and for all.
Chapter 27
When I was seven years old, my father and I had our very first tea party.
We invited Raggedy Ann and Andy, Winnie the Pooh, Tweety Bird, and Mr. Pinkerton, my stuffed pink elephant. I wore my mother’s costume jewelry, her favorite wide-brimmed hat, the white one with navy trim, and a pair of white lace gloves that my father bought for me because he said they looked so lonely in the store window without a little girl’s hands to hold.
I remember it was a Tuesday.
“Why are we having a tea party on a Tuesday, Daddy?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we wait until Saturday? That’s the most special day of the week.”
“Tuesday is just as special as a Saturday, Dominy,” he said, “when you spend it with someone you love.”
I always imagined that my daughter would have special moments like that with my dad too, but she’ll have to be content with hearing the stories. That is if I ever decide to have a child. I’ve come to learn rather quickly that future plans, more often than not, get broken. The people you assume you’ll grow old with don’t always wind up being a part of your life for as long as you’d like. My mother, Jess, and now my father.
After Arla’s accident—let me rephrase that, after I assaulted and almost blinded my friend—it became apparent that this curse will not be contained, conquered, or even controlled. No matter what tactic we try, no matter what approach we take, in the end the spell I’m under proves to be stronger and more resilient. I’ve given in, and now it’s time to give up.
I’ve tried to deal with it. I’ve tried to embrace this affliction that’s been thrust upon me, and a part of me was starting to believe I could find a balance, that I could exist like The Weeping Lady and straddle both worlds, only to persevere year after year after year. It might not be an ideal life, but it would be manageable. But that was an incredibly unrealistic—foolhardy I think is the right word; yes, that was a foolhardy expectation. So as much as it frightens me, I have no other choice but to agree with my father. The only way to move forward is to sever ties with the past.
I hate letting Luba think she’s won, that she will become victorious. What I hate even more is that I’ll be losing my connection to Jess.
Having my best friend, my sister, back in my world after I thought she had been ripped from my life forever was a true godsend. It’s not something I believed I was worthy of, but obviously someone or something did, because she returned to me. When we break the curse and I become fully human again, we’ll be on different sides of the spiritual spectrum, and, according to what Jess told me, communication will be impossible. It’s unfortunate, but that’s the way it has to be.
And that’s why my father has to die by my hand.
He’s been resolved to it since the first day I told him about Luba’s remedy; it’s taken me quite a bit longer. I’m still not completely sold on the idea, but the next full moon is only a week away, and I can’t think of a better exit strategy. The only person I’ve told is Caleb. His immediate silence told me that his heart thought it was the only solution. Of course he tried to come up with another solution and even thought that Jess might be able to intervene. He doesn’t know that I’ve seen her when I’m untransformed, only when I’ve been a wolf. But I reminded him that she wasn’t able to prevent me from hurting Arla, so it doesn’t seem like she can get involved in or spoil another spiritual being’s agenda.
Trust me, I’ve thought about everything, and I keep coming back to the simplest solution. And my resolve is getting stronger. It’s only when I see my brother watching my father that my conviction falters. Especially when I know that he suspects something.
“Dad, what are you doing?” Barnaby asks.
I’m coming out of the bathroom, and Barnaby is standing at my father’s door. I don’t have to look inside to know that my father is putting his affairs in order. He’s been doing it for the past few weeks, ever since I told him we would do things his way. I’ve caught him organizing his personal documents, labeling family heirlooms, even separating his clothes into different groupings: clothes that were his father’s, clothes to keep for Barnaby or Caleb, and clothes to donate to charity.
“Just doing a bit of spring cleaning, Barn,” I hear him say, “getting rid of old junk mail.”
“Can I help?”
I step closer to the banister so I can look into my dad’s bedroom and see him take a moment before answering my brother.
“Sure, come on in.”
Barnaby bounces on my dad’s bed, thinking he’s going to help our father. Maybe a part of him thinks that this will be a nice memory that they can share when they get older and Barnaby’s waiting for his wife to deliver their first child. He has no idea that he’s walking into a morgue to have a final visit with a dead man.
A few days later and the roles are reversed when we go visit my mother, just my father and me. I don’t want to tag along, but my father insists. Could be that he wants to spend as much time as possible with me before the next full moon? Could be that he needs moral support to visit his wife when he informs her that she’ll soon be his widow?
Looks like Essie’s got a touch of spring fever; she looks like her younger sister. Her hair’s done, she’s sporting softer makeup, and she’s wearing a cute sweater set in tangerine. Even if my father wasn’t preoccupied he still wouldn’t notice, but I do.
“Hi, Essie, you look amazing.”
“Thank you, sweetie,” she replies. “I’ve decided it’s time to change my attitude with a whole new look compliments of my brother-in-law, Chester. He’s my husband’s younger brother, God rest his soul. My hus
band, not Chester. My husband’s gone seven years this past February; Chester’s still alive and kicking and an accountant at Dillard’s. He told me it’s high time I got out there and snag me another fish before Judgment Day comes and all the oceans dry up. So what do you think? Do I look age appropriate?”
Taking two fire engine-red index cards from Essie’s freshly manicured hands, I tell her she’s the best-dressed forty-year-old in Weeping Water. Which I hope is an appropriate compliment for a woman her age. By the way she blushes, I trust that it is.
“Sheriff,” Essie crows, “you got yourself an angel.”
You have no idea how wrong you are Essie.
“Don’t I know it,” my father says, contradicting my silent thought.
Just as we turn to leave, Essie tugs on my T-shirt. Doing her best imitation of a whisper, she asks, “Any luck finding out more info on you know who and her son?”
Shaking my head, I reply, “Unfortunately not. Seems like they both vanished into thin air.”
“Well, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open,” Essie promises. “And if I hear anything I’ll let you know.”
I think I know what Dr. Frankenstein felt like. I may have created a little monster in Essie. Oh well, hopefully she’ll find a new man and she’ll treat me with her usual apathetic charm once again.
I do a little jog to catch up with my father and meet him just as he’s entering my mother’s room. He grabs my hand like he used to when I was little to give me extra strength and encouragement, and we enter her room together. This time around I think he’s holding my hand for purely selfish reasons; he’s the one who needs support.
Watching my father sit next to my mother’s bed, holding her hand, caressing it absentmindedly, I feel like a voyeur, like I’m intruding on a very intimate moment. Several times I try to think of an excuse to leave, but we both know it would be a sham on my part, and I don’t want to disappoint my father; for whatever reason he wants me here. It’s only when we’re about to leave that I understand why.
Like every other time I’ve come to visit my mother with my father, he never leaves without kissing her on the lips and whispering in her ear. So when he leans over to kiss her I don’t expect anything different until I hear him speak.
“I’m sorry, Suzanne, this has all been my fault.”
He presses her hand to his lips and kisses her one more time, then gently lays her hand down on the bed and wipes his tears from her skin. Removing every trace of himself from her body. Part of me wants to turn and stare out the window so I don’t intrude, but the other part of me, the part that wins out doesn’t turn away. I’m ashamed not because I’m bearing witness to such tenderness, but because I’ve been a fraud.
Caleb and I joke about having a connection, an invisible string that unites the two of us, but our relationship is nothing compared to the love that exists between my parents. Looking at my father gaze at my mother, I see that it doesn’t matter that she can’t see him; it doesn’t matter that she’s barely alive and he’s almost dead. Their string is made of a material that will never break. I pray that one day I’ll really know what it feels like to have a person tug on the other end of my string like that.
“I love you.”
It takes me a few moments to realize that my father is talking to me.
“I don’t think I can do this.”
Nadine’s cabin is solemnly quiet, as if nature has decided to hold its tongue and offer us the gift of solitude. The sky outside is turning a deep shade of blue and in a few moments moonlight will spill into the room and into my soul.
“Yes, you can,” my father replies. “Because you know it’s the right thing to do.”
“How can this be the right thing?! How can this be anything other than a terrible mistake?!”
Looking into my father’s eyes is usually like looking into a mirror, but not now. Now I see only peace and acceptance.
“No, this is the only way to correct a terrible mistake, my mistake,” he says. “I know it’s going to be difficult for you, but in time . . . in time you’ll understand that you did the only thing you could do, the only thing that I wanted you to do.”
I can feel the warmth of the moon on the back of my neck, and I know our time is running out. I don’t want to spend the last few moments I have with my father yelling and screaming and trying to convince him to change his mind, because I know it’ll be a waste of time. So I make a decision to use the time we have left properly and tell him what I hope he wants to hear.
“My favorite toy is the dollhouse you made for me when I was ten.”
The moonglow is burning a hole in my neck.
“My favorite holiday was when I was twelve and had the chicken pox on New Year’s Eve and you let me stay up with you to watch the ball drop.”
I can feel the burning fire course through my veins, but I don’t think about it; I just look into my father’s eyes, wet with tears like a beautiful, calm ocean.
“My favorite memory is when I was fourteen, and you told me I didn’t need makeup to look beautiful because I had Mommy’s smile.”
My body twitches as my bones snap into new positions. There’s no more time left; my screams are already turning into howls. I finally find the strength to say the words I should have said to my father a long time ago.
“I love you, Daddy!”
When I wake up I keep my eyes closed because I want to imagine it’s all been a dream. Finally, I open my eyes, and I have no choice but to accept the nightmare. My father’s lying next to me. His beautiful eyes are still wide open, but the left side of his face is torn off. There’s a huge gaping hole where his stomach should be, and I turn away before I can examine his body any further.
Clutching my stomach I wait for the vomit to explode from my body.
But it never comes.
Covering my mouth I wait for the screams to spill out of my throat.
But they never come.
Falling to my knees I wait for the tears to pour down my face.
But they never come.
The only thing that comes is something unexpected and frightening and honest.
An overwhelming sense of relief.
Chapter 28
I don’t remember much about my father’s funeral.
I’m sure it was well-attended because I was surrounded by crowds of people. I remember being hugged by strangers, shaking hands with men in uniforms, watching two men take a very long time to fold the American flag and then present it to me and Barnaby. Most of the time, I just sat in the front row of the funeral parlor next to my brother and told people that I was okay. I had no idea if I was telling the truth.
At the time I remember thinking that this was completely surreal; it shouldn’t be happening, because it couldn’t possibly have been his time to die. But then the more logical, rational part of my brain contradicted me. It was his time, and more than that it was the time that he chose. Knowing that made the aftermath bearable.
When my father’s body was found it became official, at least in the pages of the Three W and according to the subsequent rumor that instantaneously spread through town, that Weeping Water had its very own serial killer in the form of a wild animal. Whether the culprit was a cougar, mountain lion, or a wolf, no one could agree, but as the newly minted sheriff, Louis Bergeron was going to enforce a curfew on the area outside of town especially near the low hills and formally request state intervention and extra funding to find this predator and kill it. He valiantly fought back tears when he told the local TV news reporter that he would avenge his friend’s death.
Louis assumed my father had been investigating a disturbance at the Jaffe cabin and had been taken by surprise by this “devil thing” before he could call in for backup. All of that is in the report he filed, including his reference to the “devil thing.” I could tap him on the shoulder and whisper “Too late!” but Louis has already rallied a posse to find this killer. I don’t think he or anyone would hear or comprehend my comment. For n
ow I’ll keep quiet and live under his roof with Barnaby as my father stipulated in his will. Someday the time will come for me to give a full confession to the authorities, but that time isn’t now.
Now is the time for penance.
At the repast, my friends and I gathered in my room away from the crowd of well-wishers and would-be bounty hunters. My friends were remarkably kind and understanding. They all suspected what had actually transpired the night of my last transformation, and to spare me the necessity of confirming their suspicions, Caleb did it for me. He’s been true to his word and has supported me every step of the way. So have my friends.
Caleb said that once my father knew the only way for the curse to be reversed was for him to die at my hand, he had made up his mind that that’s how it was going to be done. Archie and Arla agreed that that’s what fathers do; they protect their children at all cost even if it means giving up their own lives. Nadine, ever practical, added that my father felt the need to take responsibility for his own actions.
Archie’s the only one who’s brave enough to ask me if I remember anything. I don’t. We all acknowledge that that’s a blessing in itself.
Once that unpleasant issue is brushed aside, the rest of them, including Caleb, do what they always do, which is talk about this werewolf as if it’s separate from me, another entity. They don’t realize or can’t realize or simply refuse to understand that we were joined together; we were one and the same, so this werewolf didn’t kill my father; I did. No one, not even Archie, comes right out and says it that plainly, and for that I’m even more grateful, because it’s something I keep trying to forget myself.
But I’ll never forget it, of course. How could I? It’s always going to be there, as strong and as obvious as the invisible string that connects me to my father. Just like the ones that connect me to Caleb and Jess and all my friends. But the interesting thing about an invisible string is that even though it’s always there when you need to tug on it, its invisibility makes it very convenient to forget it exists if the connection becomes too painful.
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