Still Life With Shape-Shifter

by Sharon Shinn

  I make a strangled noise and her laughter peals out again. “It just sounds so ridiculous!” I exclaim. “And a little creepy! He sniffed you!”

  “And he saw the wound in my side and he investigated that and then he let me know I should settle down and wait for him for a while—”

  “How? How did he let you know that?”

  She makes a helpless gesture. “I can’t explain it. I just knew. So I curled up under one of the picnic tables and waited for him. And pretty soon he came back with a squirrel he’d caught, and we had a meal.”

  “So—your very first date and he takes you out to dinner,” I say, though part of me wants to gag.

  She smiles. “I guess so. And then over the next couple of days we hunted together—and played together—and explored the park—and—I don’t know how to explain it. We just got along.”

  “Without words. Without faces.”

  “Well, we had faces. Just furry ones.”

  “My mistake.”

  “But my side was still bothering me, and it was getting really cold, so William wanted me to spend a few nights someplace more protected than the park. So he took me to Maria’s house.”

  I’m bewildered. “Who’s Maria?”

  “His brother’s girlfriend. Actually, they’re married now.”

  “Is she a shape-shifter, too?”

  “No, but his brother is.”

  I try to make the question sound casual. “Why didn’t you just come here if you needed some R&R?”

  Her smile is mischievous. “I wasn’t sure I was ready to let you meet him yet. But I was dying to meet his family.”

  “What did William tell them about you?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think he told Maria anything. I just showed up at her door and she put out a blanket and some food, and I spent a few nights there until I felt stronger, then I left.”

  “So she just thought you were a stray dog she was taking in?”

  “I guess so. But—” She makes a face. “She talked to me like I was a person. Like she knew I could understand her. So I think she suspected. Well, she’s been around William’s family for ten or fifteen years, so she understands about shape-shifters.”

  “Gee, maybe I should meet her,” I say, my voice dry. “I’d love to know an ordinary person who understands about shape-shifters.”

  Ann looks intrigued. “Maybe you could. William says she’s really easy to talk to, and he doesn’t usually find people easy to talk to.”

  “And of course I’d love to meet William one day. Even before I meet Maria,” I say.

  “Yeah, I want you to, but—I know you’ll think he’s odd.”

  I reach over to flick the tip of her nose. Small and cute and upturned and human. When she’s in canine form, it’s small and cute and black and inhuman. “I think you’re odd, and I like you,” I say.

  “You have to like me,” she says. “You’re my sister.”

  “But back to William. When did you both decide the time was finally right to take human shape and get to know each other that way? And was that weird? Like, you seemed different than you thought you’d be?”

  She thinks that over. “I guess we’d known each other two months before we took human shape together. He can change at will, like I can—which isn’t the case all the time, apparently. He said his brother never had a choice about changing—just one day he could feel the pressure in him, and he’d have to shift. That’d be hard, I think.”

  “Yes, yes, but get to the good part. So you became human—”

  Her face is wreathed in smiles. “And he was cute. And we talked. And we held hands. And we kissed. And—” She hesitates, but her smile grows wider. “And stuff. And it was like I’d already known him half my life.”

  “It didn’t seem strange? No awkward moments? I’d think it would be like meeting a pen pal for the first time. You think you know him, but then it turns out you don’t like the tone of his voice or the way he laughs or he’s shorter than you thought he’d be. Or something.”

  “Yeah, I guess it might happen that way but—it didn’t.” She shrugs again. “We already knew each other.”

  I’ve tried not to let myself think about what she meant when she said they kissed and stuff, but the girl is twenty years old. An adult, and a most adventurous one at that. “So you’ve had sex with him,” I say, keeping my voice composed. “I hope you remembered to use a condom.”

  She laughs so much that it’s a minute before she can answer me. “Melanie, we had sex when we were animals, too, and we weren’t using a condom then.”

  I put my hands over my face as if I can block out the images. “Ugh! No! Gross, don’t tell me that, I don’t want those pictures in my head—la-la-la, I can’t hear you—”

  She’s laughing again, even harder. “Well, you’re the one who brought it up!”

  “I was just trying to be the responsible older sister—” A sudden thought stops me midjustification. “Wait. If you’re having sex without protection—could you get pregnant? Oh God, if you’re pregnant when you’re a husky, will you have—will you have puppies? This is too weird. I can’t get my mind around it. Of course, I’ll help you, I’ll do whatever I can but—I mean, if I have to raise a litter of half-human puppies, I don’t think I can move far enough out into the country to keep people from wondering.”

  Now the tears are streaming down her face as she gives in to hysteria. Me, I’m so flummoxed at this new notion that I can’t bother to be amused or horrified. I’m just stunned. What on Earth will I do?

  “Shape-shifters obviously manage to get pregnant and have babies,” she finally says when she has herself back under control, though she’s hiccuping a little. “Or there’d never be any more shape-shifters. But I won’t get pregnant.”

  “If you’re having sex—”

  “William had a vasectomy last summer after his sister had a little girl. He figured they didn’t need any more kids in the family. So we don’t have to worry about it.”

  “He told you he had a vasectomy,” I correct her darkly. Some men will say anything to convince a girl to sleep with them.

  “I believe him.”

  But then my attention is caught by what she just said. “His sister had a baby? Is his sister a shape-shifter? Is the baby?”

  “The baby—they don’t know yet. The sister was, but she’s dead.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “William doesn’t talk about it. I think she was killed in an accident or something.”

  “So who’s raising the little girl? The dad? Is he a shape-shifter?”

  “The dad doesn’t seem to be in the picture. William’s brother and sister-in-law—”

  “Maria?”

  “Right. They’ve got the baby. I haven’t met her yet. I haven’t met anyone but Maria—and it wasn’t like she actually realized she was meeting me.”

  “So his family members don’t know about you?”

  “They know he’s spending time with me. We just haven’t bothered with formal introductions.”

  I take a deep breath. “Well. I would love to meet William anytime you want to bring him by the house. Or—whatever. I could meet you both at a park somewhere if he’d be more comfortable in that environment.” I hear a certain doubt creep into my voice. “Of course, I’d prefer to meet him in human shape, since I don’t have the ability to communicate with animals, but if that’s too difficult for him—”

  She giggles again. “Yes, I think it would be best if he was a man when I introduced you. I’ll see what he says. I’d like you to get to know him.”

  “Good. Looking forward to it.” And then I remember. “God—no—wait, it might not be safe for him to come to the house!”

  Her eyes widen. “What? Why? What’s wrong with the house?”

  I rub my forehead and glance at the clock. Impossible, but it’s just past 11 p.m. I feel like I have lived through a hundred lifetimes in this single day, and it’s not even midnight yet. “Ther
e’s this—guy. He showed up today. He’s a reporter, he wants to write a book about shape-shifters. He’s somehow gotten it into his head that they exist—and he thinks you’re one of them.”

  “Cool!” she exclaims.

  I can’t have heard her right. “Cool? It’s terrifying!”

  She shrugs. “Why? So someone finds out I’m a shape-shifter. So what?”

  Am I crazy? All these years have I poured every ounce of my energy into protecting Ann, concealing Ann, trying to keep the world from discovering her glorious, impossible secret—but for no reason? Is there really no danger? Is there really no worry? “I’m afraid of what people will do to you if they find out,” I say quietly. “We live in a world where people are murdered simply for being gay, and I’m willing to bet there are a lot more homosexuals than shape-shifters. Even if you weren’t rounded up by the government for being some kind of alien life-form, I think your friends and neighbors would make your life a living hell.”

  She shrugs again and stretches her legs out. She looks nonchalant, even sleepy. “I don’t really have friends and neighbors. If people are mean to me, I’ll just go away.”

  I feel a chill bloom around my heart and blow frost along the curved inner planes of my ribs. But maybe she doesn’t mean what I think she means. “You haven’t been human much lately,” I say casually. “Are you finding it more comfortable to stay in animal shape?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she says drowsily. “Everything’s easier when I’m a dog. I have more energy—I can get around more quickly—I don’t really notice the heat or the cold. I don’t know that I’d ever be human again if it wasn’t for you.”

  And now my heart freezes so fast the next time it attempts to beat it cracks right in half. “Oh dear,” I answer, still struggling to keep my voice light. “Now I’ll feel selfish and whiny if I say, ‘But pleeeeease remember to be human every few months, Ann, because I miss you so much!’ I hate to be a bother.”

  She gives a sleepy chuckle and lifts one leg to prod me with her foot. “Silly. Of course I want to see you. I’ll always come home to visit, no matter how long I’m gone. Don’t you worry about that.”

  I’ll always worry. No matter what you say. Whether you’re gone a day or a decade, I will spend every minute of that time worrying. Worrying about you is exactly what makes me human. “All right, then,” I say, trying to sound brisk and cheerful. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now it looks to me like you’re about to fall asleep right where you’re sitting. Go to bed. I’ll let Debbie know I won’t be in the office tomorrow, and we can hang out together and talk about sister stuff.”

  She yawns and pushes herself to a more upright position. “Sounds good. See you in the morning.”

  She ambles off to the second bedroom, the one the two of us shared when Gwen and our father still lived in the house. I send a text message to Debbie, then lock up the house. I’m so tired I do believe I might dissolve into a pile of quivering atoms the minute I stop concentrating on my various tasks. Still, after I’ve brushed my teeth and changed into my pajamas, I can’t resist creeping into Ann’s room and proving to myself one more time that she’s alive and she’s here.

  She’s fallen asleep with the night-light on, and I can just make out her features. Without her sunny personality to animate her face, she looks even more gaunt; her body is a bag of bones under the thin cover. I try to use cold reason to argue away my new spike of fear. She seemed perfectly healthy when you were talking. She didn’t seem to be lethargic or in pain. She’s been eating raw squirrels and other people’s trash! No wonder she’s thin. She’s just fine.

  But I can’t seem to get out of the habit of looking at Ann and imagining her surrounded by perils. She’s a grown woman now—a woman with a lover who sounds far better equipped to watch over her than I’ve ever been—so I know it is time for me to resign my post as her chief caretaker and guardian. But still I stand there, another five minutes, another ten, trying to guess the content of her dreams by the fleeting expressions on her face, and wondering how in the world I’ll get by if anything ever happens to Ann.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I’m making breakfast the next morning, still in my pajamas, when the phone rings. I’m not surprised to hear Debbie’s voice.

  “Oh no you will not,” she says in her hopelessly bad approximation of ghetto speak. “You will not be sending me texts at midnight saying you’ll talk to me in a few days when there is so much to talk about right now.”

  I cradle the phone between my ear and my shoulder so I can open the microwave and check on the bacon. Still not done. “Yeah, I thought that wouldn’t appease you.”

  “So who was that guy? At Corinna’s last night? Were you on a date that you didn’t tell me about? How could there be anything in your life you don’t tell me about? We have no secrets, remember? Since we were fifteen? So tell me.”

  “He’s a reporter. He wants to write a book about shape-shifters. He thinks Ann’s one.”

  Her voice instantly drops to a register of dread and awe. “Holy Mother of God.” See? Maybe I’m not crazy. Maybe anyone with any sense would realize just how terrifying this development could be. “What did you tell him?”

  “That he shouldn’t be ridiculous, there’s no such thing as shape-shifters.”

  “So why did you have dinner with him?”

  Ann wanders into the kitchen just then, barefoot, her hair wet from the shower. She’s wearing the nightgown I gave her for Christmas last year, and it hangs on her body as if she has the contours of a plank of lumber. The damp hair throws her jaw and cheekbones into sharp relief. She could model for an anatomy class that was too squeamish to examine actual skeletons.

  I feel my throat close up with concern, but I try to focus on the conversation. “That’s kind of a long story. Part of what I’ll tell you next time I see you.”

  “Is part of the story the fact that he’s really cute?”

  That makes me laugh. “I guess so. Look, I’ll talk to you later. Ann’s eating pancake batter out of the bowl, and I need to take a shower and figure out how to spend the day.”

  “Are you coming to work tomorrow?”

  “Depends. I’ll let you know in the morning.”

  I hang up and swat Ann’s hand away from the mixing bowl, though in truth I’m glad to see she has an appetite. “Here. I know you’re used to eating your meals raw, but here’s a whole stack of pancakes already cooked that I’ve kept warm in the oven.”

  “It smells wonderful. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had bacon.”

  We eat breakfast and talk about what we want to do today. Well, mostly I make suggestions and she nods agreeably; clearly she doesn’t have any preferences. I think if I’d been isolated from society and culture for two months, I’d have a whole list of activities I’d be eager to engage in, from seeing movies to shopping for clothes. But it’s obviously pointless to upgrade a wardrobe she rarely uses—equally pointless to go out for a pedicure when she’ll be running barefoot through the wild in a few days—and I can’t imagine that a picnic in the park would hold much allure for someone who eats all her meals outdoors.

  We’re scraping off the plates and loading up the dishwasher when she has an inspiration. “Let’s look through the photo boxes,” she says. “We always say we’re going to sort them and put them into albums. So let’s do it.”

  “Ooooh, excellent idea,” I reply, drying my hands on a dish towel. “They’re all in three plastic bins in the closet in my room—the ones with red lids. You want to get them out while I take a shower? Just set them on the living-room floor so we can take up as much space as we need.”

  Within the hour, we’ve spread pictures and report cards and letters and other random mementos all over the central rug and the hardwood border of the living room, and we’re trying to create piles of photos that represent a rough time line of our lives. In one stack go all the images of our father and me before Gwen and Ann showed up. In another are the photographs snapped after Ann h
ad been born but we still had a house in Kirkwood. There are three groupings for our lives since we moved to Dagmar—early ones that include Gwen and our father, later ones in which she is mostly absent and he is clearly fading, and the most recent ones, in which both of them, for different reasons, are missing altogether.

  Ann picks up a photo from that first Dagmar stack, a picture of the four of us in front of a Christmas tree when she was six and I was sixteen. Ann, as always, looks like she’s just run inside after some joyful event that she can’t wait to tell us about; she’s bursting with health and excitement. Gwen has one hand on Ann’s head, one arm wrapped around my shoulders. She’s smiling, too, and she exudes a warmth and affectionate cheer that, by this time, I had come to realize was false—or, if not false, wholly unreliable. My father and I wear matching expressions of tension and desperate hope. We’d been in Dagmar about a year when this shot was taken (though I have no idea who operated the camera; so few outsiders ever set foot inside the house). We still believed that it might be possible to live a functional, if not entirely ordinary, existence in our new home—that we could control Gwen’s increasingly erratic behavior, conceal Ann’s bizarre condition, hold down jobs, finish school, carry on like normal people—but we were starting to fear that we could be wrong. Not that we ever discussed our situation out loud. We couldn’t. We didn’t have the words.

  Ann is quiet for such a long time, as she studies our faces, that I finally have to prompt her. “What are you thinking?”

  “Wondering about my mom. Do you think she’s still alive?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s been nine years since we’ve seen her, hasn’t it?”

  Ann nods slowly, still staring at the photo. “You can’t tell, just by looking at her face.”

  “Can’t tell what? That she’s a shape-shifter?”

  “That she’s the kind of person who’d leave. She looks like she’d hold on forever if she loved you.”

  “I think she did love you,” I say softly. “I think she loved you, and Daddy, and even me.”

  Ann lays the picture down. Her face is stern. “Not enough, obviously.”