Still Life With Shape-Shifter

by Sharon Shinn

  The centerpiece of the image was me. I was leaning with my spine against the handrail of the bridge, my elbows resting on top of it; my head was flung back, my eyes were closed, and I was obviously glorying in the feel of sunlight on my face. My hair was so long that it trailed over the railing. We’d just come back from an afternoon in town, so I was dressed a bit more nicely than usual, in a sundress and sandals. I probably even had makeup on though you couldn’t tell it from the sketch.

  I hadn’t really been posing. I’d simply paused there on the bridge to rest after the walk from the bus stop through the park. Cooper had said, “Stay like that for a moment,” and pulled out a slip of paper and a pencil. He’d worked on the bigger image for a couple of weeks, never letting me look at it until it was done. I loved it.

  After Crystal had studied the piece for a few minutes, she said, “I like that. The detail is incredible. That’s you, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Cooper drew it.”

  “He did? He’s really good. Is he taking classes?”

  To this point, I hadn’t given her much information about Cooper except his name. It didn’t seem like it would be hard to conceal the truth from her. She wasn’t a very curious girl. I shook my head. “No. He’s working, trying to save money.” This was true as far as it went. He’d found another part-time job, this time with a landscaping company that was also willing to pay its workers in cash. I thought there was probably a vast network of people in this country who were existing under the radar, paying no taxes, registered in no census, ghosts that made no mark on the official system at all.

  “Does he work in other media?”

  It had been hard enough to keep paper dry and find a place to store the soft-leaded pencils in the tent. Working in oil or watercolor had been out of the question. “Not so far, but I think he’d like to someday.”

  “He ought to learn how to make an etching. Looks like a style that would suit him.”

  “I’ll tell him that.”

  Actually, Crystal was the one to make that observation to him a couple of weeks later when their paths intersected. She even lent him a battered copy of an old art book that described various printmaking processes and how they’d been modified through the centuries. “There’s a studio downtown. You can rent time on the press,” she told him. “Let me know if you ever want to go talk to the owner, and I’ll take you in and introduce you.”

  “Thanks. I’d like that,” Cooper said.

  So the roommate whom I’d dreaded so much turned out to be the easiest and luckiest part of this unfamiliar new life.

  Although, as I said, I loved the whole college experience. I didn’t make friends in all my classes, but on the whole I found my fellow students more congenial—more like me—than I’d ever found my high-school classmates. Certainly there were plenty who seemed to have come to college for no reason except to party. But there were others who were smart, serious, awkward, and odd, and those were the ones I sat by in the lecture halls and ate with at dinner. Sometimes, we studied together; we picked each other when we needed lab partners; and we chose our spring classes specifically so we would have a few courses in common. For someone like me, who had had nothing resembling a social group in high school, this was a whole new world of human interaction.

  Cooper worried a little that I would be so intoxicated by the possibility of fresh friendships—normal friendships—that I would slip away from him, find him an encumbrance, an embarrassment, a mistake. Well, that had been at the back of his mind before we even made the move to Champaign. But it didn’t happen. I had known it wouldn’t. I had attached myself to him, formed myself around him; like the little stream running under the bridge, I only showed any depth or complexity when he was in my path. I was not about to seek out a new channel. Without the texture and the beauty he brought out in me, I would be nothing at all.

  * * *

  It was during the spring semester, when I was taking three intro-to-science classes, that I first stumbled on the idea that would become my obsession for the next fifteen years. I still wasn’t positive what I wanted to major in, but I was pretty sure it would have a scientific bent, and I had filled my schedule with anatomy, biology, and chemistry classes. The chemistry professor was a real character, with wild gray hair and an untrimmed beard and the general air of someone who had scrambled out of bed, with a hangover, only ten minutes before the start of class. But he was charismatic and entertaining, with an effortless way of making his subject come alive.

  “It all seems pointless now,” he reassured us one day as we struggled through a lab experiment that, by the end of class, no one had managed to get right. “But one day it will all make sense. One day the breathless synergy of math and science and the human body will make your blood tingle and your mouth fall open in wonder.”

  We all laughed and groaned and continued with our lab work. My mind wasn’t really on the exercise, though; it had been two weeks since I’d seen Cooper, and all I could think about was that he might be waiting for me in my room when I got out of class. I was never so grateful to see an hour draw to a close.

  “See you next week,” said my lab partner, as we left class.

  I was almost running already; I waved over my shoulder. “See you then!”

  Cooper indeed was in my room, freshly shaved and showered and wearing a set of clothes I’d laundered for him while he’d been gone. He’d picked up a pizza and a liter of soda, because neither of us liked to go out on the first couple of nights he was human, and Crystal had already let me know she wouldn’t be around this weekend. We had the room to ourselves; we could burrow in with almost as much isolation and privacy as we’d had at the campsite.

  But Cooper was in an unexpectedly down mood. It took me a while to tease the reason out of him, but eventually he told me he’d had a near miss at the nature preserve. A boy who was maybe ten or twelve years old had spotted Cooper and started pelting him with rocks. This drew the attention of the kid’s father, who called the groundskeepers, who called some animal-control people, who spent a couple of days looking for tracks and spoor.

  “I was able to stay out of their way, but it scared me,” he said. By this time, it was full dark and we were lying face-to-face on my bed. We’d lit a few candles, but they did little more than make it barely possible to read the expressions on each other’s faces. We hadn’t made love yet; we were too busy talking. “I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to stay there, not if people are looking for me.”

  “Maybe you should go to Walnut Park for the next couple of months,” I said, resting my hand on his shoulder and drawing him close enough for a kiss. “I know, it’s a lot farther away, but it’s a lot bigger. It’s less likely that anyone will find you.”

  He turned on his back to stare up at the ceiling. My hand came to rest on his chest, just over his heart. “Maybe I just shouldn’t turn into a wolf at all,” he burst out. “God! If only I could walk away from it! If I could—could—find a pill or get a blood transfusion or change the cells in my body. If only I could be normal!”

  For a moment I was frozen beside him, then I scrambled up to a sitting position. “What if you could?” I said, speaking slowly, though my mind was seething with excitement. “What if there was a pill? I mean, people use drugs to control diabetes and blood clots and—and—well, other diseases. Maybe there’s a chemical way to control your changes.”

  At first he looked hopeful, but then his expression clouded over again. “Maybe, but how would I ever find out?” he asked. “It’s not like I can go to a doctor and say, ‘Hey. I’m a shape-shifter, but I don’t want to be. Got a cure for that?’ He’d call the zoo—or the cops—so fast I’d never be able to run away in time.”

  “Maybe,” I repeated. “But I’m taking all these chemistry and biology classes. Maybe I can be some kind of researcher. Maybe I’ll be able to study your blood. I can do experiments. Maybe I’ll find the cure for you.”

  He gazed up at me. In the wide eyes, the ful
l lips, the dark hair, I saw the poet, the lover, the artist, the man I adored; but I also saw the wolf, the wild creature, who would do anything he had to in order to survive. “Yes,” he whispered. “Oh, I hope you do.”

  I bent down to kiss him. “I will,” I said, and kissed him again. I thought about the chemistry professor’s words about synergy. I didn’t have to wait until I found a position in a lab, I thought. I could take what I was learning in all my science classes and start conducting tests right now. “I promise.”

  His hands came up, and he pulled me down on top of him, and for a long time the only words between us were spoken in breathless whispers. But I had my cause now; I had my raison d’être. I would study and learn and experiment, over and over again, until I found the cure for Cooper. I would change his life, I would give him what he wanted. Because he was my life, because he was what I wanted. I could hardly wait for dawn to come, so I could begin.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MELANIE

  I don’t know what to do.

  For the next two hours, I simply hover anxiously, watching over Ann. I rest my hand on her forehead, checking for fever, but her body temperature seems close to mine. I press my fingers to her wrist, feeling for her pulse, but I don’t know if the heartbeat I find is too rapid, too slow, too weak, too urgent. Once I have wiped the smear of red from her face, there is no more blood. Her breathing seems a little labored but no worse than you might expect from someone with a bad cold.

  And she has woken once, long enough to smile and say my name, before falling back asleep.

  So I don’t know if I need to take her to a doctor. I don’t know if the risk of not taking her to the ER outweighs the risk of taking her. Will she die if I don’t? Will she expose her terrible secret if I do? How can I possibly know?

  William is as alarmed as I am though he shows it differently. Mostly he sits, very still, in a chair he has pulled over next to the sofa, and does nothing but watch over Ann. He hasn’t had much information to give me about what has driven her to this state. No, she hasn’t been injured. Yes, he would know. Yes, he’s been concerned lately. She hasn’t had much energy or appetite, but she hasn’t seemed any worse than she did when he first told me he was worried. Until this morning. When he woke up—in a ditch or under a bridge, I’m sure, though he’s not specific—and she did not.

  “Do you think she’d want me to take her to a doctor?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “We’ve never talked about it. But I don’t think so.”

  “Would you want her to take you if you were the one lying on the couch?”

  His brooding eyes don’t leave her still form. “No,” he says. “Unless there’s a broken bone or a wound that’s been ripped open—something that can be fixed—I don’t think doctors can help people like us.” He makes a slow, broad gesture that seems to indicate his heart, or his chest, or maybe his whole body. “I think we’re too different inside. They could hurt one of us instead of helping us.”

  But I’m still not sure.

  “Let’s keep watching her,” I say at last. “If she seems to get worse, if she can’t breathe, if she starts bleeding again, then I’ll take her to the ER. If she’s not better by—” I hesitate. I have no idea what deadline would be reasonable. “By tomorrow morning. I’ll take her in. And then—whatever happens, happens.”

  William glances at me with those hooded, unreadable eyes and makes no comment. I don’t know if he agrees or disagrees. I don’t know if I’m right or wrong. I don’t know, I don’t know.

  It’s clear Brody has tried to stay out of the way while William and I hash through the dilemma. After taking a quick shower, he’s been working in the kitchen, making coffee and cooking a light breakfast. I’ve already gulped down some coffee, but my stomach has been too knotted up for me to tolerate the idea of food. Once I arrive at my nebulous decision, I feel a little better. Almost hungry. I leave William to keep vigil and slip inside the kitchen to find Brody.

  He turns from the stove, where he appears to be making pancakes, and draws me into a long hug. “Any change?” he asks.

  “Not really.”

  “Do you think we should try to get her to eat or drink something?”

  “Maybe later. William said they ate a pretty solid meal last night, so I don’t think she’s in immediate danger.”

  “Could you eat something? I can make toast if you can’t face pancakes. Or scrambled eggs.”

  “Actually, the pancakes are starting to smell really good.”

  William declines to join us, so Brody and I settle around the oak table, me choosing the seat that allows me to view the sofa where Ann is sleeping. The pancakes are delicious; he must have added something to the basic Bisquick recipe. I feel better instead of worse once I’ve eaten, which isn’t always the case.

  “So are you going to take her to a doctor?” Brody asks.

  “Only if her condition deteriorates or isn’t better by tomorrow morning.”

  He nods, as if he approves, but I have the sense he would try to support any decision I made at this juncture just because he realizes how close I am to disintegrating into a wild, rotating frenzy of panicked atoms. “If you’re open to suggestions,” he says, “I may have one.”

  I tense up, because additional input can only undercut the fragile state of balance I’ve achieved, but I say, “What’s that?”

  “I met this woman in central Illinois a few months back. She’s a vet. A vet who specializes in shape-shifters. Maybe you could take Ann to see her.”

  I stare at him for a moment because it takes me that long to absorb what he’s said. Somewhere in the world is a medical professional who knows about people with Ann’s condition and is actually qualified to treat them? Someone to whom I can tell the truth—someone I can trust with Ann’s secret and Ann’s life? “Are you sure?” I ask, a not very cogent question, but he seems to know what I mean.

  “I was at her place the day I saw those three people turn into animals. She takes care of all of them. She’s not about to betray anybody.”

  I lean my elbows on the table because suddenly my body feels so heavy that my spine won’t hold me upright. “That would be—I can’t even tell you—such a relief. Such a gift. If you think she’d be willing to see us. If she takes strangers as patients.”

  “I think she’d want from you what you’d want from her. Discretion and silence.”

  “Then yes. Sign us up. How do we get hold of her? Where exactly in Illinois?”

  “She’s got a place a little east of Decatur, but I think she keeps offices in Springfield, too. Might take us three hours to get there. And I don’t know if you want to wait until Ann’s in better shape for travel—”

  I shake my head. “I want to go the minute she’s willing to see us.”

  “Then I’ll give her a call.”

  * * *

  From Dr. Kassebaum’s name, I am expecting someone ample, fair and pale, but in fact she’s almost the exact opposite: a small-boned woman, not very tall, with olive skin and glossy black hair. She’s wearing big silver hoop earrings, a crinkly ankle-length skirt in bright red and orange, and a denim vest. Although she’s friendly enough, she’s a little remote. This is not a warm, empathetic counselor; this is a survivor who’s willing to share her hard-won knowledge to help you pull through as well.

  It is close to sunset Sunday evening when I meet her, and my head is still spinning at how quickly events have unfolded on what is looking like it will be a very long day. The minute Brody calls her and explains the situation, she agrees to join us in Springfield that evening. If she does, in fact, have an office in that city, she doesn’t want us to come to it. Instead, she gives us directions to a motel that she says is on the outer edges of town. A place, I gather, where nobody asks questions and nobody pays much attention to the guests. Perfect for our purposes.

  It takes me a little time to organize my life to make even this short a journey. I have to call Debbie to warn her that I won’t b
e at work in the morning (to which she replies, “Are you kidding? Go, go!”) I have to pack clothes and close up the house and assemble food to take us at least part of the way to our destination. William and Brody outfit the Jeep with enough blankets and pillows to allow Ann to travel comfortably in whichever shape suits her best. I am certain that William would prefer to be in animal form and that he remains human because he feels he can be more useful in this incarnation, at least for the moment.

  All of this takes time, so it is past three before we all climb in the Cherokee and hit the road. Brody drives because I am too distracted to focus. We find the motel with no trouble, and drive around to the back of the long, narrow building where the less desirable rooms look out over the desolate parking lot. Dr. Kassebaum has told us she’s in room 105; it’s the only one on this side of the building where there appears to be a light in the window.

  Ann has regained consciousness, though she’s drowsy and disinclined for conversation. When William lifts her out of the Jeep so he can carry her inside, she snuggles against him, her hair half obscuring her face. The motel door opens before we even have a chance to knock. And there’s Dr. Kassebaum, with her unsmiling face and her sober professionalism. Almost on the instant, I feel myself subtly relaxing. I am certain, for the first time in my life, that I’ve found someone who understands exactly who and what it is I love. I feel like I can transfer some of my burdens to her, and she will know how to dismantle them. She will turn them light as air.

  The room is small, most of the space taken up by two queen-size beds, and she motions for William to carry Ann to the one farthest from the door. Brody and I perch on the edge of the other bed, while Dr. Kassebaum pulls up a round-backed chair that looks like it was manufactured in the sixties and uncomfortable even then.

  “Can you give me a quick family history?” she asks, opening a notebook and picking up a pen. I like that; my own primary-care physician has begun typing all her notes into a computer, and she never looks up at my face while I’m speaking.