I strive to be concise. “Ann’s twenty years old. Her mother was a shape-shifter, her father was fully human. I haven’t seen her mother for about nine years and believe she’s dead. Our father died six years ago from complications of dementia and pneumonia. There’s no history of heart disease in my family, that I know of, or diabetes or anything like that. Our father’s mother died of breast cancer, but no one else in our family has had cancer of any kind.”
“I assume she’s sexually active?”
God, could all this lethargy have a simple, almost joyful root cause—could Ann be merely pregnant? But then I remember. “Yes, but her boyfriend has had a vasectomy.”
Dr. Kassebaum nods and makes a note. I can almost hear what she’s thinking. She could have had sex with someone besides her boyfriend. That would suck for William, but if it means Ann doesn’t have any terrifying fatal disease, I’ll welcome the news.
But do I really have the strength and courage and sheer tenacious bloody-mindedness to raise another shape-shifter child—?
“Can you describe her exact symptoms and when you first noticed them?”
I think back. It was about six weeks ago that William first confided his concern, and about the same time that I’d started to notice her loss of energy, her tendency to sleep away half the day. Well, if I’m being honest with myself, I’ll admit that I started getting anxious about Ann last summer, and none of my fears had been assuaged when I saw her over Christmas. She’d been her usual happy self, but a little vague, a little scatterbrained. Once or twice I’d found myself wondering if she was falling prey—far, far too soon—to the carelessly destructive disease that had claimed my father’s memory.
But now I’m afraid it’s not her mind that’s failing her. It’s her body.
“There have been—inklings—faint suggestions of things that could be wrong—for about a year,” I tell Dr. Kassebaum in a halting voice. “A sort of forgetfulness. A deep exhaustion. Small things that by themselves don’t seem to mean much. But lately. The past couple of months. They all seem to be magnified.”
“Has she complained about pain or weakness? Has she exhibited any typical signs of illness, such as fever or coughing?”
“No—not around me.” I glance toward the other bed. Despite the fact that Ann and William are in the same room with us, neither one seems to be paying attention to a word of this conversation. “You could ask William. He’s been spending more time with her than I have.”
She nods. “I’ll interview him, too. Have you noticed any correlations between her level of exhaustion and her transformations between animal and human state? That is, is she most likely to be tired on the first day or two after she’s turned human again, then she seems to recover her strength?”
I frown, thinking it over. “I’m not sure. I didn’t notice.”
“Have there been any changes in her typical cycle?”
Does she still think Ann might be pregnant? “Her menstrual cycle?”
“Her shape-shifting cycle.” She glances up from her notebook. “Most shape-shifters have a pattern. Some are human twenty-five days of the month and animal five days. In others, it’s reversed. Some alternate between shapes every three or four days. Some always become the same animal, while others might be anything from a rabbit to a buffalo.”
I shake my head but, again, I’m not sure. “I don’t think that’s changed, but you might ask William. Ann has always turned into the shape of a white dog—a husky—ever since she was a little girl. And she’s always been able to transform more or less at will.”
“That’s unusual,” Dr. Kassebaum comments.
“William can control it, too. But his brother can’t.”
“That’s unusual, too. Siblings.”
“Really? Why?”
Dr. Kassebaum lifts her dark eyes to mine again. It strikes me that what I first took as professional gravity on her part is really sadness. I wonder if she, too, loves a shape-shifter; heartache guaranteed. “When humans learn their partners have burdened them with a shape-shifter child, they tend to terminate the relationship—so, no second babies. And few of the shape-shifters I’ve met have been eager to bring more of their kind into the world. Their own lives have been hard enough. They don’t want children of their own to face the same challenges.”
“So maybe one day all the shape-shifters will be gone from the world.”
“Maybe,” Dr. Kassebaum says. “But if folklore is any guide, they’ve been around a long time, and I expect they’ll be with us to the end of the world.”
“I can’t decide if that’s comforting or not.”
“No,” she says, “neither can I.” She closes her notebook. “Now I’m going to talk to William and examine Ann. Perhaps it would be best if you and Brody were out of the room. There’s a vending machine in the lobby if you wanted to get a soda or a snack.”
Brody takes my hand as we step outside, and the slanting rays of the setting sun hit me squarely in the eyes. I’m surprised to learn it’s still daylight and that the day itself is rather fine. I would have said I was living in perpetual night, perpetual chill, a gray, drab corridor of hell.
“What do you want to do about tonight?” Brody asks as he shuts the door behind us.
“Can you be more specific?”
“We could book a room here and spend the night. A couple of rooms, if we get one for us and one for Ann and William. Or we can drive back to your place. If we leave by seven or eight, we’ll be back by midnight. I’m up for it either way.”
“I don’t know,” I answer at last. “I guess it all depends on what Dr. Kassebaum says about Ann.”
He leans over to kiss the top of my head, but doesn’t say Everything will be all right or Stop worrying so much. For a man who talks as much as Brody does, he has an uncanny gift for knowing when to be silent. There’s really nowhere else to sit, so we climb back into the front seat of the Jeep and wait there, holding hands, and bracing ourselves for whatever dread news the day might bring.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dr. Kassebaum has a few tests she wants to conduct on Ann, and these include drawing blood and letting it ferment overnight, or something, so there’s no question of returning home right away. Brody and I have already decided to take a room for the night, and Dr. Kassebaum turns her key over to Ann and William. She needs to return to her office to perform the tests, she tells us, but she’ll be back before noon to tell us what she’s discovered.
In her absence, the four of us head out to a nearby Pizza Hut for a mostly silent meal. Ann’s sleepy, William is never talkative, I’m too tense to make conversation, and even Brody can’t overcome all those obstacles. Back at our rooms, we separate for the night. Brody and I watch mindless sitcoms until we fall asleep by ten.
I wake in the morning with a sense of doom. Maybe it’s because I’m in strange surroundings—maybe it’s because I’m alone in the bed—maybe it’s because the situation that brought me here will shortly be explained, and chances are slim that I will hear good news.
I take a quick shower, and by the time I’m out, Brody has returned with orange juice and bagels that he’s found at some nearby QuikTrip. “The bagels are stale,” he says, “but I figured they were better than starvation.”
I’m finishing mine off when I see Dr. Kassebaum step out of a car that’s just pulled into the parking lot. I knock back the last of the juice and hurry out the door. “What have you found out?” I ask.
She gestures at the door of room 105. “Let’s all talk about it together.”
As it did the night before, the motel room seems like an incongruous place to discuss medical mysteries and receive news that will change your life. Dr. Kassebaum places the round-backed chair halfway between the two beds; William and Ann sit on one, backs against the headboard, legs extended before them, and Brody and I take similar poses on the other. It seems like we should be having a slumber party, not girding ourselves for battle, which is what I feel like I’m doing. “So,”
I ask, “have you come to any conclusions? Do you think you know what’s wrong with Ann?”
Dr. Kassebaum nods, her face in its usual grave lines. “I have a theory. At this point, it’s all just guesswork, because there is so little we know for sure about shape-shifters and their physiology.”
“But you think—?”
“I think the stress of frequent and lifelong transformation between states has worn Ann’s body out to a dangerous degree,” she says. “I think, as she goes forward, she’ll find that the more often she moves between shapes, the weaker she’ll become. Furthermore—although this is not usually the case—her body seems to degrade more sharply when she’s in her human shape. In her canine form, she seems healthier and stronger. I’m guessing it’s because the animal’s organs are smaller than the human’s, and when she shifts to the larger shape, the organs don’t enlarge correspondingly as they should. But as I say, that’s just a theory.”
“Huh,” Ann says. “It makes sense, though.”
Dr. Kassebaum goes on. “I’ve written up a suggested nutritional plan and identified various supplements she might take when she’s human, and I’d like to give her some inoculations that will help her fight off disease no matter which form she takes. Unfortunately, there’s not much else I can do for her. My advice—and I cannot say it strongly enough—is that Ann should greatly curtail how often she shifts between shapes and drastically limit how much time she spends in human form. If she doesn’t, I’m afraid she doesn’t have too many years left to her.”
The words strike me with the force of boulders, burn me like firebrands held against my skin. “She doesn’t have—what do you mean? Are you saying she could die?” Of course that’s what she’s saying. She’s tried to phrase it as gracefully as possible, but there’s no graceful way to pronounce a death sentence.
She fixes me with her dark eyes. “Shape-shifters in general tend not to live long lives,” she says. The compassionate tone does nothing to soften the brutality of the words. “I’ve rarely known one to live past fifty.”
“But Ann’s only twenty! She should have—if she lives to fifty, she should have at least thirty more years!”
Her voice gentles even more. “None of us are guaranteed a particular life span,” she says. “Bodies wear out at different rates, and Ann’s, unfortunately, is a fast one. She can’t reverse the damage she has absorbed so far, but she can be careful about how much new damage she inflicts.”
Ann speaks again, sounding incredulous. “So you’re telling me I should take husky form and stay that way? Not become human ever? I don’t think I can live like that.”
Now Dr. Kassebaum rests her gaze on Ann. “I’m afraid it’s the best of two bad choices.”
Ann shrugs, her usual insouciant nature partially reasserting itself. “And if I just do what I’ve always done? Change shapes when I feel like it?”
“Then I doubt you’ll live out the year.”
The sudden silence is so startled, it’s as if someone has slapped the room itself. Then I jump from my bed and scramble over to Ann’s, grabbing her hands with both of mine.
“Do it,” I say frantically. “Take your husky shape now, before we even leave for home, and stay that way. I don’t care. Take off with William as soon as we get back and go hang out in the parks and woodlands for six months. Or come to the house and stay there as long as you want—just don’t shift back. Just don’t become human.”
She leans forward until her forehead is touching mine. “You’d miss me,” she says.
“I’d still get to hang out with you, just like I used to,” I reply. “Don’t you remember? When you were a kid, you’d be a puppy for weeks at a time. We’d go running in the yard or playing in the creek. I’d tell you all about what I did at school or what Debbie said or what the cheerleading coach made us do. You’d sleep at the foot of my bed. It’s not the same, it’s not like having a conversation with you—me telling you something and you saying something back—but it’s still you. I know what you’re thinking. I can see you in your eyes. I’d miss you, but you’d still be there.”
She makes the smallest motion with her head, a negative shake that I can feel more than I can see. “I’d miss you,” she says softly.
“You wouldn’t. Most of the time you’d be off having adventures with William—” I glance at him for corroboration, and he nods. “But when you came back to the house, we’d watch TV together. Go for walks. Whatever. You’d just be in your other shape. You’d get to be with me as much as you wanted.”
Her eyes, so close to mine, flick to one side. “Would Brody be there some of the time?”
I catch my breath, but he answers before I can. “I’ll be there a lot,” he says. “I’ll take you for rides in the car. That’ll be fun.”
I add, “But we’ll make him leave the house when we just want to have girl time.”
She repeats my own words. “It’s not the same.”
“It’s not,” I agree. “But it’s better than nothing.”
She straightens up, pulls away from me, moves restlessly on the lumpy bed. “I don’t know,” she says. “It seems so extreme.” She gives Dr. Kassebaum a look that’s just a shade less than accusatory. “What if you’re wrong?”
“I don’t think I am,” Dr. Kassebaum says. “But of course you have to make your own choices.”
Brody’s the one to break the brief silence that follows. “So what now?” he asks, directing his question at Dr. Kassebaum.
“I’ll give Ann some immunizations and other boosters. Make a list of recommended nutritional supplements. But there’s really nothing else I can do.” She glances at me, where I’m still kneeling beside Ann on the bed. “You’re welcome to call anytime you have questions or anytime there’s a change in Ann’s condition. And I imagine there will be some changes.”
“So. If we do this. If she stays in her other shape all the time—will she live out the normal span of her life?” I ask. Fifty years is too short; I will only be sixty, with the potential for another twenty or thirty years ahead of me. I can’t imagine navigating all those long, dreary decades without Ann’s sunny presence in my life.
Dr. Kassebaum hesitates. “It’s hard to predict,” she says at last. “But I doubt it.”
A bony skeleton hand has wrapped itself around my gut, and now it squeezes hard. I feel its desiccated nails pierce tissue and slit arteries. “How long, then?” I manage to choke out.
“Nothing is certain in medicine.”
“I realize that. Give me an estimate.”
“Probably not more than two or three years.”
I gasp. The cramped hotel room is suddenly airless, or my lungs have ceased to function. In any case, I can’t get a breath. “That can’t be true,” I whisper.
“I’ll do what I can to extend the time,” Dr. Kassebaum answers. “But she has to change her lifestyle, or nothing I do will matter.” She gives Ann a straight and level look. “It’s up to you. You have to decide how long you want to live.”
* * *
I make William ride in the front seat next to Brody, an arrangement that clearly thrills neither of them. They don’t complain, but Brody immediately tunes the radio to some unobtrusive jazz station to obviate the need for conversation.
I ride in back with Ann and argue for three and a half hours.
“I don’t like it. This is stupid,” is her primary form of rebuttal to every point I make. “What does she know, anyway? She’s just guessing.”
“She might be guessing, but she knows more than any of us do. Ann, admit it, you haven’t felt well for weeks.”
“I’ve been tired, but I haven’t been dying.”
“But you feel better when you’re in your other shape.”
“I suppose, but—”
“Let’s just try it for a while. A few months. Promise me you’ll go three months without being human. See how you feel.”
“I don’t want to go three months without talking to you!”
 
; I try to speak lightly. “You’ve done it before. Disappeared for longer than three months. Making me worry about you every day.”
“See? You’d be worried this time, too!”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t be gone that whole time. You’d come visit me. You’d just be a dog.”
“Woof,” she says bitterly. “That’s a great conversation.”
I reach over to tug on a lock of the yellow hair. “Hey, I’ve had worse. I’ve had worse conversations with you.”
“Very funny.”
“So do you promise? Three months?”
She tosses her hair. Under the aggrieved petulance, I sense a real fear; she is responding childishly because she cannot bear to face the news head-on like an adult. I don’t blame her, but I can’t let her get away with it. I can’t let her pretend this isn’t happening and blithely refuse to moderate her behavior. I can’t let her die one day before she has to.
“I can’t tell time when I’m a dog,” she says. “How will I know when three months are up?”
“I’ll make signs and put them in the backyard. A countdown of days. You can read numbers, can’t you, when you’re a husky? And words?”
“Simple words.”
“So if I make a sign that says ‘NOW!’ you’ll understand that the three months are up?”
“I suppose.” She gives me a darkling look. “But don’t cheat. Don’t pretend it’s only been three months if it’s really been four.”
I’m surprised into a guilty laugh. I was already planning to do just that, except I was considering six months instead of three. “All right, I won’t. So is it a deal? Do you promise?”
She’s silent a moment, looking out the window. “I’ll think about it,” she says at last.
“Ann!”
And then we start all over again.
By the time we make it back to my place, I’m exhausted, Ann is still being stubborn, and William has reached his limit. He’s barely out of the car before he transforms into the golden setter and goes bounding up the road. Ann glances after him, but not as if she’s annoyed. More than the rest of us, she understands his inability to endure confinement or prolonged human contact.