Such sharp teeth, p.21
Such Sharp Teeth, page 21
She scoffs, releases my face. “You were unresponsive.”
“When?” I ask.
“You were locked in your room for three days. I got freaked out. I knocked and nothing. You weren’t answering your phone. I picked the lock and found you passed out in bed, surrounded by chicken carcasses. You wouldn’t wake up. I didn’t want to call nine-one-one because, you know . . . I dragged you in here. Then I saw your wrist.”
I look down. There’s a vibrant pink line around my wrist. It’s bubbling. Smoking. It has a hideous smell.
“I took the bracelet off, and you woke up.”
“Huh,” I say, blowing on my wrist like it’s hot food. The silver burned through to my fur.
Scarlett sobs into a cage of her arms. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“Frankly I’m surprised you care.”
She looks up at me, wearing her dagger stare. “How could you say that?”
I stare back at her. “You’ve wanted nothing to do with me since I told you.”
“It’s a lot to process, Rory! And I have enough to deal with right now. I have other things going on. I can’t give you all of me all the time.”
“I don’t want all of you all the time. I just wanted some support. Acceptance. I don’t know. Something.”
“And what about me? You don’t think I’ve needed support from you? I’ve needed you, and you haven’t been here.”
“I’ve been here the whole time.”
“You were with Ian, or Mia, or Ash, or—”
“You were with Matty!” I say, splashing her.
She leans back. “Did you just splash me?”
“Yeah.” I do it again.
She wipes the water from her face and, astonishingly, starts to laugh.
So I laugh.
I don’t know how long this goes on for. The two of us laughing, soaking wet. The drip drip drip of a leaky faucet. The pained gurgle of a drain clogged with hair. My hair. Werewolf hair.
Finally, Scarlett stands and throws me a towel. “Dry off and get dressed. We’re going for a drive.”
* * *
—
She takes me to Hillside Cemetery. A morbid, albeit picturesque, location. It’s old but well maintained. There are no rotting bouquets resting on cracked headstones, no sinking mausoleums. Paved pathways lined with Victorian-era lampposts weave through family plots. A thin layer of clean white snow covers the ground. Icicles glisten in the afternoon sun. They weep from the trees, slowly returning to their former state of matter.
“I come here sometimes to think,” Scarlett says, leading me down a particularly winding path.
“And I’m the weird sister.”
“Did you know? That the bracelet would do that to you?”
I shake my head. “It was an experiment.”
“You weren’t trying to hurt yourself?”
“Honestly? Maybe part of me wanted to feel something different. Or to not feel at all.”
I catch her up. I tell her about my failed trip to the occult shop, the wolfsbane under my bed that I don’t know what to do with. I tell her about Ian.
“Maybe he’s trying to fuck all the girls he didn’t get to fuck in high school,” I say.
Scarlett makes an ambiguous noise.
“What?” I ask, dribbling a small stone between my feet.
“Do you really believe her?”
“Mia? Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
“You know how she is.”
“How is she?” I ask. “Seriously. How is she?”
Scarlett sighs.
“She’s like me,” I say. “We flirt. We fuck around. Doesn’t make us liars.”
“I’m not saying she’s lying,” Scarlett says. “But she might have misinterpreted. I just don’t think there’s anything incriminating about them hanging out one time. They’re old friends.”
“They weren’t friends.”
“Acquaintances,” she says. “It’s Ian. He deserves the benefit of the doubt.”
“Does he?” I ask. I kick the stone too far, lose it over the hill. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours,” she says, sitting on a nearby bench. There’s an angel statue perched behind her, and from this angle it looks like Scarlett has wings. “Why don’t you just ask him?”
“How can I trust him? He kept this from me. If it wasn’t anything incriminating, why didn’t he say something? It’s shady.”
“When you love someone, you don’t just cut them off. Even if they make a mistake.”
“Love? Who said anything about love?”
“Rory,” Scarlett says, a tremble in her voice that makes the air go still.
I look back, and she’s braiding the fringe of her scarf.
“I have to tell you something. I should have told you the minute you got here.”
“You can tell me anything.”
She takes a sharp breath. “I cheated. I cheated on Matty.”
It’s rare for me to be rendered speechless. Difficult to shock me, all things considered. But I’m shocked.
“When I first found out I was pregnant, I panicked. It wasn’t planned. I felt . . . I don’t know how to describe it. It was like my life wasn’t mine anymore. I knew I should be happy. Matty was happy. When I was lying there in the doctor’s office, staring at the little blob on the screen, I just thought, ‘I’ve never been to Barcelona. I’ve never been out of the country.’ I always thought someday I’d take a long holiday in Spain. Maybe do an art program. Have dinner at ten o’clock at night. Get wine drunk, smoke cigarettes. And after I’d travel around Europe, meet people. Draw. There was this other life I had in my head—this fantasy life that I didn’t even realize I wanted until the possibility of it was gone. Until I was holding that sonogram in my hands on the drive home, knowing that this was my life now. Is my life. It’s never going to be anything else.”
Somewhere above us, clouds shift. Birds caw. The sun burns. The moon waits.
“I thought I liked where I was at. I thought I loved Matty, my work, my house. But there was this shift. I felt stuck. He was really excited about the baby, and I tried to pretend. I could feel my body changing, and every morning I woke up, I felt like . . . like everything was slipping away from me. I just wanted to feel like I had some authority. Over my life, over my body. I was at a tattoo convention in Philly, and there’s this guy I know. I’ve met him a couple of times. He came on to me. I wasn’t showing yet. I didn’t sleep with him, but it wasn’t just a kiss either. I went too far. And after, I felt so guilty, so stupid. Even more out of control. I wanted to tell Matty, but I couldn’t bring myself to. The weeks went by, and I just didn’t know how to be around him. Didn’t know how to live with him, with myself. So I picked a fight and threw him out. I tried to be alone for a while, but that was bad, too. I found a therapist. It helped, but . . . I was lost. I wanted you. I needed you. To be around you and feel like myself again.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
She finally looks up from her scarf. “Because I knew you would be forgiving, and I wasn’t ready to be forgiven.”
“Are you ready now?”
“No. Not really.”
I go over and sit beside her, take in the view of snow-covered headstones, markers of lives, of bodies. Memories. The known and unknown.
“Well,” I say, “that is pretty bad.”
She buries her face in her hands. “I know.”
“Understandable. Don’t get me wrong. I get it. I get where you were at. Big life change. Physical change. It’s a lot.”
“I’m sorry I kept it from you. I tried to tell you sooner. I just . . . couldn’t get the words out.”
I shrug. “It’s all right. But I’ve sure been a dick to Matty for no reason. He still doesn’t know?”
“I told him. The day I got out of the hospital. Seemed an opportune moment.”
“Smart. How’d he take it?”
“Okay. Better than he should have,” she says, standing. “We’re working through it.”
“Is that what you want?”
She squints at the sky. “Once I stopped thinking about what my life wasn’t going to be, I started to see what it could be. And I can still go to Barcelona someday. Let’s head back. My ears are freezing.”
When we get home, we go upstairs to her room and lie on her bed, not saying anything, just being together. My life might not be what I thought it was going to be, what I pictured. But I have my sister. I have Scarlett.
After a long time, she turns to me and says, “Morris sisters sure are having a year, aren’t they?”
I take her hand and squeeze it. “Total shit show.”
* * *
—
It’s Christmas Eve. I know because when Scarlett wakes me up, instead of “Good morning,” she says, “It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Is it really?” I say, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Damn.”
“Get ready. We’re baking cookies,” she says. “And wearing ugly sweaters.”
“Nooo!” I roll over.
“I’m kidding about the sweaters,” she says, pulling off my covers. “Up!”
We spend the day at the kitchen counter, our hands covered in flour and powdered sugar, fingertips dyed with food coloring.
“Did you give this Santa devil horns?” she asks me. “We’re bringing these to Joann’s tomorrow. Don’t make them satanic.”
I pout.
After we finish icing what feels like ten thousand cookies, we FaceTime with Mom and Guy, who are skiing in Aspen.
“We’ll see you soon!” Mom says. “So close, Scarlett! I can see it in your face. Almost there.”
Usually, Mom and Guy come here for the holidays, but with Scarlett giving birth so soon after Christmas, it didn’t make sense for them to come twice. Despite our strained relationship, I’ve never spent a Christmas without Mom, and her not being here has me feeling soppy and sad.
“Miss you,” I tell Mom. And Guy, I guess. Guy’s fine.
“We miss you,” he says. “How’s the weather? Get any snow?”
The call goes on for longer than it should, neither side knowing how or when to end a holiday FaceTime.
We eat dinner late. Scarlett cooks two of the steaks I got during my meat spree.
“Sorry I didn’t put up any decorations this year,” she says, licking some A.1. off her bottom lip. “Didn’t have the energy.”
“You should be sorry. I for one am outraged at the lack of holiday decor. Not one Rudolph. Not one friendly snowman. And not one little baby Jesus. A travesty. Are you listening to me?”
She’s distracted by her phone. “Sorry. Ash is just wondering if we’re going over tomorrow for dessert.”
“Of course. It’s tradition.”
“She also wants to know if you’re mad at her. She says you haven’t responded to any of her texts.”
“Did you tell her it’s because I broke my phone?”
“I told her. When are you planning on getting a new one?”
“Are you going to finish that?” I ask, pointing to her half-eaten steak.
She pushes the plate across the table toward me. “You can’t avoid life forever, Rory. You can’t avoid Ian forever.”
I pick up the steak with my fingers and shove it in my mouth. I smile at her, cheeks fat with meat.
“What’s it like?” she asks. “Being a werewolf?”
I swallow. “You really want to know?”
“Yeah.”
“The bite was excruciating. And after, it leaked this silvery goo. My new blood, I guess. It was weird and gross, but honestly, it was also kind of fascinating that my body was doing this weird, gross thing.”
“Relate,” she says.
“I did feel different, but not so different that the reality had fully set in. When I went to the distillery that first time, I still had hope I’d walk out of there in a few hours relieved. But then the moon came out. It’s like being torn open. Turned inside out. I want to die during the transformation. To never feel anything again. Then there’s this switch. When I’m in that form, I’m there, but it’s like I’m a whisper. I’m separate from my body. In that sense, I’m powerless. But I can feel and experience what the body is like. As the wolf, I have so much power. I feel invincible. It’s a rush. I can’t really remember the things I do or what happens. Just brief moments, a second here and there. Then I wake up and feel like shit. Like the worst hangover you’ve ever had. And . . .” I look over at her. She’s biting her nails. “Hey. You asked, sis.”
“I’m scared, Rory.”
“Of me?”
“No, for you.”
“I’m dealing with it,” I say.
A lie. I haven’t exactly been proactive in my search of lycanthropy tips and treatments since my visit to the occult shop, other than essentially going into a silver coma, if that counts. I’ve been a bit preoccupied with my human problems.
“Don’t worry about me. You’re having a baby in . . . what? Two weeks? Worry about that.”
“If I’m worried about you, I don’t have to be worried about me. And giving birth.”
“You’re welcome, then,” I say. “Totally worth it.”
She sighs.
“We should go to bed,” I say. “We need to be asleep, or Santa won’t come.”
We say our good nights.
I put myself to bed, but sleep eludes me. I let hours pass before I give up and kick off the covers. I go downstairs and out to the back patio. It’s flurrying. I cross the patio and step out onto the frosty grass. I lower myself down. I look up at the night sky. It’s starless. The moon is somewhere, I know, in a gentle phase. Letting me be. All I can see are the flurries tumbling down, down, down, down. Wet and soft and, suddenly, nothing.
* * *
—
The next morning, I find Matty in the kitchen with Scarlett. He brought donuts. He also got me a large pepperminty latte that’s truly disgusting, but I drink it anyway because I appreciate the gesture.
I definitely have to apologize to him at some point. Admit that I was wrong. Yuck.
After coffee and donuts, he helps Scarlett out to the car, and I follow, carrying presents.
“Careful. It’s icy,” he tells me.
I ignore his warning and promptly fall on my ass.
“Are you okay?” he asks. His concern is genuine and sweet, and it floods me with remorse.
I try to get up and slip again. Scarlett laughs.
I flip her off.
“I’m fine,” I say. If there’s a bruise, it’ll be gone by the time we get to Joann’s.
I’m dreading seeing Joann after how I treated her at Scarlett’s baby shower. I cope with my anxiety by singing along to Christmas songs on the radio. My rendition of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” is truly something special.
I try to break Matty with the high notes, but he doesn’t flinch.
“You could be a professional,” he deadpans when the song’s over.
This gets Scarlett.
“Stop making me laugh,” she says. “It makes the baby go crazy.”
“Yeah?” Matty asks. He reaches over to feel.
It makes me deeply uncomfortable. It’s too intimate a thing for me to be witnessing. Makes me squirmy.
They look so in love right now. So happy. It’s hard for me to wrap my mind around it, with everything that’s happened. That he could still love her after she betrayed his trust.
I don’t understand how it’s possible to live with your heart in someone else’s hands. To have the capacity to forgive them if they break it.
“Last Christmas” comes on and I start dancing in the backseat.
“This is it,” I say. “This is my moment.”
“I can’t wait,” Matty says. “Please be as loud as possible.”
I clear my throat. “Not a problem.”
* * *
—
Joann hugs me and kisses me on both cheeks. I’m relieved that she doesn’t appear to be holding my baby shower behavior against me.
“Good to see you, sweetie,” she says. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas. Thank you for having me.”
“Who is that?” says a husky voice. “Is that my girl?”
Grandma Candy. She’s my favorite member of Matty’s family. Perhaps my favorite person in general.
“It’s me, Candy,” I say, running over to her.
She’s in her wheelchair at the head of the table. She wears a plaid nightgown, a red terry cloth robe, and orange lipstick.
“There she is!” Candy says. “Thank God. These people are so boring, and they won’t let me have any liquor!”
“She’s on heart medication,” Joann says.
“My heart’s broken because they ain’t lettin’ me drink! I’ve only got a few years left and I gotta spend ’em dry? Christ Almighty!”
She beckons me closer with a wrinkly finger. “Enjoy being young and beautiful. When you get old, nobody cares. They forget you’re human. I’ve lived more life than everyone in this room, and they talk to me like I’m nothin’. Like I’m a dog. Except you.”
Every year on Christmas, Candy and I hole up in a corner and talk about our exploits. She tells me about all the soldiers she’s been with, the letters they would write her, and I show her pictures of recent hookups.
“He’s a looker!” she’ll say. Or she’ll cough and say, “Why botha?”
This year is no different.
Joann’s house is cozy, crowded with family. Aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins and girlfriends and boyfriends and an assortment of children. We all loaf around and eat and laugh and drink.
“What happened to you?” Candy asks Scarlett.
“I’m pregnant,” Scarlett says.
