Moonburn (11 page)

“So,” I said, after the pretty, pierced waitress was out of earshot, “what do you think? An increase in hormones would explain the bursts of irritability and my starting to change when the moon isn’t full.” I cut a piece of omelet. “It would also explain that weird moment I had with Malachy. I mean, he’s not someone I find attractive. But for a moment there, I kind of forgot that he was my snarky, unhealthy boss.”

My mother took a sip of coffee. “Maybe you just don’t realize that you’re attracted.”

“I’m not
that
repressed.”

“Well, in that case, something’s going on with you physically, and you need to have someone more reliable than Magda to ask.”

“You mean Red.”

“No, I don’t. If Magda is telling the truth, then Red probably does know that you’re in … estrus, I suppose. And then the question becomes, what would he have to gain by keeping this from you?” She buttered a crust of
toast from my plate. “Why don’t you ask that boss of yours? He seems very knowledgeable.”

“He’s probably the leading expert in lycanthropy.”

My mother spread her hands in a sweeping theatrical gesture that knocked over a water glass. “So? Talk to him about your condition.”

I mopped up the spilled water with my napkin. “Mom, he has no sense of ethics. I like to assume that Malachy would want to help me control my disease, but frankly, I don’t know. In the eighties, he transplanted monkey heads—he had this scheme that eventually we could just remove healthy brains from failing bodies and implant them in animal hosts. I’ve also heard a rumor that he was involved in some scheme to artificially impregnate a female chimpanzee.”

“Well, at least it was artificially. Was he going to use his own semen?”

“Mom!”

“Well, to my mind, it makes a difference. Using outside semen suggests scientific curiosity, using your own just sounds like pure male ego. By the way, Abra, I do hope you’re being careful with birth control.”

I stared, trying to make the connection. “Hello, Mom, what are you talking about?”

“What are you using, anyway? The pill? Condoms?”

“Excuse me, but I do not see why this concerns you.”

“If you’re using a diaphragm, make sure you hold it up to the light. Make sure there aren’t any little pinholes in there.”

“Why would there be—Are you suggesting that Red would stick pins in my diaphragm?”

My mother gave me a level glance out of eyes that had once seduced a generation of weedy young men. “Honey, that man would do anything to keep you. Lie, steal, cheat, kill, clean up after himself, and do laundry.”

I recalled waking up next to Red, unable to remember
the events of the previous night while he had been effervescent with happiness.

Which suggested that either Magda had lied, and I could get pregnant and have a baby, or that Red didn’t know as much about therian obstetrics as Magda did.

I explained all this to my mother, who had a fairly pithy response: “I think she’s full of shit. She’s trying to brainwash you into thinking you can’t get pregnant, and you’re falling for it.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Mom. I mean, there is a precedent in wolves for what she’s talking about.”

My mother raised her coffee cup, and the waitress came by instantly to fill it. “I think you’re dodging the real question, which is, do you really want to start a family with Red? Do you want to settle for him?”

“I thought you liked Red.”

“He’s very likable, Abra, but he’s not exactly your intellectual equal. And I can’t see him traveling with you or visiting museums or watching any film with subtitles. He’s a small-town boy. If you need someone who can put a wounded deer out of its misery without using a gun and then butcher it up for barbecue, he’s your man. He’ll never cheat—he’s got that primitive sense of loyalty you find in dogs and children—but if you ever stray with another man—oh, don’t look at me like that, say you give Hunter one for old times’ sake—a man like Red will never forgive you. I’m not saying he’s a bad choice, just that you need to know what you’re choosing. Is Red Mallin really the man you want to father your children, Abra? If you hadn’t caught the lycanthropy virus, would you even have considered him—or would you have chosen someone more like this Malachy?”

That hit a little too close to home, so I came out swinging. “Okay, first of all, there is no chance in hell that I might ‘give one to Hunter for old times’ sake,’ as you so charmingly phrase it. Second,” I paused,
thwarted by the return of the waitress. She cleared our plates so slowly it seemed almost sadistic, asking us repeatedly if we wanted anything else. Surely some amount of people-reading skill is required in your profession, I thought. Out loud, I said, “We’ll let you know.” My mother raised her eyebrows: I wasn’t usually so assertive in her presence.

When we were alone again, I said, “You make Red sound like some cliché of a redneck. I wouldn’t be with him if that’s all he was.”

“Honey, I’m not trying to put him down.”

“Of course you are. I’m just not sure what your point is: that Hunter’s really a better match for me, because he reads the
New Yorker
and likes early music? You hated Hunter, remember?”

“Abra.” My mother reached across the table and took my hand. “You’ll make whatever decision is best for you, and I’ll support you no matter what. But I want you to be honest with yourself. Red’s a lovely man, but I’ve seen a lot of women make compromises when they fall for men who aren’t their equals. Yes,” my mother insisted, tightening her grip on my fingers. “I am saying that Red isn’t your equal. Professionally, culturally, economically, and from what you say, even physically in your wolf forms, you are the more powerful partner.” She held my gaze, and I remembered that when she’d first met my father, she’d been something of a star, while my father had been a young replacement director, known in Barcelona but not in the States. “And I don’t mind, if he’s what you want, but I don’t want you to relinquish your power to him. So many women shore up their husbands’ egos by making themselves less. I don’t want that for you, Abra.”

“I think you underestimate Red, Mom. He’s subtle, in surprising ways. Psychologically, he’s way more perceptive than Hunter ever was.”

“Hunter was a complete narcissist. I’ve encountered recorded messages that were more perceptive than Hunter. As far as I can tell, one of his chief attractions was that he allowed you to continue to play the role of the good, practical, put-upon Jane Austen-style heroine. Part of the problem with Red is that he’s not playing to your script. He’s got some kind of Mark Twain backwoodsman thing going on, which leaves you with a problem: What’s your new role? Are you the snappish city girl to his laid-back lumberjack? Or are you the supportive little woman by his side?”

I pulled my hands free. “Mom, I’m not choosing my next role. This is my life.”

“Darling, we are all constantly choosing our next role. And I think that once you really make up your mind what you want and take charge of your life, you’ll be able to get pregnant. If that’s what you want.”

I knew better than to argue this point with my mother, who believed that meditation, positive thinking, and high colonics could cure almost any medical condition. “Okay, not getting sidetracked here. Forget the whole theater-of-life spiel for a moment. Let’s concentrate on the meat. You’ve got me completely confused. First you say I can’t trust Red, then you say I’m the more powerful one in this relationship, and that I’m not as nice with him as I was with Hunter. So which is it?”

My mother took another bread crust from my plate and spread it with strawberry jam. “Both.” She took a bite of the crust. “Which thought scares you more?” There was a speck of red jam on the corner of her mouth. For a moment, it looked like blood.

“Okay,” I said to my mother, handing her a napkin and motioning to the left side of her face, “so what do you think I should do?”

“Figure it out for yourself.”

“Are you kidding? You never stop giving me unsolicited
advice. What to wear. Where to shop. How to make more friends. For once in my life, I’m actually asking for your opinion, so you tell me to go figure it out for myself?” I crossed my legs and folded my arms. “Typical.”

“Abra, I’m not always going to be here.”

“Oh, God, not the mortality lecture.”

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true.”

“Why do you always have to aim for maximum drama?” A horrible thought occurred to me. “You’re not going to tell me you have cancer or something, are you? Because this would be a really shitty way of leading up to it.”

My mother sighed. “No, I’m not going to tell you that I have cancer.”

“So don’t start in with the mortality thing. You know how I hate that. Hey, where are you going?” My mother had pushed her chair back, and was holding her hand to her mouth. “You’re not going to be sick, are you?”

“No, no, I just have something stuck in my tooth.”

I tapped my fingers on the table, wondering if my mother really might be keeping something from me. Nah, probably not. After all, this was the same woman who used to terrorize me with depressing lullabies. The worst was an old spiritual that went, “Hush little baby, don’t you cry, you know your mama’s bound to die, all my troubles soon be over.” If I ever had a kid, I wasn’t even going to sing about boughs breaking and cradles falling.

My mother came back to the table wearing fresh lipstick. “You know,” she said as she sat back down in her chair, “while I was in the bathroom, I was just thinking about what an eerily intuitive child you were. From the time you were two until you turned twelve or so, I was convinced you had psychic powers, or were possessed by some ancient spirit. It was uncanny, the things you
knew. Then you became this oddly mimsy little creature, constantly second-guessing yourself.”

“So what am I supposed to do here, consult my navel? So far, it’s been completely silent.”

My mother was silent for a moment, resting her chin on her hands as she considered me. “The first thing you need to do is get in touch with your third eye.”

“Can I use my finger?”

“I can see that’s not the answer you wanted.”

“If I wanted to consult a shaman, I have one at home, remember?” At least Red had the tribal background to make it sound authentic.

“You know, at your age, I’d gotten over the need for an authority figure to tell me what to do.”

“Which explains why I used to have to wake you to get me ready for school.” I motioned to the waitress for the check, and she bounced over immediately, silver eyebrow and nose gems twinkling. I half wondered if she’d been listening in. But then she turned to my mother with shining eyes, and I relaxed. Another fan of my mother’s clever, campy oeuvre. “Excuse me,” she said, “but aren’t you Piper LeFevre? I loved your movies. When I was younger, I wanted to be just like you.”

“You are so kind, but I’m with my daughter right now,” my mother said, a little grandly. “She gets so jealous when I divide my attention during our times together.”

The waitress shot me a dirty look. I was ready to go back home.

I may have had as much maternal contact as I could stomach in one dose, but my mother had not finished with me. By the time I had finished examining Snowboy’s tooth, shaved a matted Persian, and de-wormed Pimpernel, the perpetually ailing Chihuahua, it was late in the afternoon, and the light was fading.

“You can always spend the night,” my mother offered. She knew I hated driving in the dark and was probably hoping I could pull Snowboy’s impacted tooth in the morning. But I didn’t have a general anesthetic in my handbag, and the thought of spending a night and a morning trapped at my mother’s held its own gnaw-off-your-own-paw terror.

“You know me. When I’m stressed, I can’t sleep.”

“So spend the night and don’t sleep here. You can watch my old movies.”

All through adolescence, images of my mother in various guises kept me company while my physical mother slept. “Thanks, Mom, but I really need to get back.”

“As you like. Wait a second, let me give you something before you go.”

I hoped it wouldn’t be anything like my birthday gift, which had been a tooth-whitening kit, tweezers, a pot of facial wax, and a magnifying mirror—the deluxe criticism
basket. I glanced at my watch. “Mom? Can’t this wait? I really want to get on the road.”

“Stop being so impatient, I’m coming.” My mother ambled over as if she had all the time in the world and deposited something cold and metal into my hands. “Here. Put this on.”

I held up the heavy silver chain, which supported a massive pale stone, its iridescent blues barely visible beneath the milky surface. As a whole, the piece was hideous—fussy and ostentatious and utterly at odds with the subtle beauty of the stone itself. “Thanks, Mom, but I don’t really think it goes with anything in my wardrobe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Abra, you could do with a bit of decoration. And when are you going to get laser surgery? Nobody wears glasses anymore.” She slipped the pendant into my hand; it felt like something used to secure prisoners.

“To be honest, I prefer delicate things.”