chapter FIFTY-SEVEN
• SAM •
I felt dirty after Beck shifted back, like I’d been complicit in a crime. I was reminded so acutely of my life before, when I’d hidden from the winter and when I’d had my family, that I could feel my thoughts slipping away to protect me. I wasn’t the only one, apparently: Cole announced that he was “going for a drive” and left in Ulrik’s old BMW. After he’d gone, Grace trailed after me as I made bread as if my life depended on it, and then I left her watching the oven as I went to shower. To scrub the memories off me. To remind myself that, for now, I had my hands and my human skin and my face.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been in there when I heard the bathroom door open and close.
“This is good,” Grace said. The closed toilet lid creaked as she tried to find a way to make it a comfortable seat. “Good job, Sam.”
I couldn’t see her, but I could smell the bread. I was oddly discomfited by the knowledge that she was in the room while I was standing there under the running water. Somehow taking a shower with her in the room was more intimate than sex. I felt about one thousand times more naked, even behind the dark shower curtain.
I looked at the bar of soap in my hand. I applied it to my ribs. “Thanks.”
Grace was quiet, inches away on the other side of the curtain. I couldn’t see her, so she couldn’t see me.
“Are you all clean in there?” Grace asked.
“Oh my God, Grace,” I replied, and she laughed.
There was another pause. I washed between my fingers. One of my fingernails was battered from rubbing against a guitar string. I studied it to see if I needed to do something about it; it was hard to properly diagnose it in the orange half-light provided by the shower curtain.
“Rachel said she would go with me, tomorrow, to see my parents,” Grace said. “Tomorrow night. That’s when she’s free.”
“Are you nervous?” I was nervous, and I wasn’t even going, by Grace’s request.
“I dunno. It just has to happen. It’ll get you off the hook. Plus, I need to be officially alive for Olivia’s funeral. Rachel said they cremated her.” She stopped. There was a long space full of nothing but the water hitting me and the tile. She said, “This bread is excellent.”
I got it. Subject change. “Ulrik taught me how to make it.”
“What a talented guy. Speaks with a German accent and makes bread.” On the other side, she poked the shower curtain; when it touched my bare hip, I shied away in an undignified fashion. “You know, this could be us, in five years.”
I had no body parts left to clean. I was a prisoner in the shower unless I could reach my towel from behind the curtain or persuade Grace to hand it to me. I didn’t think she would hand it to me. “Making bread with a German accent?” I suggested.
“That’s exactly what I meant,” she said. I heard the withering tone in her voice. I was glad to hear it. I could use levity at the moment.
“Will you give me my towel?”
“You have to come and get it.”
“Vixen,” I muttered. There was hot water left. I stood in it and looked at the uneven grout on the tiles under the showerhead. My fingers were getting pruney and the hair on my legs had stuck together to form soaked, matted arrows toward my feet.
“Sam?” Grace said. “Do you think Cole’s right about the cure? About the meningitis working if you have it while you’re a wolf? Do you think I should try it?”
This was too hard of a question to answer after the evening with Beck. Yes, I wanted her cured. I wanted more proof than me, though, that it would work. I wanted something to make the fate Jack had suffered a lower percentage of the possible outcomes. I had risked everything for this, but now that it came to it for Grace, I didn’t want her to do the same. But how could she have a normal life without it?
“I don’t know. I want more information.” It sounded formal, like something I’d say to Koenig. I am collecting more data.
“I mean, we don’t have to worry about it until winter, anyway,” she said. “I was just wondering if you felt cured.”
I didn’t know what to tell her. I didn’t feel cured. I felt like what Cole said — almost cured. A war survivor with a phantom limb. I still felt that wolf that I’d been: living in my cells, sleeping uneasily, waiting to be coaxed out by weather or a rush of adrenaline or a needle in my veins. I didn’t know if that was real or suggested. I didn’t know if one day I would feel secure in my skin, taking my human body for granted.
“You look cured,” Grace said.
Just her face was visible at the end of the shower curtain, looking in at me. She grinned and I yelled. Grace reached in just far enough to shut off the tap.
“I’m afraid,” she said, whipping the shower curtain open all the way and presenting me with my towel, “this is the sort of thing you’ll have to put up with in your old age.”
I stood there, dripping, feeling utterly ridiculous, Grace standing opposite, smiling with her challenge. There was nothing for it but to get over the awkwardness. Instead of taking the towel, I took her chin with my wet fingers and kissed her. Water from my hair ran down my cheeks and onto our lips. I was getting her shirt all wet, but she didn’t seem to mind. A lifetime of this seemed rather appealing. I said gallantly, “That better be a promise.”
Grace stepped into the shower in her sock feet and wrapped her arms around my damp chest. “It’s a guarantee.”