Page 86 of Such Sharp Teeth

“That’s good,” I say. I can’t resist adding, “For Scarlett.”

“We can have Thanksgiving together,” she says.

“Great.” I actually mean it, because she’ll happily cook a turkey and I’ll happily eat a turkey.

“You smell like whiskey,” she says.

I lift my coffee cup. “A gift from Romeo out there in the waiting room.”

“He’s so devastated,” Mom says. “I don’t know what Scarlett’s thinking.”

I lower my voice. “Has she said anything to you?”

She shakes her head. “It was horrible last night. She started having pains. She had to pull over. She threw up. The doctor said she was dehydrated. Her blood pressure is a little high. I imagine it’s the stress of it all.”

I sure hope it’s a coincidence that the day after I tell Scarlett I’m a werewolf, she ends up in the hospital.

I wish I could be that naive.

“It’s all right,” Mom says, giving me another hug. “I know you’re worried, but the doctor said everything was fine.”

I look over Mom’s shoulder and see that Scarlett’s awake, watching us.

“My gorgeous sister,” I say.

She starts to cry.

I freeze.

“Oh, honey,” Mom runs over.

“Can’t you respect my privacy?” Scarlett asks. “I could hear you. I just want some privacy. Please? Can I be left alone for a minute?”

“Honey,” Mom says, pushing Scarlett’s hair back out of her face, “you don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she says, looking over at me. “Please.”

She closes her eyes. I hate seeing my sister cry.

“I will be leaving, then. It’s been a pleasure,” I say, giving a regal wave. “Until we meet again. Auf Wiedersehen, goodbye.”

I down the rest of my Irish coffee and toss the cup into the trash on my way out. I hear Mom calling my name, but I ignore her. I’m not going to get her out of that room; there’s no point in trying. What I can do is listen to Scarlett and give her the space she’s requested.

I make myself useful by stopping at the grocery store on the way home. I buy all the things Scarlett likes and, for myself, enough meat to feed a football team.

I unpack the groceries, then channel my guilt into cleaning. I vacuum. I open the rest of the gifts from the shower. The diaper thing. Some clothes. I remove the tags and put them in the washing machine with organic detergent. I scrub toilets and refill soap dispensers.

I finish construction of the crib. I assemble a mobile. I get the clothes out of the dryer and fold them.

I hold up a pale yellow onesie and try to picture a baby inside it. I wonder what it will be like to have this new little person in our lives. I wonder how her weight will feel in my arms.

I take my phone out of my back pocket. There’s a single shard of screen left. Still works, though.

The next full moon is in twenty days.

I can’t undo what’s been done, but I can try to figure out a way to live with it. To harness it. Find some control.

I run the soft fabric of the onesie between my fingers.