Moonglow (35 page)

Chapter 28

I don't remember much about my father's funeral.

I'm sure it was well-attended because I was surrounded by crowds of people. I remember being hugged by strangers, shaking hands with men in uniforms, watching two men take a very long time to fold the American flag and then present it to me and Barnaby. Most of the time, I just sat in the front row of the funeral parlor next to my brother and told people that I was okay. I had no idea if I was telling the truth.

At the time I remember thinking that this was completely surreal; it shouldn't be happening, because it couldn't possibly have been his time to die. But then the more logical, rational part of my brain contradicted me. It was his time, and more than that it was the time that he chose. Knowing that made the aftermath bearable.

When my father's body was found it became official, at least in the pages of the
Three W
and according to the subsequent rumor that instantaneously spread through town, that Weeping Water had its very own serial killer in the form of a wild animal. Whether the culprit was a cougar, mountain lion, or a wolf, no one could agree, but as the newly minted sheriff, Louis Bergeron was going to enforce a curfew on the area outside of town especially near the low hills and formally request state intervention and extra funding to find this predator and kill it. He valiantly fought back tears when he told the local TV news reporter that he would avenge his friend's death.

Louis assumed my father had been investigating a disturbance at the Jaffe cabin and had been taken by surprise by this “devil thing” before he could call in for backup. All of that is in the report he filed, including his reference to the “devil thing.” I could tap him on the shoulder and whisper “Too late!” but Louis has already rallied a posse to find this killer. I don't think he or anyone would hear or comprehend my comment. For now I'll keep quiet and live under his roof with Barnaby as my father stipulated in his will. Someday the time will come for me to give a full confession to the authorities, but that time isn't now.

Now is the time for penance.

At the repast, my friends and I gathered in my room away from the crowd of well-wishers and would-be bounty hunters. My friends were remarkably kind and understanding. They all suspected what had actually transpired the night of my last transformation, and to spare me the necessity of confirming their suspicions, Caleb did it for me. He's been true to his word and has supported me every step of the way. So have my friends.

Caleb said that once my father knew the only way for the curse to be reversed was for him to die at my hand, he had made up his mind that that's how it was going to be done. Archie and Arla agreed that that's what fathers do; they protect their children at all cost even if it means giving up their own lives. Nadine, ever practical, added that my father felt the need to take responsibility for his own actions.

Archie's the only one who's brave enough to ask me if I remember anything. I don't. We all acknowledge that that's a blessing in itself.

Once that unpleasant issue is brushed aside, the rest of them, including Caleb, do what they always do, which is talk about this werewolf as if it's separate from me, another entity. They don't realize or can't realize or simply refuse to understand that we were joined together; we were one and the same, so this werewolf didn't kill my father; I did. No one, not even Archie, comes right out and says it that plainly, and for that I'm even more grateful, because it's something I keep trying to forget myself.

But I'll never forget it, of course. How could I? It's always going to be there, as strong and as obvious as the invisible string that connects me to my father. Just like the ones that connect me to Caleb and Jess and all my friends. But the interesting thing about an invisible string is that even though it's always there when you need to tug on it, its invisibility makes it very convenient to forget it exists if the connection becomes too painful.

So I accepted their love and their friendship and their honesty, but sitting there on my bed surrounded by them, I had never felt more alone in my entire life. All I wanted was to know that my father was down the hall, and if I couldn't have that, I wanted Jess sitting next to me. But now that I'm rehumanized, I'll never see her again either.

When his casket was lowered into the ground, I do remember being blinded by sunshine, so I'd like to think Jess was nearby, saying her final good-byes.

 

The Bergeron house is surprisingly big. Louis and his pals converted the attic into a bedroom for Barnaby and bought him his very own flat-screen TV/video game console, and the guest bedroom is now officially mine, separated from Arla's bedroom by a huge bathroom complete with two sinks. Perfect, now I get to watch Arla apply ointment to her scar while I brush my teeth in the morning. As much as my father tried, it's impossible to sever all ties with the past, because the past comes equipped with a perfect handle so you can carry it with you while you travel into the future.

No doubt about it, the transition hasn't been all that smooth, and my father's death has aroused some suspicion. Especially from the dim-witted ex-deputy who may not be so dim-witted after all.

“Dominy, I hate to ask.”

That's how Louis began a conversation a few nights ago while it was just the two of us in the living room waiting for Arla and Barnaby to return home from track practice.

“But did your father ever mention that he knew he was going to die?”

He actually orchestrated his own death, Louis. Why do you ask?

“ No. ”

“It's just . . . well, it's just that last week he redid his will and increased his insurance policy,” Louis said.

Imitating a shell-shocked, basically orphaned teenager, I nodded my head, keeping one eye glued to the TV. “My dad did like to plan things out.”

“Yes, he did. Very meticulous, your father,” Louis agreed, grasping onto the straw I threw at him. “I was just wondering if he, I don't know, did he have some kind of . . . premonition?”

No, he was given instructions from a crazy woman.

“From everything he always told me,” I reply, “my mother was the superstitious one.”

At the mention of my mother's name, Louis nods his head and smiles, his soft green eyes lighting up. “That she was, Dom, that she was,” he says. “You know you don't have to worry about her, right? Your father made sure that she can stay at The Retreat for as long . . .”

“As long as she wants,” I finish. “I know, he told me once that all that was taken care of.”

I also know that there's a fund for my mother's funeral expenses when that time ever comes, and I know that my father has shared this information with Louis, but Louis must've felt he's talked enough about death with me, since he didn't bring up the subject. He told me we'd have dinner when the track stars got home and left the room, leaving behind any suspicions he might have, taking with him only the knowledge that his former boss and friend was a responsible father who, unfortunately, met an untimely end. Barnaby is proving a lot more difficult to appease.

“This is a great room, Barn,” I say, sitting on his bed next to him, trying to kill his alien spaceship with my star trooper laser beams.

“I got the biggest TV of any kid in my class,” he replies, deftly protecting his spaceship from each and every one of my laser beams.

The kid's as fast on screen as he is on the track.

“It's not so bad here, is it?” I ask.

“No,” he says, eyes fixed straight ahead, fingers nimbly navigating the joystick. “The whole thing sucks, like super-sized sucks, but could be lots worse.”

I look up to where Louis has hung the American flag my father was given for being a policeman; it is handsomely showcased behind glass in a triangular wooden display case. It belongs to Barnaby now, rightfully so. Now my brother can wake up every morning and be reminded that his dad was a hero. I don't need a physical reminder; I experienced it firsthand. What I do need is a crash course on the finer points of Space Odyssey VII or whatever game we're playing.

My brief distraction proves fatal, and Barnaby's counterattack is successful. My spaceship is annihilated and bursts into a red cloud that becomes an elaborate fireworks display, ultimately spelling out the phrase
You Are A Loser.
No wonder these video games are addictive; the only way to bypass negative reinforcement is to master the game and keep winning. In that way, I guess it's kind of like life, only much easier.

“Dinner's ready!”

Arla's announcement puts an end to my losing streak for now. Barnaby makes sure I know it will continue. Just as he's about to descend the stairs to the main floor, he turns to me. His body is still as scrawny as ever and his nose is just as big, but his eyes look different; they're clear and bright and focused, like they're the only part of him that's grown up.

“Oh, Dom, I don't know how or why, but I know that somehow you're responsible for Daddy's death,” he says casually. “And someday I'm going to figure it all out.”

I watch as Barnaby bounds down the stairs, disappearing out of view. My knees start to shake, not a lot, but just enough for me to need to hold on to the railing to steady myself and just enough to remind me that his words are not an idle threat. They're words of caution that I'd be a fool to ignore.

But if I want any semblance of normalcy to return to my days, I have to do just that. Take my father's death, my brother's threat, my unmentionable past and lock them up in little suitcases that for now don't have any handles and tuck them away in my closet. I know I'll have to take them down at some point, but for now, for my sanity's sake, I'm keeping them hidden.

As a result my days do slowly become normal again. Classes, dates with Caleb, cheerleading practice, confabs around the lunch table. It's almost like the horror of the past several months has been erased.

Remnants linger, like the day I accidentally walked home to my old house and saw a F
OR
S
ALE
sign on the front lawn. For a fleeting moment, I thought if I walked inside and ran up to my room the house would magically become mine again. Why can't my old life return if I wish for it hard enough? Because there are other forces out in the world that more often than not are working against us; they're not our champions, that's why. Turning my back on my old house, I realized that I'm very much like my brother. I've grown up a lot too.

But I still need my mommy.

I hate going to visit my mother on Mother's Day; it's just so pathetic. The doctors and nurses give you that pity look that is completely deserved, but because no one wants to be pitied you smile back as if to say, “Oh that's all right; it's okay that my mom's in an irreversible coma.” It's a no-win situation. So that's why I always go visit her on the day before the manufactured holiday. Saves everybody a lot of discomfort.

This visit is very different though. I've often visited my mother without my father, but this is the first time I've come to see her when I know my father will never tag along again, that never again will my mother feel his presence and hear his voice. Hopefully, mine will do.

“Hey, Mom, how are you?”

My question falls flatter than usual because if she could speak, I know her answer wouldn't be one I'd want to hear. If she has any idea what recently happened, the pain in her heart must be intolerable. I pray that she understands we did the only thing we could do. And I pray that she believes the right one got to live.

My father didn't talk about his relationship with my mother very much, but I know they loved each other tremendously. It was one of those whirlwind romances, and against all odds the small-town boy won the heart of the sophisticated European beauty. She gave up everything—her life back in France, the adventures she was planning on having, the outlandish memories she was going to create—all to marry my father and settle down in the middle of nowhere. Theirs was a fairy-tale romance that, I guess, has had a fairy-tale ending. She's Sleeping Beauty, and her Prince Charming was killed by the Big Bad Wolf. When I think of it that way, it almost makes me laugh. Almost.

But any gigglaughs that may erupt are silenced by the sound of squeaking.

“Oh I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were here.”

Funny how Nadine looks more normal when she's dressed in her volunteer regalia than when she's wearing her school uniform or dressed up for a party. She really was meant for this place, and she really was meant to come to the aid of people who are lost or sick or who just need a friend.

“I'll come back later,” she says, clicking her pen.

“Don't,” I say. “We could use the company.”

Unlike Jess, Nadine isn't a chatterbox, and that's what I need right now, a quiet companion who will understand I only want her to sit close by so I don't feel like I'm so alone. Nadine gets it and sits in the chair next to the window while I hold my mother's hand. I could stare at my mother for hours and just breathe in her beauty, but for Nadine the novelty wears off after a few minutes. Her long, slow breaths fill the room, and she must be in a deep sleep, because she doesn't wake up when her pen falls out of her hand, clicking and bouncing onto the floor.

It might be the residual effects of when I was inhuman, but without turning around I can sense that I'm not the only person in the room who's still awake.

“Hello, Luba.”

She looks as disgusting and sinister as ever; victory hasn't improved her looks. Her pale, unnaturally smooth face is framed on both sides by that long, raven-black hair that falls to her waist. Clad only in her hospital gown, she has, I assume, returned to The Retreat to reclaim her room, but I'm wrong; she's here to reclaim her status as number-one psycho.