Hallen’s Scottish Antiquary of 1886 refers to . . .
Tuna melts, Liz decided, grabbing the can opener out of the drawer. Simple and quick. And Zack liked them. Tigger
mewed as the opener bit into the can, releasing the smell of tuna. Adolescent boys were like strays. As long as they were
eating, they didn‟t run away. She‟d set his plate in front of him and say . . .
And say . . .
“You Googled me,” Zack accused behind her.
Her heart sank. Not the opening she was searching for.
“Like I was a disease or something,” he continued.
She turned. “Zack.”
He stood in the middle of their new kitchen, a skinny, black-haired version of Morgan with stormy face and glittering eyes.
“ He told you, didn‟t he? My . . . Morgan.”
“Someone had to.” His head snapped back as if she‟d slapped him. She bled for him, her man-child, her firstborn,
struggling with a fate and a secret too big to bear. “It doesn‟t make any difference,” she said gently.
“It does to me.”
“You‟re still my son. I love you.”
“I‟m a freak.”
She shook her head. “You‟re unique.”
“Mom. That‟s what they say to kids they put in special classes.”
Despite her heartache, she smiled. “Nothing wrong with special classes.”
Except that Morgan wanted to take him away. For training, he‟d said.
A pang struck her heart.
She dumped the tuna into a bowl. Tigger quivered at her feet. “You‟re the same on the inside,” she said firmly. “Anybody
who cares about you will see that.”
“I turn into a shark. Did he tell you that?”
Her throat closed. A shark. Well. The skin on her arms prickled.
“ I chose the forms most likely to be acceptable to you, ” Morgan had said. “ The closest to human of the creatures of the
sea. ”
Bending, she set the nearly empty can on the floor for Tigger. The kitten‟s vibrating little body pressed against her ankles.
“He said you were a shape-shifter. An elemental. A child of the sea.”
“A shark. It‟s fucking scary.”
“I imagine it is.” She straightened and faced him. “Especially for you.”
His chin thrust out. Trembled. The glitter in his eyes was tears.
She melted. Stepping over the kitten, she crossed the kitchen, reached up, and put her arms around him. His shoulders were
broad and bony. His head loomed above hers.
His arms, his chest, his whole body stiffened. And then he made a sound deep in his chest and sagged against her. His
forehead leaned against her shoulder. His body shook.
She closed her eyes.
“It‟s okay,” she said, the way she had when he was a little boy, with a little boy‟s hurts and fears. She stroked his blackdyed hair. No matter what he was, what he could become, how old he got, he was still her Zack. “Everything‟s going to be all
right. It doesn‟t make any difference.”
She hoped.
“Why did you sleep with him?” Zack asked when the meal was done and they were clearing the dishes away.
Her heart bumped guiltily. “What?”
“Morgan. Did you know what he was before you . . .” Zack ducked his head. “You know.”
She exhaled in relief. He wasn‟t referring to last night. But where was he going with this? “No, of course not. I didn‟t know
until today.”
“So it would have made a difference,” Zack said. His eyes were bleak and curiously adult.
“Oh, sweetie.”
But he didn‟t need a child‟s reassurances now, she realized. His tears earlier had steadied him, strengthened him somehow.