Called

LIGHT | 8-2

PETER HATED THE HIGH Street—‘Too many idiots,’ he grumbled—so we ended up at his favourite department store. With Peter’s salary being our sole household income, what he wanted took priority, making Menswear the first section we visited.

Whenever we shopped together, he’d never ask my opinion. An item would be taken from the rail, he’d hold it up and study it, and then tell me he’d make it look good—just as he told me what I’d look good in, too.

The basket contained an entire outfit for him before we headed for Ladieswear, where he held a knee-length skirt against me. “This is nice.”

Jem, you’re thirty-two, not fifty-two. Poppy’s words bounced inside my head like a ping-pong ball as I stared at the pleats.

“Jem?”

“Huh?”

He frowned like he considered me some kind of miscreant. “Pardon is the word you’re looking for.”

“Pardon, Peter,” I muttered. “What did you say?”

“I said, this is nice. What do you think?”

If Poppy were there, she’d have found some place to hide it, to prevent me parting with money for something so awful. “Actually, Peter, I’m not keen on the colour.” I cringed once the words left my mouth.

He stared at me as though seeing me clearly for the first time. I’d never disputed anything he wanted to buy me before. “Well, I like it.” It went in the basket with the nice, modern clothing he’d chosen for himself. “There are some cardigans on the other side I spotted last time,” he continued, walking off. “We’ll get one to go with it.”

I trotted behind like his good little wife, but managed no more than a handful of steps before annoying tingling dotted the flesh of my arms. I brushed at them, despite seeing nothing there.

Peter paused and turned back, regarding me as I rubbed the length of my arms. “What are you doing?”

I glanced up at him. “My arms feel funny.” The tingling grew stronger. I rubbed harder until friction burned my skin and marked it red.

“Will you stop that!” he said. “People are staring.”

“I can’t help it.”

The tingling extended to my legs. I bent to study my shins protruding from beneath my skirt, expected to see a bug infestation crawling across me, but found nothing.

“Stop it, Jem. You’re causing a scene.”

My hands neglected my arms to rub at my legs.

“Jem, stop it.”

“I—”

Intense throbbing bulleted through me, beating against the inner walls of my body, and a gasp burst from me as I doubled over. As though my bones had fractured into a thousand splinters, tiny needle-like stabs jabbed at every inch of my flesh, until a mewled cry took over the gasp.

With the intensity of an inferno, heat shot up my spine and into my skull. My knees collapsed. I threw my arms out, landed hard with a grunt, and swayed on all fours.

I’m changing. I frowned as I panted. Why on earth would I think that?

“Jem?”

Spasms raged through every muscle I possessed.

I glanced down. My eyes widened.

Pulsations washed over me, evident where they weren’t before. With the elasticity of dough, my skin stretched over my body into impossible contortions. My back snapped down to a low bow, with a crunch crashing through my hearing and agony powerful enough to twist my spine.

I slammed my lids shut. My cry echoed off the high ceilings. Upon opening my eyes, even my hands beneath me had altered form.

How can this be happening?

“Jem?”

Hairs sprouted from my pores as though fed on rapid-result fertiliser. My breaths and pulse increased to a manic rate. Rationality argued otherwise, yet I knew my body to be in the midst of a change. The how and the why were far from my comprehension, but somewhere deep within, my mind told me to wait it out, that it would be over soon.

“Jem?”

Squeezing my lids tight, I attempted to block the t*****e needling through me. With deep breaths, I imagined a farmer’s meadow, with butterflies and bumblebees, buzzing and fluttering amongst the wildflowers. The trick had always worked to calm me as a child, to chase away the unwanted return of nightmares. I threw my concentration into the yellow and black of the flying creatures, the brilliant white of the flickering wings, the swaying of purple petals upon the gentle breeze, until my pain subsided.

I opened my eyes to a dense forest. Fresh foliage coated every inch of higher-based timber. A deep inhalation discovered a musky scent on the air, and I shivered, drawing it in deeper until intoxicated by its allure.

Sean!

The breeze, which carried the beckoning scent, led the way, and my claws scratched at dirt as I took off. Upon rounding a broad trunk, a huge, dark wolf came into view.

Sean!

The wolf’s jaw dropped, its tongue hung loose, before it spun on its hind legs and raced away. So near, the wind swirling a whirlpool around my face, the scent of my mate aroused me. I threw my head back and released a howl.

“Jem?”

With feet dancing, I awaited his response. He matched mine with a cry of his own, and I took off, caught him up in his loitering lope. Side by side, we picked up speed.

“Jem?”

The wind whipped at our faces before changing course to batter our coats from the side.

“Jem?”

The forest dissolved. Vanished. I blinked.

“Jem?”

Lifting my head, I squinted beneath the harsh glare of strip-lights hanging in rows along the high ceiling.

“Will you get up?”

Another blink brought Peter’s blurred face into view.

“For f**k’s sake, get up. You’re making a right spectacle of yourself.” Peter’s irritated features swam into focus.

“What ... what happened?”

“Is she alright?” I couldn’t identify the speaker.

“What happened?” I repeated.

“You must have fainted, dear.”

I looked toward the owner of the voice to see eyes filled with concern.

The shop assistant frowned as she studied me. “Are you okay?”

I nodded at her, pushed on my left leg to stand. Unsteadiness overtook me, and the assistant grabbed my arm. From status of floor-seeking nutter to composed wife of Peter Short, I stood looking at Peter. His face held nothing but contempt.

When I thanked the assistant, she handed me over. Peter didn’t offer help. Instead, he grabbed my bicep and dragged me off around the corner, away from the prying eyes of the congregated crowd.

“What the hell was that all about?” he snapped.

I shrugged my shoulders at Peter’s glare. “I don’t know. What did it look like?” I almost stopped there, but knew the next question needed asking. “Did I do anything?” I cringed, waiting for him to tell me I’d pranced about the store with howls flying freely.

In front of Saturday shoppers? Too much to bear.

“What do you mean, Jem, did you do anything?” The basket swung in an arc with his gesturing arm. “You b****y fell on your knees, closed your eyes, and sniffed the f*****g air like a bloodhound.” The basket continued to swing. At my offered frown, his free hand fisted before settling on his hip. “What the hell is wrong with you lately?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been acting off for days.” Peter turned to walk away.

Just as he knew I would, I trotted behind. “What do you mean, off?”

“Your b****y attitude.” He had to be really wound up to persist. Peter never argued in public. He continued to walk away, increasing his pace until I had to almost jog to keep up.

My own irritation kicked in to affect my tone. “What do you mean, Peter?”

We entered the cardigan aisle. He marched to a rail, snatched one up. “This one.” He turned to hold it in front of me as though envisioning a personal dress-up doll. “This will look nice with the skirt.”

“Peter!”

His head snapped up, his eyes registering shock before narrowing. “I asked you what you think, Jem.”

“No, Peter, you never ask me what I think.” Though surprised by my response, I continued, “You tell me what you think.”

“If you feel that strongly,”—he shoved it back—“we won’t get it.” He walked off to a different rail.

I followed. “I’m trying to talk to you, Peter.”

He rounded on me, his eyes dark. “What is wrong with you?”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“You have anything you want.” His hand tugged at his cropped hair. “I give you everything. You don’t have to work—”

“You don’t want me to work, Peter.”

An elderly couple appeared. They took one look at our faces, mumbled something about coming back, and disappeared.

“You’ve been off with me,” he said.

“What do you mean, off?”

“You’ve barely come near me—”

“I’m never away from you, Peter. If you’re home, I’m home.”

“You’ve been ill—twice. Jem, you’re never ill.”

I frowned. “Twice—when?”

“Sick last Saturday, and then today—this.”

My head shook. “I’m not ill today.”

“Well, you didn’t look too good from where I was standing.” He paused, took a deep breath, and stared straight at me. “Are you pregnant?”

Peter couldn’t father children, thanks to a brain tumour as a child and chemotherapy rendering him infertile, but his insinuation refused to click in my mind. My eyebrows lifted, and my mouth hung for a split-second. “Excuse me?”

“Are you?”

My brows lowered to frown. “How can I be?”

“Last chance.” He spoke slowly. “Are you pregnant? Yes, or no?”

“You know I’m not. How can I be?”

Anger pumped out of him as he studied me. His chest rose and fell, as though public control took its toll.

As my brain un-clouded, my eyes narrowed. “You think I’m having an affair?”

He shrugged, his mood bringing jerkiness to the action.

A lump formed in my throat. “How can you?”

“You haven’t come near me in a week.”

My mouth opened, but closed with no response.

Two young women made the turn into our aisle, halting upon seeing our exchange. They moved away, but the overpowering waft of the one’s orange-scented body spray told me they went no farther than the far side of the clothes rack.

“Every time I touch you lately, you flinch.” He shrugged his shoulder, raised a palm. “Tell me you haven’t.”

Unable to argue with the truth, I remained quiet.

“Why do you pull away when I try to hold you?”

My fingers curled as my body trembled. I hadn’t been prepared for the change of direction.

His hand dropped to his side. “Tell me who he is, Jem.”

Jaw clenched, I shook my head.

“What, you won’t give me his name?” His eyes glowered.

I gave another headshake.

“What are you shaking your head at?”

The initial arrival of tears pooled in my lower lids.

“Who is he?” Certain of his own-drawn conclusion, his questions grew monotonous.

“Nobody,” I mumbled.

“He must be somebody to make you behave like this toward me.”

Because it can’t possibly be due to anything you’ve done, can it? “I’m not having an affair.”

“You must be.” He nodded as though to add substance to his words.

My lower lip trembled. “I’m not, I swear.”

“So, explain your behaviour, then.” His hand visited his hip, lowered to his side.

I shook my head.

“Why do you keep avoiding me, Jem?” His voice increased in volume.

Hands clenched tight, fingernails gouging my palms, I gave another headshake.

He took a step forward. “Why?”

I kept my eyes on him as tears blurred my vision. One made its escape, tickling my cheek on its descent. It reached my lip, and my tongue darted out to trap it, absorbing its saltiness.

“Why, Jem?”

My mind followed the trail of the second tear until it came into sampling distance. It, too, held a light salty taste.

“Tell me, Jem.” His hand released the basket to clatter onto the floor and came to his side, matching his other in fisted pose. “f*****g why?” The depth of his yell shook his body.

“I can’t stand you touching me anymore,” I said. “You b****y come home pissed-up, drag me upstairs to throw me on the bed ...”

He took a step back, mouth open. Whether from the explanation or my language, I couldn’t be sure—Peter considered it unacceptable for ladies to speak crudely.

“You came this close”—I held my thumb and finger together—“to r****g me, Peter.”

His head shook.

I nodded.

He gave another headshake.

“You were going to r**e me, Peter!”

His expression darkened with his narrowing eyes. He kicked at the basket he’d dropped, sending it skidding like a spinning top. With one final glare, he strode away.

I took a step. “Peter.”

He didn’t stop. Instead, he picked up speed with each stride. As soon as he vanished from sight, unfamiliar faces appeared at each end of the clothes rails. Faces filled with disgust or amusement at my public humiliation, or even excitement. One or two took on pitying stares.

The shop assistant who’d helped me from the floor rounded the corner. With a smile of sympathy, she placed her hand on my arm. “Would you like me to find you somewhere private to sit for a while?”

My chest heaved with my sigh. With a half-smile of gratitude, I gave a small nod and allowed her to steer me away.

Beyond a pass-coded door, she led me to an office, where she urged me into one of the seats. “Maybe there’s someone you can call?”

***