Let's Just All Have a Normal Dinner

Theodore is the first and only person whose mind I can read.

And when we make eye contact, he knows exactly what I'm thinking, too. It's terribly romantic, except for the times he's thinking let's make out and I'm thinking oh, no, the tacos I scarfed earlier are ready to make their exit.

I look at him now and he looks back.

He's thinking: It's going to be okay.

It is not going to be okay, but I admire how bravely he sits next to me, squeezing my hand under the table, at my family's Friday night dinner.

We've been together for three years, but it's the first time I've let them anywhere near him.

And it'll likely be the last time he lets me anywhere near him...

“You are a handsome one, aren't you, Teddy?” my grandmother asks.

“Gran,” I warn. “He doesn't go by—”

“It doesn't surprise me. Meg always had excellent taste. Just like yours truly. Her grandpa, my beloved late husband Paulie, may his soul rest in pieces, was a humdinger of a man,” she closes her eyes, a dreamy, faraway expression on her face. “And, boy, did he like having his dinger hummed if you know what I'm saying.”

Oh, how lovely it would be to be dead right now.

My nineteen-year-old brother Liam makes a retching sound. He pushes his plate away, though he's barely touched his food. “Welp, I'm done eating.”

Gran has given herself the giggles. “Oof, peed a little. No cap.”

Theo’s shoulder brushes against mine as he leans into me and whispers, “Did your grandmother just say no cap?”

Heaving a sigh, I nod. I have lost the power of speech. We're not making eye contact so he can't know what I'm thinking which is, I'll miss you, my love.

He’s going to run away to the same far-off land all my exes flee to after they experience my family.

“And did she say your grandfather is resting in... pieces?” His breath tickles my earlobe, sending shivers down my spine, the bone deep ache of impending loss through the rest of my limbs.

“Um, yeah,” I pulse my palm against his before detangling our fingers and reaching for my utensils. The faster we eat, the sooner this night will be over. Maybe we can get out of here before Gran tells the story about how Gramps wound up resting in pieces.

“Hey,” Theo squeezes my knee with his freed-up hand. “Look at me, Meg.”

Complying with a quick glimpse—You're going to dump me—I turn back to my chicken, stabbing it with my fork before he can finish his reply, a protest. No, I would—

“It's already dead, honey. You don't have to be so vicious,” Mom says, lightly, her voice gentle as ever.

I give her a small smile. She mouths that she likes Theodore.

She liked Andrew, too, I think, a flush spreading from my cheeks to my earlobes. If only I could blink back the memory the way I blink back the prickle of hot tears it elicits even to this day. Theodore is my true love, but Andrew was my first love.

Me or them, Meggie. You gotta go cut them out or... it's over.

The way he sighed after he issued the ultimatum, so heartfelt. The way he held my gaze, so imploring. The way he moved on to his next girlfriend, so fast.

My family is a lot, but I love them. I could never go no contact the way he demanded. Not for Andrew, not for Theodore, not for anyone.

I turn my chicken into a shredded pile, none of which ever makes it to my mouth.

“Yep, yep,” Gran says, having caught control of herself, nodding somberly. “Meg and I both have wonderful taste in men. Unlike her mother. What's up with this sad sack of cheese she married?”

She gestures with the butter knife at my dad, seated on the other side of me, using his newspaper as a shield, ignoring his meal and every last one of us.

Gran and Dad have a classic if cliched mother-in-law/son-in-law relationship built on decades of mutual distaste and petty jabs.

“Anywho,” Gran says. “I chopped him up. My dear Paulie.”

Theodore sucks in a surprised breath and makes a hacking sound. I twist towards him.

“Are you okay?” I touch his arm, concerned he just inhaled a whole dinner roll.

He wheezes and coughs, his eyes watering. Nodding, he gulps down what's left of his tea, sputters, and hacks some more, sounding like an engine that can't quite catch.

“Babe?” I'm halfway out of my seat, my pulse pounding in my ears.

Theodore holds up the universal I'm fine hand. Removes his glasses. Wipes them down with his cloth napkin. “I'm alright, just got strangled, I'm good,” he says, but the words come out in fits and starts.

Mom rushes to refill his glass. “Can I get you anything else, Theo?”

Liam, who has torn his attention from his screen for half a second, goes back to his regularly scheduled doomscrolling.

Theo shakes his head. “No, thanks.”

“Well, then. Let's all just have a normal dinner, shall we?”

“That would require a normal family, dear,” Dad remarks.

“Richard, put the paper down. Liam, put your phone down. We have a guest and you're both being rude,” Mom says.

“Mrs. Bridgewood, it's okay, I don't—”

Mom slaps her hands down on the table and we all jump, the rest of Theo's sentence drowning into the awkward silence that follows.

“No,” she says, polite but firm. “It isn't. It isn't okay at all. Now, let's all be pleasant and enjoy our time together.”

By the time she's finished her sentence, there's a biting edge to her words. I don't recognize it and I don't like it.

She beams at each of us in turn.

But as her large brown eyes settle on me, her pupils flare. Her lips tremble, her too wide smile on the brink of collapse.

I stare at my brother until he glimpses up from his phone.

Mom is angry, I think at him, but Liam's not Theo, he can't read my thoughts, and I can't read his, if there's even anything up in that head other than hashtags.

“Meggie's told us so many wonderful things about you, Theo, and we're thrilled to finally meet you,” Mom says, warmly, but her eyes, her smile, they're still not right.

“I'm thrilled to finally be met,” Theo replies, but his jovial tone rings fake to my ears. “I hope I live up to the hype. And, of course, I'm so happy to finally meet you all, as well.”

He looks at me the way he does, kind of surprised like he can't believe I'm his, but with so much care, like his primary concern is keeping me safe. Hang in there, baby.

I nod, and in a low voice, so only he can hear me, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says. I'm freaking out, he thinks before averting his gaze.

Snatching up my spoon, I dive it towards my mashed potatoes but it slips from my fingers, clattering against my plate.

Next to me, Theo flinches.

My skeleton rattles beneath my skin, my muscles painfully tense.

“Where was I?” Gran muses. “Oh, right. Chopping up Paulie. This was after he passed, mind you. I was not his cause of death. But oh, we had fun that night, I–”

“Mother, shut up!” Mom snaps.

Dad cranes his neck, peering at her over the top of the sports section.

Liam pockets his phone.

I clutch my spoon so tight I feel the metal bend.

All of our mouths have dropped open, lips parted, our collective shock swirling around our heads in a palpable, if invisible, cloud.

Gran recovers first. “Don't you dare speak to me that way, missy!” She jabs a finger at mom. “I still have my axe, you know.”

I peek at Theo, who, to his credit, hasn't bolted. But then again, maybe he's afraid to move.

IamsosorryIamsosorryIamsosorry, I think, but he's staring at his plate, as if he's not only avoiding eye contact with me, he's avoiding eye contact with everyone I'm related to.

And I can't blame him.

I swing my attention to Mom. She's choking the pepper grinder in her left hand, her right hand in a fist. The light from the chandelier above bounces, gleaming, off her rings. Her knuckles are white and...

I blink.

Blink again.

The backs of her hands are hairy.

“I'm kidding, Teddy,” Gran says to Theo. “I do not, in fact, still have my axe. I buried it with Paulie. Well, with his right arm. Just in case.”

I can't look away from Mom's hands and the longer I stare, the hairier they look.

Gran drones on, and her words sound distant. It's as if everything has faded but my mother's hands, but I don't need to listen to know what Gran’s saying. I knew the story by heart before I was twelve.

“Oh, what fun we had that night, just me and my dearly departed love, underneath the moonlight and the stars. He left a detailed list of his final wishes. I hauled him around in a red wagon just like he wanted. I high-fived his left hand before I buried it in Gladwell Park. He wanted to be scattered all over the city, in his favorite places—”

“Richard!” Mom shrieks. “Do something!”

“Oh, yes, Dick. Do something,” Gran says. “Please show us all what a backbone you don't have.”

“I could read the obits aloud,” Dad offers. “Wouldn't that be soothing to us all?”

I can't tell if he's serious.

Mom's hands are so hairy.

I force myself to look away, up, to focus on her face. Her forehead is sweaty, her cheeks bright pink and irritated, like twin zits about to pop.

She's always warning me how hard being in perimenopause is, because Gran never gave her a head's up about how bad the mood swings would be, how traitorous the hormones. That's it. That's where her anger is coming from. It's a mood swing. And the hair on her hands, too, maybe?

“Yes, Wendy? What would you like me to do, dear?” Dad asks. “She's your mother. Handling her is your domain.”

Mom stares Dad down, her mouth open in a snarl, her red lipstick smeared, her teeth bared.

I recoil.

Her teeth, her beautiful teeth, straight and white and perfect, are badly chipped. They look jagged—so sharp, so pointy—almost like...

No.

My heart thuds as I scooch my chair back. “I need to... I'll be right back. Theo, come with me,” I pop up and cry out as elbow thwacks into something.

“Ow,” Theo grunts. He's grimacing, holding his forehead.

“Oh, no! I thwacked my elbow into your head?”

“Yes.”

“I'm so sorry. Come on,” I tug at his arm. “We'll get you some ice from the kitchen.”

“I'm kind of seeing stars. I'm not sure I should stand up.”

Well, I'm kind of seeing fangs in my mother's mouth and you have to!

I tug at his arm again in a way that says it's coming with me, whether or not the rest of his body follows suit.

“Alright, alright,” he says.

“Be right back!” I shout, brightly, all but dragging him, staggering, with me.

I drag him past the kitchen and straight to the front door. I fling it open and point out into the night. “You need to leave. Right now. Run. Go. Get out of here.”

There's a goose egg already sprouting above his eyebrow. “What?”

“Theo, something is very wrong with my mother, and I need you to run!” I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s definitely more than a mood swing.

I stare at him, begging him with my eyes. He stares back, quizzical. I try, and fail, to keep my mind blank, free of thoughts.

“Your mom has hairy hands?” he asks, his voice low and confused. “Your mom has fangs?”

A wild, animalistic howl comes from the dining room.

From my mom.

“You have to go,” I tell Theo, giving him an urgent but ineffective shove towards the threshold.

“No, Meg. You told me your family is weird. I can handle this.”

I shake my head, my hair whipping about wildly. “Theo, I don't even know what this is!”

“Mommy, please stop!” Liam wails, sounding like a little kid again, and sheer terror takes hold of me.

“GO!”

Theo shakes his head. I can't.

I throw up my hands and whirl around, yank an umbrella off the coatrack, and race back to the dining room.

I skid to a halt in the doorway. Drop the umbrella. I'm only vaguely aware of Theo crashing into me before we both tumble to the floor. From my hands and knees, I gape at Liam, who is backed up against the wall, and the... the... the... monster he's staring at in horror. Tears stream down his face. The monster is wearing our mother's dress.

It's a wolf of some sort, standing on hind legs, like a human.

Dad and Gran are silent, still. With my heart in my throat, I look over at them, fully expecting to find them soaked in their own blood, mauled to death.

All the air leaves my lungs. They're both still sitting there, unscathed. Unscathed and.... apparently unbothered?

“Dad? Gran?”

“I'm not going to hurt you, honey.” It's my mom's voice. Coming from the wolf. “Liam, baby, I swear, I'm not going to hurt you.”

“Dad? Gran?” My eyes are hot, wet, the scene blurring before me.

“It's okay, Meggie,” Dad says, with a sigh. He and Gran exchange what might be the most civil look I've ever seen them share, almost as if they're reading each other's thoughts, and both thinking, We're in this together. “We knew this day was going to come eventually.”

Dad folds the newspaper and lays it on the table. “Liam, Meggie, come sit down. Wendy, why don't you go upstairs and try to... ah... um... take a few moments to... collect yourself.”

The wolf nods and leaves the room.

Gran clucks her tongue. “Why don't I go get dessert? I've always believed a sweet treat makes difficult news more palatable.”

Theo stands, then helps me to my feet, then to my chair. Liam is still plastered against the wall.

“Why don't you head home, son?” Dad says to Theo.

“I'd like to stay, if that's all right with everyone.”

Theo looks at me, his eyes so imploring. Don't make me leave you.

You don't want to be here. Go. I understand.

He shakes his head. I told you I would not run after I met your family. I said no matter what, remember?

“I'd like to stay,” he says again.

“It's up to you sweetheart,” Dad says to me.

“You might want to sit on the other side of the table, so I don't concuss you if I leap out of my chair again,” I tell Theo.

“I'll take my chances.” He settles next to me, and takes my hand.

Gran comes back in, carrying Mom's key lime pie. My mom bakes pies. She wears an apron and pearls. She is not a wolf.

“So how are you kids taking the news that your mom is a werewolf?” she asks, cheerily.

Dad sighs. “I hadn't told them yet.”

“Oh, don't lose your nuts, Dick, it's not like it was exactly a spoiler alert,” Gran says.

“Mom is not a werewolf,” I say. “That was just a costume or something. This is just...”

“I saw her transform, Meg!” Liam's eyes bulge in a we-have-seen-things-we-can't-unsee sort of way. He has not let go of the wall.

Gran sits down and dishes up pie, like it's a normal Friday. “We tried to prepare you both for this. Why do you think I was always telling the story about chopping up your grandpa?”

“What does you chopping up Gramps have to do with Mom being a werewolf?” Liam asks.

“Werewolfism is hereditary, darling. Your grandpa Paulie was a werewolf, too. That's where your mom gets it from,” Gran says.

I focus on Dad, willing him to say this was all some big joke or misunderstanding or… fever dream. He shrugs.

“Wait, so does that mean Meg and I are werewolves, too?”

“We are not werewolves,” I tell my brother. “Mom is not a werewolf.”

Liam shakes his head. “Meg, she is.” He turns back to Gran. “Are we?”

“Maybe,” Gran says. “Maybe not. Time will tell.”

“But wait,” Liam says. His eyes still say we're about to pop out and he's still about two seconds from becoming one with the wallpaper, but otherwise, he seems pretty calm about this whole thing. “I still don't get why you chopped up Gramps.”

“He wanted to make sure the wolf in him stayed dead. Sometimes they struggle with that,” Gran says.

“Okay, cool,” Liam replies. He comes back to the table and tackles the slice of pie Gran has served him.

Dad clears his throat and stands. “I'm going to go check on your mom. She never wanted you two to see her shift like that.”

I lean back in my chair, trying to remember how to breathe.

Werewolves exist. My mom is a werewolf. Time will tell whether my brother is a werewolf, too. Whether I am.

I can't look at Theo, so I say it out loud, “We're done, right?”

“Oh, baby, we're just getting started,” he says. I turn to face him, surprised. “I meant it when I said your family couldn't scare me off,” he adds, in a low voice.

We don't say anything else.

We don't have to.

I love you, Meg.

I love you, too, Theodore.