Long Shadows: The Lycanthropy Files, Book 2 by Cecilia Dominic Page B
Authors: Cecilia Dominic
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the back of the picture in pencil, Aunt Lucia, Alicia, and Julia, 1956. I raised my eyebrows and turned the photo over again, looking for Aunt Lucia. There were only the two little girls, now confirmed in identity, but still not far enough apart in age, and the wolf. I closed my eyes. Lucia is the wolf. She was like Aunt Alicia and me.
Interesting… I replaced the picture. Then there was a photograph of Alicia and my mother taken later. My mother had grown into a gangly teenager, and she posed by a car with fins. Alicia looked to be about twenty, but she had already started taking on that ageless quality that I remembered about her. She stood in the background, her arms folded, and a frown on her face. My mother, who wore a halter top and shorts that showed off her long, tanned legs, tilted her sunglasses down and smiled at someone off camera. My father, perhaps? This photo also had a scribble on the back: Alicia and Julia, 1969.
A pang of sorrow split my chest. They both looked so young and, if Alicia wasn’t happy, she had not yet developed the frown lines I remembered as her constant accessory. There was something else in her eyes—sorrow? In this picture, they looked to be about four or five years apart in age. I compared it to the other. How is this possible? I could have been mistaken, but in my role as a family evaluator, I’d gotten good at accurately guessing kids’ ages since sometimes people lied for tax or other financial reasons.
My stomach growled, and I remembered I hadn’t eaten since the cookies that morning. I attributed my head spinning to low blood sugar, but the thoughts that knocked around in there wouldn’t let up.
How is Alicia aging in those photos differently than my mother? How does she only look a few years older when I know the age difference was eight years? Or was it?
I needed to find Aunt Alicia’s birth certificate, but I hadn’t located a safe or anything that might hold such important documents.I also had to find out about Aunt Lucia. But first, food.
The refrigerator held little more than a half a pint of milk that teetered on the edge of its expiration date and some random plastic containers of various liquids and sauces. There was no telling what they were, and the few I looked at closely seemed to have been in there for quite a while, judging from the science experiment-like mold on the sides. The pantry had cereal and dried pasta, and the freezer a few containers of tomato sauce and some frozen pesto cubes.
“Man may not live by bread alone,” had been another of Aunt Alicia’s sayings. “So that’s why God gave us pasta.”
I smiled and put on some water to boil. She had been quite a character, but it had been difficult to get to know her. She was an expert at diverting questions about herself and her past, and my mother had always warned me not to push because Auntie had a temper.
“I wish I could’ve gotten to know you better,” I whispered into the quiet. I tried to remember other Auntie sayings. When I was a teenager, I teased my mother when she started unconsciously imitating my aunt and using her expressions.
Tears pricked my eyes again, and I sat at the table and buried my face in my hands. I wanted more time with my aunt, sure, but I really wanted another opportunity to sit with my mother and ask her some questions, especially now that I knew she knew about my great aunt Lucia.
Or maybe she was too young to remember? I wish I could at least tell her how much I miss her and that I’m okay. Or am I? I can’t even seem to keep track of all the parts of myself.
The water boiling in the pot made it clang on its burner, and it startled me. I had dozed off.
I’m more tired than I thought.
Then I saw I wasn’t alone in the kitchen and almost screamed.
“What’s for lunch?” asked Max. He sat across from me and wore his long white lab coat over a white shirt and pink tie.
“You could knock,” I said and put a hand on my chest to make sure my
Interesting… I replaced the picture. Then there was a photograph of Alicia and my mother taken later. My mother had grown into a gangly teenager, and she posed by a car with fins. Alicia looked to be about twenty, but she had already started taking on that ageless quality that I remembered about her. She stood in the background, her arms folded, and a frown on her face. My mother, who wore a halter top and shorts that showed off her long, tanned legs, tilted her sunglasses down and smiled at someone off camera. My father, perhaps? This photo also had a scribble on the back: Alicia and Julia, 1969.
A pang of sorrow split my chest. They both looked so young and, if Alicia wasn’t happy, she had not yet developed the frown lines I remembered as her constant accessory. There was something else in her eyes—sorrow? In this picture, they looked to be about four or five years apart in age. I compared it to the other. How is this possible? I could have been mistaken, but in my role as a family evaluator, I’d gotten good at accurately guessing kids’ ages since sometimes people lied for tax or other financial reasons.
My stomach growled, and I remembered I hadn’t eaten since the cookies that morning. I attributed my head spinning to low blood sugar, but the thoughts that knocked around in there wouldn’t let up.
How is Alicia aging in those photos differently than my mother? How does she only look a few years older when I know the age difference was eight years? Or was it?
I needed to find Aunt Alicia’s birth certificate, but I hadn’t located a safe or anything that might hold such important documents.I also had to find out about Aunt Lucia. But first, food.
The refrigerator held little more than a half a pint of milk that teetered on the edge of its expiration date and some random plastic containers of various liquids and sauces. There was no telling what they were, and the few I looked at closely seemed to have been in there for quite a while, judging from the science experiment-like mold on the sides. The pantry had cereal and dried pasta, and the freezer a few containers of tomato sauce and some frozen pesto cubes.
“Man may not live by bread alone,” had been another of Aunt Alicia’s sayings. “So that’s why God gave us pasta.”
I smiled and put on some water to boil. She had been quite a character, but it had been difficult to get to know her. She was an expert at diverting questions about herself and her past, and my mother had always warned me not to push because Auntie had a temper.
“I wish I could’ve gotten to know you better,” I whispered into the quiet. I tried to remember other Auntie sayings. When I was a teenager, I teased my mother when she started unconsciously imitating my aunt and using her expressions.
Tears pricked my eyes again, and I sat at the table and buried my face in my hands. I wanted more time with my aunt, sure, but I really wanted another opportunity to sit with my mother and ask her some questions, especially now that I knew she knew about my great aunt Lucia.
Or maybe she was too young to remember? I wish I could at least tell her how much I miss her and that I’m okay. Or am I? I can’t even seem to keep track of all the parts of myself.
The water boiling in the pot made it clang on its burner, and it startled me. I had dozed off.
I’m more tired than I thought.
Then I saw I wasn’t alone in the kitchen and almost screamed.
“What’s for lunch?” asked Max. He sat across from me and wore his long white lab coat over a white shirt and pink tie.
“You could knock,” I said and put a hand on my chest to make sure my
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