“Like the ocean?” I ask.
“It’s a maladaptive desire,” Dr. Hammer interrupts. “Antisocial behavior. That’s what we call it. Joe here had it pretty bad before I came along. He was even getting one of those”—he flips his finger beneath his chin—“fins right here. Isn’t that right, Joe?”
“They were on my back and shoulders too. It was . . .”
“Terrible,” Dr. Hammer interrupts.
I cross my arms over my chest. “So, you just took the pills and then . . . voilà? No more fish scales? No more fins?”
“The effects of the pills are slow but cumulative. For safety’s sake, they’re never meant to be taken all at once. Taking too many at once could be fatal, too harsh on the system. The process might be painstaking, but slow and steady wins the race,” Dr. Hammer muses.
Joe’s eyes are turning even redder now. He seems pleasant enough, but something is just a little bit off about him that I can’t put my finger on. “Yep, that’s right. I’m a totally normal person again. Just look at me.” His face breaks into a toothy smile.
I nod and fix my face to hide, instead of reflecting, the nerves bubbling in my belly. “And there are no side effects to these pills?”
Dr. Hammer shrugs his shoulders. “Well, you have to take them every day for the rest of your life, but it’s certainly not a surgery. Plus, the effects are undetectable. Exactly as you once were. Just as good as before. Isn’t that right, Joe? All better now.”
Joe sniffs a little and rubs at his red eyes. “That’s right, doc.”
I pick up a napkin and hand it to him. “Are you okay? Are you crying?”
Joe laughs, weirdly high pitched. “Ha, ha, ha. No, crying? Me? I just have allergies. Really bad allergies.”
“He has allergies,” Dr. Hammer repeats. “The pills don’t fix those, unfortunately. You have to understand, Jules. I’m not one of these extremists on your forums. I’m not trying to eradicate the fish people. I’m simply offering solutions. A return to proper form. That’s all.”
“Hmmm.” Again, I pick up the bottle. “How much?”
Dr. Hammer smiles. “On the house. I do what I do for the great care I have for the safety of our society, not for monetary gain.”
I tilt my head. Could this actually be the solution for Mack? It seems like Dr. Hammer is telling the truth. I can’t imagine this is all an elaborate hoax. What purpose would it serve? Also, my feelings of optimism have been growing since I met Mack. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe this is the solution. Changing him. Or . . . changing him back. Not just so we can be together. But so he can have the life he wants again. Friends, family, parties, playing the guitar . . .
Dr. Hammer’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Might I ask, Jules. Is this for you or a loved one?”
“A loved one.” I tuck the pills into my purse.
Dr. Hammer reaches out toward me, his fingers pinching the cuff of my sweater and pulling it up over my forearm. “Are you sure about that?”
My eyes widen at the sight of my skin, the eerie blue veins. And now, in stark contrast against the paleness, a smattering of dark green bumps all up and down my forearm.
“Have you had trouble sleeping lately? Feelings of suffocation or drowning? Do you find yourself waking up in strange places? Like the bathtub, perhaps? How about night terrors that you can’t remember? That’s your body changing, Jules. Your lungs mutating and pushing upward, three little slits preparing to slice through the human skin of your neck and extract oxygen from water. It would be such a shame if someone with your beauty was to . . . turn.”
I glance up, shock spiraling through my brain. I look at my own body so infrequently, hide away in the dark so often, cover up in every way that I can . . . But those aren’t bumps, are they? They aren’t skin tags either.
They’re scales.
“Excuse me. I have to go.” Abruptly, I jerk my arm out of Dr. Hammer’s grasp and push my chair out from the table, a well of not only emotions but sickness bubbling up in my stomach.
Fuck, I’m gonna vom—
I rush away from the patio and run to the grass outside, puking my guts out in the bush.
Huffing and puffing, I’m bent over.
I take a moment, then I pull my sweater sleeves all the way past the middle of my palms.
What’s happening to me? What the fuck is happening to me? When was the last time I even looked in the mirror?
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and straighten out, running my hand through my hair and pulling down the hem of my sweater.
Whatever’s happening doesn’t matter anyway. Because I have the pills. I have the pills.
Mack can take the pills. And . . . so can I. If I must. If I have to. If what’s happening to me is really happening.
I walk to the end of the sidewalk and pull out my phone to order another car, the pills rattling in my bag.
One thing I know for absolute certain though . . . Mack can’t know about what’s happening to me. He’ll think it’s his fault, that he’s infected me somehow. And who knows? Maybe he has. But I can’t risk it. I can’t risk losing him. Not when we’re so close. Not now. Not ever.
***
By the time I get home, my entire nervous system is shot. I feel like I’ve run a marathon. Which I’ve basically performed the social equivalent of today. For me at least. I trudge up the spiral staircase, running out of breath before I get to the top. Then I push the heavy emergency door open to peek into the hallway.
No sign of Jason.
I don’t think I could take it.
I trudge some more to my apartment, keys in hand, but then my heart drops.
There’s a Post-it note on the door—familiar loopy handwriting.
