Page 37 of The Perils of Pretending
A moose as big as a double-decker bus with massive antlers comes out of the forest.
“Cool!” One of my second cousin’s kids says.
At a far distance, like at least a hundred yards away, observing wild animalsisamazing. But when they’re only fifteen feet from me and rapidly approaching? Yeah, not so much.
I calmly (I feel anything but calm) walk toward the lodge, giving myself a wide berth from the moose. Mom and Brody do the same, slowly inching their way toward the safety of the building.
Every single one of my extended family members—native Alaskans—stays put on the beach. We have moose in Utah, but not as many as there are here. Still, why aren’t the Ashcombes respecting nature and getting out of the way? Do they not care about being killed? Because this guy, hands down, will win in a millisecond.
The moose, not caring about the crowd, slows its pace, ambling its way toward the Ashcombes. I hold my breath. I may not like them much, but I don’t want them to die from a moose attack. Are they safe?
The moose stops on the beach, its hooves covered by water.
We stand still and quiet, waiting for the moose to keep moving.
It doesn’t.
This beast of an animal seems like he’s settling in for a long soak.
“Okay,” the photographer whisper-yells. “If we move slowly and quietly, we can still take pictures where we originally planned. Please pay attention to who and where I’m pointing and give the moose his space.”
Great, now we get to add charades to this impromptu photo shoot? The photographer dramatically uses her hands and arms to place everyone, one by one, where she wants them for the family portrait, except for me, Brody, Mom, and Dorian.
I stare at Dorian. Why is he here participating in the photo? He isn’t family. And why hasn’t he left? I told him no.
The photographer points at Mom. “Stand behind her, your hand resting on her shoulder.”
Mom does as instructed. Her hand on Grandma is a little much, but I’m well aware this picture isn’t an accurate representation of our family dynamic.
The photographer gestures to Brody. “Go stand behind your mom.” She turns to me and Dorian. “Now, for you two---”
“Oh.” I point between me and Dorian. “We’re not together,” I whisper.
The photographer glances at Grandma who gives a subtle nod.
What the heck? It’s just like Grandma to do something so petty and calculated. I bite my lip to keep myself from laying into Grandma in front of the entire family and scaring the moose into attacking me.She’s Dad’s mom. She’s Dad’s mom. She’s Dad’s mom. Find a way to get along for his sake.
“You two will stand next to him.” She points to Brody. “Sir,” she motions to Dorian, “please put your hand on her arm, right above her biceps.”
My blood boils. My voice comes out at its normal tone, but with the whispering of the last twenty minutes, it sounds like I’m screaming bloody murder. “He’s a stranger, and I don’t want him touching me.”
Dorian looks at me. (Luckily, the moose doesn’t.)
I raise my brows in a challenge, daring Dorian to say something.
He stays silent.
Good.
I roll my eyes, stomping as well as I can in the sand with three-inch heels on, and go stand next to Brody. I paste on the fakest of smiles. My hand that’s resting on my hip offers Grandma and the photographer a one-finger salute.
Dorian moves to follow me, but the moment he takes a step, the moose whips his head around, his dark reddish-brown eyes looking right at Dorian, almost begging him to move so he can attack. Dorian halts, obeying. As an Alaskan, I’m sure he’s well aware that moose kill morepeople than bears. Because people are stupid and get close to Bullwinkle for selfies.
My gaze darts to every other member of my extended family. Is it my imagination or is this creature actually protecting me? Are they seeing this? Are they witnessing what I’m witnessing? Is this moose like a dog and can sense that Dorian’s not a good guy?
What feels like an hour later, the moose returns his gaze out to the bay. Dorian side-eyes the moose, bravely raising his leg to take another step forward. The moose, hearing or merely sensing movement, whirls his head around again, letting out a grunt as if he’s warning Dorian to stay where he is and not come an inch closer to me. I blink a few times, clearing my vision. Nope, not a dream. This is real.
The moose grunts again. I’ve never had a spirit animal before, but I one thousand percent believe this giant is mine. How? Where did he come from? Why me? Is the moose magical? Are we staying in an enchanted forest?
