When my mother, Beatrice Jeannot-Durand, A.K.A. Granny Bea, sat me down and told me that I was part Wolf, I looked at the tall, slender and dark-skinned old Haitian woman and resisted the urge to laugh in her face. After all, this was the woman who partially raised me, and even though I didn't always care for her cryptic statements or bitter, cynical sense of humor, I always showed her much respect.
"Grandma, I love your stories," I said, smiling faintly, and Granny slapped me hard on the shoulder, and pursed her lips. I winced slightly, for my shoulder stung. We were sitting in the living room of the family house in the City of Montreal, Quebec. I had just come home after a grueling afternoon of practice with the University of Montreal varsity football team, and I was dog-tired.
"Jeune homme, I am not telling your stories, I just thought it's time you learned about the Family Secret," Grandma Bea said gravely, and I looked into her dark eyes, and amazingly, they changed color. I blinked in surprise, and Grandma smiled, and this time, her smile showed a hint of fangs. I shook my head, refusing to believe that the woman who took care of me when my parents were away wasn't what I thought she was.
"What's happening, Granny?" I asked meekly, and Grandma smiled, and then in a few simple words, she revealed a centuries-old secret to me. My name is Isaac Durand, and I was born in the City of Montreal, Quebec, to Haitian immigrant parents. My father, Joel Durand, is a constable with the Montreal Police Service, and my mother, Elsie Lucas-Durand, teaches mathematics at Lycee Saint Denis, a private Catholic school which I once attended.
I've always known deep down that my family and I were different, but I just couldn't put my finger on it. I remember when my cousin Yves, who lives in Quebec City with his Hispanic girlfriend Lola, was in the national papers for acts of heroism. Apparently cousin Yves, who studies business administration at Laval University, walked through flames to rescue an elderly French Canadian woman and her family when their townhouse caught fire.
The fact that Yves was not only alive but unscathed amazed the locals, who swore that he was burned badly during the rescue efforts. When Yves came over at our house for Christmas dinner during my senior year in high school, I looked at my tall, burly cousin with admiration. The dude has always been my hero. When I started school at the University of Montreal, I wanted to try out for the football team, but my parents were adamantly against it. Yves spoke to my father, and amazingly, both my parents had a complete turnaround on the subject of me playing football.
"Cuz, you're hands down the coolest person I know," I said, exchanging dap with Yves, who smiled and nodded. Yves is five years older than I am, and he's in the MBA program at Laval University. Me? I'm barely nineteen and just starting in the biology department at the University of Montreal. I want to go to medical school someday. That's right, people, I'm not just another jock, I've got brains and ambition. My paternal uncle Robert Durand, Yves's father, is a doctor. I intend to be one too.
"I've just got the Durand family good luck," Yves said to me, and then my parents laughed, and everyone at the family table exchanged a smile. One I did not share in. I've always felt like everyone in the family was hiding something from me. I just never imagined that the family secret was so damn huge, seriously. I'm the most disturbingly normal person you'll ever meet. I don't feel different from my friends. That's why I had trouble believing Granny Bea's shocking revelation.
"Why didn't you guys tell me that I'm a freak?" I said loudly, practically exploding on my parents, a few hours later. Dad had just come home after a long day at work, and Mom came in late from work because of a faculty meeting that apparently dragged on. I looked at my father, who matched my stare with his own intense glare. Tall, burly and dark-skinned, with a muscular build, my father, Joel Durand, looked much younger than his forty seven years.
"Izzy, lower your tone," Dad said evenly, using that restrained, polite and vaguely ominous tone he used when truly angry. I sighed deeply, and looked at my mother. My mom has always been the voice of reason in a family of hotheads. Petite, with medium brown skin, long black hair and sharp, angular features, my mom is a classy lady who always dresses professionally, even when she's not at work.
"Listen to your father, Isaac, we didn't like lying to you, mon fils, but we wanted to protect you," Mom said, smiling faintly at me. Mom's eyes met mine, and I held her gaze for a moment before looking away. I swear, Mom's eyes can trigger guilt within even the most cold-hearted person. Or perhaps I'm easily influenced. Whatever. I was still mad at my parents for dumping this on me. I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I wasn't human. How is someone supposed to react to something like that?
