The movie sucks. Shaye and I are in agreement, so we duck out before the closing credits. We may have centuries to live, but we’re not going to waste them on poorly acted melodramas where the actors’ portrayal of teen angst is downright laughable. It’s bad enough we wasted nine dollars on admission.
“So what now?” Shaye asks as we stand under the theater marquee and bask in the glow of its fluorescent lights.
“I don’t know, but it’s Friday night so there’s got to be something around here to do. Let’s just walk and see what we see. There’s a really good coffee shop a couple of blocks up,” I tell her as I slip into my jacket and zip it to the collar, ever conscious of appearances. Shaye is already bundled up with a bright orange scarf and mismatched polka-dot mittens.
“Ugh! I guess that works for me,” she says, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead in an imitation of the whiny actress in the movie we’ve just ditched. It’s spot on.
“Who knew you had such talent,” I tease. “You should really look into getting an agent.”
“After the coffee,” she tells me. “It’s a poor substitute for blood, but I guess it will do. For now!”
I roll my eyes and lead the way. The streets are busy. It’s Friday night, and we pass couples out for dinner, parents towing their children along for last minute errands, and, of course, droves of teenager’s window shopping and socializing like us.
When we arrive at the coffee shop I’m comforted by the familiarity of the place. Same cozy couches, same indie rock playing softly in the background occasionally interrupted by the whirring of the grinder. I’m even indulged with the same overwhelming smell of coffee and the same barista behind the counter. I smile halfheartedly at the paper mache reindeer dotting the counter in preparation for the upcoming holiday.
I’m able to quickly make a decision when it’s our turn and order a large mocha latte. I take a small sip while I wait for Shaye to make up her mind. The latte is as good as I remember. I watch Shaye as she scans the menu board, unable to choose.
“You do know this won’t be the last coffee you ever drink, right?” As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize how insensitive they must sound to someone with a terminal illness. “I’m sorry,” I rush on. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No worries,” she tells me turning to the barista. “I’ll have a large caramel macchiato.”
I’m not entirely sure that she meant to dismiss me so abruptly, but even if she had I’d deserved it. I take a seat at one of the small tables by the window. People watching has always been one of my favorite pastimes, but today it brings me no pleasure. I observe the foot traffic on the street absentmindedly as I wait for Shaye to get her coffee.
“I’m not upset you know,” she says joining me. She takes the chair opposite mine and hangs her jacket over the back.
“Glad to hear it,” I tell her. “I’m not sure if you’d noticed or not, but I have my own chronic illness to worry about: foot-in-mouth.”
“Incurable but rarely deadly,” she smiles. “I’ll trade you?”
“How can you joke about this?” I don’t pretend to understand how she must feel, and I don’t know if I could function with a death sentence hanging over my head, but her levity is beyond my comprehension.
“It’s life, Katia. I can’t change it. I have to believe they’ll find a cure and keep living in the meantime. Besides, I’ve had some time to get used to it.” She sips delicately from her macchiato, licking the whipped cream from her lips childishly.
“I still don’t get it.”
She reaches across the table and touches my hand gently. “You don’t have to.”
She’s right. I don’t have to live with it. All I can try to do is be a good friend to her if and when she needs me. “Tell me about it, please.”
“What do you want to know?” she asks spreading her arms to indicate that she’s open to talking about her illness.
“Well, forgive my ignorance, but it’s just hard for me to understand how an immortal being can die from a blood disease.”
“It was hard for me too, at first. I had a lot of trouble finding factual information and wrapping my head around the whole thing. It’s not like you can just Google it.”
Isn’t that the truth? I encounter this problem on a regular basis. It’s not that our historians don’t keep detailed records. They do. The problem is that the records are mostly preserved and stored for the use of the Elders. Getting access requires a small miracle or a really well pled case at Council.
“Anyway, the illness is caused by a lack of healthy red blood cells. Like other mammals, our bodies need both red and white cells to prosper. In the case of otrava de sange, the white cells attack the red, wiping them out faster than the body can repopulate them. Essentially the body destroys itself from the inside out.”
“And that’s what causes the anemia and shortness of breath?” I ask.
“That and the heart failure,” she tells me sadly. “There are other symptoms too, but I won’t bore you with the details.”
She won’t bore me with the details? I may not be that interested in Professor Hooke’s Anatomy class, but this is different. This isn’t words on a page or a crappy plastic skeleton. This is Shaye. “I want to know.”
“But I hope you never need to,” she says meeting my eyes. Her gray eyes convey compassion. I’ve never met anyone like Shaye before. She’s quiet and quirky while at the same time being sassy and tough. These characteristics are contradictory, and yet that’s how I see her.
“But why can’t they do something? Like a blood transfusion?” I’ve heard of similar illnesses in humans and know they’re treatable. Why wouldn’t this be also?
“A blood transfusion will help sometimes but only temporarily. The body will continue to generate the destructive white cells even if the blood of another vampire is infused. The researchers think it’s a hereditary malfunction, but I don’t think they’ve isolated the gene yet. Soon,” she says firmly. “Soon.”
“You think they’re close?” I suppose if anyone would be keeping tabs on the progress, it would be Shaye. She’s got a vested interest after all.
“Who knows? I know they’re closer. Closer than they were two years ago when I was diagnosed. Oh, and I bet you don’t know this, but Dr. Philips and some of the other researchers will be here for the New Year’s Eve ball. I have to meet him.” Her eyes shimmer with determination.
“New Year’s Eve ball?” I ask gravely. This is the first I’m hearing of it. She got that part right. I don’t know a thing about it.
“Oh, yeah. It’s huge. And lavish. Puts Halloween to shame.” She’s enjoying watching me squirm. She knows parties aren’t my thing. “We’re lucky to have such a high profile student body. We’ll get all kinds of important people. Elders, celebrities, and the like.”
“Huh.” I have nothing else to say. This is not what I’d call good news.
“Aldo will be coming, won’t he? You must be excited to see him at least.” She pauses. “He’ll create such a buzz. Jade will be over the top with envy.”
Shaye’s eyes positively sparkle with delight. I can’t blame her. The idea of causing Jade even a tenth of the misery she brings us is a welcome notion.
“Here’s hoping,” I tell her staring out the window. “I should at least get some kind of happiness out of this thing.”