Having Blake there, Caitlin realized, was a welcome addition, too. The six of them all fit comfortably together, as if they’d all known each other forever. The conversation never stopped, and neither did the laughter.
They all ate way too much, then sliced the cake, and ate even more. Then came the coffee, and tea, and more desserts—boxes of cookies which Polly and Sam had brought. Ruth sat at their heels, and they had all thrown her scraps all night. Especially Scarlet, who Ruth adored more than anything. The love was reciprocal—most nights Ruth slept in Scarlet’s room, and if anyone came anywhere near it, she growled.
Polly, so excited, couldn’t wait any longer to give Scarlet her presents, so she, characteristically, gave her the gifts right there, at the table, and begged her to open them. Caitlin didn’t know who was more excited, Scarlet or Polly. As always, Polly was way too generous. Scarlet opened gift after gift. Scarlet, so appreciative, got up and hugged her, and Sam.
After the conversation died down and they all began to get up from the table, Caitlin finally found her opportunity. She was dying to give Scarlet her gift, a very important gift, which she’d been waiting until her 16th birthday to give her. As the others began to filter out of the room, she went to pull Scarlet aside—but was surprised to see Scarlet reach for her coat.
“Scarlet?” Caitlin asked, surprised. “Are you going out?”
Scarlet paused in the doorway, with Blake, and looked back, hesitant, a bit guilty.
“Sorry mom,” she said. “I didn’t realized you expected me to stay. I was going to catch a movie with Blake. For my birthday, you know?”
Caitlin saw Caleb looking over, concerned.
“If that’s okay?” Scarlet added.
Caleb looked down at his watch, looking unhappy.
“Well, it is a school night,” he said.
But Caitlin reached out and placed a hand on his wrist. She smiled.
“Of course it’s okay, honey. It’s your birthday. I’m glad that you guys are going,” she said, meaning it. Caitlin felt a little sad for herself, because she wanted to hang out with Scarlet, to talk to her more on her birthday—but she was genuinely happy for her that she had Blake.
Scarlet broke into a smile, looking relieved.
“But before you go, can I just have a minute?” Caitlin asked. “There’s something I want to give you. It’s your birthday, after all.”
Scarlet’s smile widened.
“Sure,” she said. She turned to Blake. “Just wait for me out on the porch, I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“I think porch time is a great idea,” Caleb said, not missing a beat as he walked to Blake and draped his arm over his shoulder. “In fact, I think I’ll join you. It will be a perfect opportunity for us to get to know each other.”
Blake looked nervously back at Scarlet as Caleb led him outside.
“Dad, be nice,” Scarlet cautioned.
Caleb turned and smiled as he opened the door, leading Blake to one of their overstuffed wicker chairs on their wide, Victorian porch.
“Don’t worry honey,” Caitlin said, as the door closed behind him. “I’m sure he’ll be nice. And by the way, I really like Blake.”
Scarlet’s smile widened, and the two of them walked through the windy, quirky house to a small sitting room, lined with bookcases.
As they entered the room, Scarlet’s eyes opened wide in surprise at the site of a small wrapped gift box sitting alone, on the coffee table.
Caitlin beamed. She had been preparing this for the longest time. Now, finally, it was the perfect moment.
“You really didn’t have to get me anything, mom,” Scarlet said. “That cake was more than enough.”
That was Scarlet, Caitlin thought. Always so considerate. Always so selfless.
“This is an important one,” Caitlin said. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Scarlet lifted the small box and removed the delicate wrapping. As she did, it revealed an antique, mahogany jewelry box.
Scarlet looked over at Caitlin in surprise. Clearly, she was stumped.
She slowly opened it, and her eyes opened wide.
“Oh my God,” she said, raising one hand to her mouth. “I can’t accept this. It looks so valuable. It looks, like, ancient!”
Sitting there, against black velvet, was a small, antique silver necklace. An antique cross.
Scarlet held it up, examining it, struck by its beauty.
“Where did you get it?”
“My grandmother gave it to me,” Caitlin said, “when I turned 16.”
Caitlin came over, took the necklace, and as she got behind Scarlet, she draped it around her neck, clasping it. She then came back to her front and smiled wide.
“It fits beautifully,” Caitlin said.
Caitlin had stumbled across the necklace just the other day, in the attic. And at that moment, she felt that she should give it to Scarlet. After all, she didn’t wear it herself anymore. It was so beautiful, and mysterious, with that strange inscription in Latin on the back.
“I’ll never take it off. I love you mommy,” Scarlet said, hugging her.
Over her shoulder, Caitlin felt Scarlet’s tears.
Caitlin had no idea what she’d done to deserve such a great daughter.
“I love you, too.”
*
Caitlin lay there, in bed, late at night, the lights out, tossing and turning, thinking. Caleb had been fast asleep for at least an hour, and she could hear the steady, measured sound of his breathing. She was always amazed at how well he slept.
But not Caitlin. Most nights, she had a hard time falling asleep. She looked over at her bedside table, and turned the clock towards her: 12:30. She had laid down in bed over an hour ago, and still nothing.
She lay there, in the darkened room, lit only by the moonlight coming in through the drapes. She lay on her back, resting her head on the pillow, staring at the ceiling fan, thinking. Her mind raced and raced, and she could not get it to quiet down. Tonight was worse than usual.
She wondered if she was so stirred up because it was such a big day, with Scarlet’s turning 16. She remembered when she, herself, turned 16, and she still felt in some ways like it was yesterday—to think of her daughter turning 16 was surreal. It was so weird to think of herself as a mom, as 33. In some ways, nothing had changed. Some part of her was still the same old 16-year-old Caitlin.
But what bothered her most wasn’t what she remembered—rather, it was what she could not remember. It was like there was some hazy corner of her consciousness that she couldn’t quite get to come into focus, some deep part of her brain where things were murky. She willed herself to focus, to think back to the day when she herself turned 16, to remember everything that had happened that day, all the details—and she was frustrated to find that she could not.
Often, Caitlin tried to remember her upbringing, especially her early childhood, convinced that she must have some early childhood memories of her father. Something. But she often drew a blank, or drew some muted images, so vague and muddled that she didn’t know if these were actually memories or just her imagination, just something she had herself concocted over the years. She wanted to remember. But she just couldn’t summon it. It was like there was this huge black hole in her memory, this huge, hidden life that she once had that she just could not remember. And it bothered her to no end.
Maybe she was just imagining that there was something more, something else. Sometimes, Caitlin found herself feeling that she was destined for greater things. A bigger life. That she had some great fate and destiny, some huge purpose or meaning in the world. Sometime she felt as if her life was meant to be so much bigger, that she had some secret mission for her that was waiting to be announced, at just the perfect moment. Then all the pieces would fall into place, then she would understand why it all had been kept so quiet, why her life had been so normal up until now.
But that day had never come. Caitlin felt special, but as she looked around—at her normal l
ife, a life which seemed so much like everyone else’s—she didn’t actually see anything about her that was that special. It seemed like a normal life, in a normal town. And a part of her refused to accept that. And another part of her wondered if she was just going crazy.
After all, what was wrong with a “normal” life anyway? After all, wasn’t having a normal life an achievement in its own right? Why did life have to be greater than normal? When Caitlin looked around and saw so many people she knew who were living such dysfunctional lives, with real problems, with broken marriages, with health problems—with real suffering—she realized that normal was OK. It was better than OK. She should be so grateful, she knew, just to have normalcy, just to have what she had. And she was grateful. She was not unhappy.
It was just that sometimes, she wondered, if maybe, she was meant to be something more.
Thinking of that necklace, the one her grandmother had given her, had also stirred her up. It brought flooding back memories of her grandmother—one of the few clear memories Caitlin still had. She remembered her grandmother, one of the few people she truly loved, on her eighth birthday, giving her a box of rare books. She remembered holding that box as if it were a treasure chest. She remembered all the times her mother insisted on getting rid of that box, every time they moved, and all the times Caitlin had refused, dug her heels in. She remembered one time, when she came home and discovered her mom had thrown it out—and Caitlin ran out and grabbed the box and brought it back and hid it. She kept it hidden, under her bed, for years, determined her mother should never get it again. And her mother never did.
Years later, when Caitlin moved to the Hudson Valley, to this big old house, she remembered one day getting a notice from an attorney about her grandmother’s estate. Something about items that had never been properly dispersed. Caitlin had shown up, and they had given her several more boxes of rare books from her grandmother’s estate. Caitlin had brought them home and had stored them in a far corner of her attic. A part of her had wanted to go through them all right away—but another part just couldn’t bring herself to. She couldn’t explain why. There was something too intimate, too personal about them. Caitlin wanted to savor each book, every word. She felt she had to wait for exactly the right time to do that.
Caitlin tossed and turned, thinking about those books, and after hours, she didn’t know how long, finally, she fell into a fitful sleep.
*
Caitlin was standing in a huge field of corn, at sunset, the only one left in a vast and empty universe. There was a narrow path, between the cornstalks, and she walked down it, under a sky alight with a million shades of reds and pinks. She walked towards the horizon, knowing for some reason that that was where she had to go.
As she did, she saw a lone figure standing there, on the horizon. It was a man, his back to the sun. A silhouette. Somehow, deep down, she felt she knew him. She felt as if, maybe, he were her father.
Caitlin ran, wanting to reach him soon, to see him, to talk to him. As she ran, the cornstalks changed to olive trees, their silver branches lit up beautifully in the last light of day. The terrain changed, too, to a mountain, and now she was running up. In the distance, church bells suddenly tolled. She felt herself getting closer, and as she did, he grew larger. As she nearly reached him, she looked up and saw him mounted on a crucifix. She could still only see his silhouette, and the image terrified her.
Caitlin ran even faster, wanting to free him, to help bring him down off the cross. She felt that if she could only reach him, everything would be okay.
“Caitlin,” he said. “I am with you.”
She got closer, was just beginning to see some of the details on his face, and she knew that in just another moment, she would see who he was.
But then, suddenly, a flock of bats swooped down from the sky, descended on her like a swarm. Soon, they were all in her face and hair and eyes, and she was swatting them away like crazy. But there were too many of them, and they forced her down, down to her knees, to the ground, covering her like ants. She screamed and screamed, but no one heard her.
Caitlin sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard, sweating. She looked all around in the silence, momentarily forgetting where she was. Finally, she realized: it had been a dream.
It had been such a terrifying dream, Caitlin’s heart was still pounding in her chest. She didn’t understand it—none of it seemed to make any sense. It left her sad and scared and terrified all at the same time.
She jumped up out of bed and paced, too wound-up to go back to sleep. She looked over at the clock: 4:01. It was nowhere near daybreak, and she was wide awake. There was no way she could go back to sleep.
As Caitlin paced the room, trying to figure out what to do, she felt more stirred up, more restless, than she could ever remember feeling. She felt as her dream was more than a dream: she felt it was a message. As if it demanded action of some sort. But what?
She felt she had to do something. But it was 4 AM, and where could she go?
Her mind was restless and she had to tackle something, to throw her mind into something. Like an old book. An intense puzzle. Something to engage her.
And then, suddenly, it struck her: the books she had been thinking about before bed. Her grandmother’s boxes. Those rare books. The greatest puzzle of all.
Yes, that was what she needed. It would be perfect. It was a place where she could go, and get lost, and not bother anyone.
Caitlin hurried out the room and down the hall. She grabbed a flashlight from a drawer and climbed the steep steps to the attic.
As she reached the top, she pulled the cord on a single bare bulb, and it lit up a portion of the room in stark shadows. Caitlin turned on her flashlight and surveyed the dark corners: the attic was absolutely jammed with stuff. They had been living here so many years and had never bothered to clean it. They’d never had any reason to. It was airless up here and it wasn’t insulated, and Caitlin hugged her shoulders in her pajamas, feeling a chill.
She thought hard, and could barely remember where she’d stored her grandmother’s boxes. She swung the flashlight and searched through the all the stuff, from one corner of the attic to the other. She began to walk through it all slowly, going from box to box.
Just as she was starting to wonder if this were all a futile endeavor, suddenly, she saw it: there, in the corner. A small stack of boxes. She recognized them. Yes, these were her grandmother’s books.
Caitlin move some things out of the way—an old high-chair, an old crib, an oversized toy horse—and managed to make her way to the stack. She opened the first box, and slowly, methodically, as she’d been trained to do, she extracted the books one at a time. Organizing them. Cataloguing them. Indexing them in her head. Now, the professional Caitlin took over.
There were dozens of books, and this was exactly the kind of project Caitlin needed. Already, she could feel her racing mind and heart start to slow.
Caitlin sat there, cross-legged, taking her time as she picked through one book at a time. She sneezed more than once, the dust getting to her.
But she was happy. This was exactly the kind of thing she needed. She felt an instant connection to her grandmother as she went through each book, feeling each one, running her hands along the spine, feeling the binding, the old paper. She began to relax. Her nightmare was becoming a distant memory.
An hour passed in the blink of an eye, and by then, Caitlin had already finished going through most of the boxes. As she reached the final box, she went to open it, and was surprised to see that it was sealed more securely than the others. She pulled at the layers of duct tape, but they would just not give. Caitlin wondered why this box would be sealed so much more carefully than the others. It looked older, too.
She was annoyed. She got up from her comfortable position and began combing the attic, looking for a razor, or scissors—or anything to help open it.
In the far corner she stumbled upon an old sewing kit, and extracted a small pair of sewing
scissors. They were tiny, but looked like they would do the trick.
Caitlin went back to the box and set to work on cutting the tape. It took her several minutes to cut through it with the dull scissors, but finally, she did. She tore the box open.
Inside this box, Caitlin could see, were about 20 books. Most of them looked the same, typical binding, mostly classics.
But one book, immediately, stood out. It didn’t look anything like the others. It was thick, overstuffed, weathered, with leather binding. It looked as if it had been through a war. Multiple wars. And it looked ancient. Positively ancient.
Caitlin was intrigued. As a rare book scholar, there was almost no book she could not decipher, categorize, in an instant. Yet this was different. She had never seen anything like it. And that both thrilled her, and terrified her. How could it be?
This was unlike any book she had ever seen. And she had seen it all.
Caitlin’s heart pounded as she reached in and delicately removed the book. She was shaking, and felt her heart pounding in her throat. She didn’t know why. It was strange, but somehow, she couldn’t help feeling as if she was led to it. To this box. To this book.
Caitlin pulled back the cover, and ran her hand along the first page, and began to study the handwriting.
As she did, suddenly, her heart stopped. She couldn’t understand it. It was a handwriting she recognized.
It was her own.
As she began to read, Caitlin could not process what was happening. She felt as if she were outside of herself, looking down. And she became more and more confused.
She read. And read and read and read.
Finally, it hit her like a lightning bolt: this book, it was hers. Her journal. The journal of a teenage girl. A journal of coming of age. Of going back in time. Of falling in love with a man named Caleb. Of having a daughter named Scarlet. And of becoming a vampire.
She wondered if she were losing her mind. What was this? Was it some sort of practical joke? Some sort of fantasy she’d had as a young girl? What was it doing here? How did her grandmother have it? And why did she only open it now, at this time?