I snort. “I don't think that is ever going to happen.”
“Now, now. Your father has been through a lot. He hasn't been himself lately.” She takes a small sip from her water glass. I don't like to point out that none of us have. There is no manual for this, and no way anyone can prepare you for losing your wife or your mother to cancer. Doesn't mean he has to act the way he does.
“Maybe Peter has a good idea.”
“Maybe.” She doesn't sound convinced.
“He's really not what you think. I totally thought he was going to be all bloodthirsty, but he isn't. I just want you to be okay with it, because I'm okay with it and I want you to be.” I'm rambling, the words falling out of my mouth before I can catch them.
She opens her eyes. “I'm not sure if I want to talk to you about his blood taking activities.”
“It's not what you think.” I still blush. Talking about the blood sharing is kind of like talking about sex.
She's skeptical. “It never is.”
“I don't know,” I say, just for something to say. I hope this is over. I just wanted to make sure I hadn't done too much damage yesterday. “You're okay? Really?”
“Yes and no.” She sounds like Peter.
“But —” I start, but she waves her hand to dismiss me.
“You can go in now. Interrogation over.”
I snap my mouth shut and walk backward to the porch. “You're not as scary as you think you are.” I'm trying to keep it light.
“That's all part of my secret identity. Mwahahaha.”
I laugh at her attempt at an evil chuckle. She can never pull it off.
I leave her to her plants. Well, they're not here yet, but there are lots of things to prepare. I should probably learn more about gardening, because there's no way those plants are going to die when she's not here. I'll hire a Carlos before that happens.
Dad is tucked away in his office, doing loan officer things that he likes to put off until the weekend so he has an excuse to hole up in there. He's so transparent.
I have the living room to myself, so I crash on the couch. I could go out and have an impromptu date with Tex, but I'm having one of those days when I don't want to do anything. I want to eat ice cream or pie (or both) and watch stupid movies I've seen a million times. I also want to cuddle with Peter, but you can't have everything.
I call a local car place and get a quote about how much it would cost to do Jamie's truck. I nearly fall over when they quote me $300. I thank them and hang up. Yeah, I'm definitely going to have to put in some more hours at the bookstore. I send a message to Tex and she responds with about a million exclamation points. Anything to save her from being alone with skeevy Toby and his weirdness.
I could get dressed, but I don't want to. I'm missing Peter and feeling frumpy.
I grab an extra pillow and an old quilt and curl up with them, a box of crackers, a glass of ginger ale, and a few peanut butter cups I hid away in the pantry for chocolate emergencies. I grab the DVD remote and my lazy Sunday is off and lazing.
The clock ticks away slowly and I'm bored. Mom was dragged back inside by Dad mere minutes after she went out. He forced her to take some weird vitamins he found and put her to bed. I gave her a sympathetic look as she walked by.
One movie finishes and I start another. A stupid fluffy girl movie. It isn’t what I want.
I want to be in the cemetery with Peter or baking with my mother. She checked off a bunch of items on the list she made of things she wanted me to learn before... I still had a hard time even thinking the D word.
I am going to get used to it real soon. Not that we have a definite timetable. About four months left. I am not looking forward to this winter without her. But I'd slay that dragon when I got there.
“Are you feeling okay?” Mom's voice would have made me jump if I wasn't already so used to being startled by Peter. It probably isn’t a good thing for my self-preservation skills. They aren’t all that great to begin with. Exhibit A: Peter.
“Yeah. Just in a funk.” My master plan to lose myself in the pink cotton-candy movie was futile anyway.
“Well, we need to defunk you. How about dinner out?” She leans her forearms against the back of the couch. She's less pale, but still a shadow of how she looked two years ago. The change has been so gradual, I almost hadn't noticed.
“That would mean I'd have to change out of these sweatpants.” I gesture at my attire.
“You should get some of those jean-legging things. Then you wouldn't have to.”
I narrow my eyes. “I refuse to subject myself to jeggings.”
She picks up a pillow and swats me with it. “Suit yourself. We need to get you out and doing something. Something that doesn't involve sitting around and moping about a boy.”
“I'm not moping about a boy.”
I'm totally moping about a boy.
She pulls a thread off the pillow. “Well, the definition of boy is debatable, but still. You need sunlight and other people.” I hate how right she is. I let myself get sucked into being around Peter and blamed it all on the Claiming. But I'm still my own person. Only my blood belonged to Peter. And maybe a few other pieces of me. Like my heart.
“Got anything on your list?” She squints and taps her chin.
“Well, there is one little thing.” She holds up one finger and crosses her eyes as she looks at it.
“What's that?”
She points the finger at me. “You, my dear, are going to learn how to put on lipstick and eyeliner like a pro.”
“I don't wear makeup.” Mascara didn't count. Anyone could do mascara.
“Someday you might want to. It's a useful skill to have.” She takes my arm and I have no choice but to comply. Not that it's going to be torture, exactly. I wear makeup sometimes, but I have never managed that effortless look that so many girls pulled off. I sigh and get my ass off the couch.
To my mother's vanity table we go. It's in the corner of her bedroom, right across from the treadmill my father bought but never uses. The vanity is white and peach to match the rest of the décor, and complete with a frilly white chair she pushes me into. I stare at the array of bottles and jars and containers and pens and pencils. Intimidating. Tex has tried to get me to line my eyes, but I was too afraid of poking myself or getting an eye disease. The words It is always darkest before the dawn hover on the wall. I look away from them.
“Okay, so the first thing to do is pick what kind of liner you want to use.” She holds out three options. A pencil, crayon-looking thing and liquid.
“Which is the easiest?” I say.
“The pencil.”
“I'll go with that.” She pulls off the cap with a pop and tells me to close my eyes. The pencil is cold as she drags it across my eyelid, stopping every now and then to check her work. Her hand is so steady; I can't imagine I'm going to be able to duplicate it.
When she's done, I check out my eye. It looks so large compared to the unlined eye. Huge and green and secretive. The kind of girl who would be able to flirt with Peter and make him want her. In other words, a girl who isn’t me. Mom hands me the pencil. I lean closer to the mirror and give it a shot.
I do my best, only poking myself in the eye twice. My lines are jagged and the pencil doesn't move as smoothly for me as it does for my mother. Still, I get it looking okay.
Then she brings out her tube of berry-colored lipstick and cranks it out. She applies it to her lips first, and then hands it to me. For some reason it doesn't look the same on my lips as it does on hers. We both pucker and laugh at our reflections. The lipstick is a little too dark for me, but the eyeliner works. I wonder if Peter will like it. I hope so.
“There you go. All grown up. My little girl.” She puts her arms around my shoulders and squeezes. I'm bathed in her lilac scent.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
I wave my hand to indicate my face. “For showing me this. Even though I'm probably not going to use it, except f
or prom or something.”
“I hope I'm here for prom.” Her hands flutter in my hair, piling it up in the back.
What is she talking about? Prom is only a month away. “Why wouldn't you be?”
“Because this isn't an exact science. There is no way to predict when it will happen. I think I'll know.” She twists my hair up and pulls a few curls out.
“Is it soon?” My smoky eyes widen in the mirror. I didn't want to ask the question, but it popped out anyway.
“Not too soon.” She kisses the top of my head and lets my hair go so it puddles on my shoulders. “You still need to learn how to french braid. That's something we'll tackle soon, okay?” I nod, wishing I could wipe the makeup off. Actually, I wish I could rub everything off. Rub my skin and my identity and build myself into someone else. It's not the first time I've wished it and it won't be the last.
“I'm sorry about yesterday,” I say again, worrying at the lace on the edge of the chair. I still can't forgive myself for making her sick. Even though I know I didn't. Cancer made her sick.
“Sorry for telling me the truth? It is better to tell the truth than regret a lie.”
“I've never heard that one.”
She puts the eyeliner back in its place on her makeup tray. “I made it up.”
“I should probably write that one down.” I should write all of them down so that I never forget.
“Don't worry, ma fleur. You won't forget. I promise.” She kisses my forehead and looks at both of us in the mirror. I stare at her face and look back at my own. She's so beautiful, even when she's being ravaged by cancer. It could never take that away from her.
Five
Peter
Ava is quiet tonight. Usually, it means she is thinking about something intensely. Through our connection, I can sense her unsettled thoughts. They rattle and jar me.
She has something on her face. Makeup. It looks different on her. It widens her eyes and makes them like green beams of light that stare out of a fog-filled night. She is both more herself and less herself. I am not sure if I like it.
“What did you do to your eyes?”
Her hands fly to her face, as if there is something wrong with it. She feels around her eyes with her fingers for a moment.
“What? Oh, my mom taught me how to use eyeliner. I forgot to take it off. It looks bad.” An unpleasant feeling flies through her for a moment. She moves to get up. I take her arm to stop her from doing something foolish.
“No, it doesn't. It is different.”
“Different, bad?” Her eyes widen and she blinks rapidly. She is worried that I don't like it.
“Different, different. Your eyes are just as green. There is simply more emphasis on them.” I try to word it the correct way. From being around Ava and listening to her friend, Texas, I have found that certain girls are easily offended when it comes to their appearance. Ava doesn't seem to be, but I did not want to take the chance that I could upset her. I do not like it when she is upset. It makes me upset, and then she gets more upset. It is a cycle I do not want to start.
She pulls away from my arm. “I'm going to wash my face.” Clearly, I did not say the right thing. I struggle to find what that might be.
“You are beautiful no matter what is on your face.” She stops and turns around. I enjoy her shocked expression.
“Really?” She wraps a lock of hair around her finger and crosses one foot in front of the other, twisting her body back and forth. It strikes me how truly beautiful she is. I am allowed to think she is beautiful.
“Really,” I say, using her word.
She looks down, trying to hide a smile. It is so easy for her to make facial expressions. As easy as waves rolling over a beach. I try to make my face do the same thing. Ava catches me trying to mold my face into a smile. She studies me for a moment before answering.
“Still serial killer, but it's getting better,” she says, going into the bathroom and turning on the water. Until I started spending large amounts of time with her, I had no idea how much upkeep the human body required. It takes hours to bathe and feed it and many hours of sleep. I do not remember things like that from my life. Those were the memories I had to let go when I changed. It was enough effort to keep the memories I cherished. My eyes rest on the trunk that stood at the foot of her bed. My trunk. My memories.
She comes back with her hair in a knot on the back of her head, and her face clear of makeup.
“I don't think I'm going to keep up with the eyeliner. My washcloth was practically black and my eyes hurt from all the scrubbing it took to get it off. I don't know.” She shrugs and gets into bed. Her face is fresh and clean. I like it better this way.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Her forehead contracts, making little peaks and valleys. I want to run my finger along them.
“I am not looking at you any special way.”
“Sure.” She doesn't believe me. She yawns, and I see the tiredness in her eyes. It has gotten worse the sicker her mother gets. Every now and then she shivers with a little emotion, and I can tell she is thinking about her mother.
I fold myself into a sitting position. She does not like it when I stand while she sits.
“I really don't want to go to school.” Tomorrow is Monday, the beginning of another week of school for her and another day of running and waiting for me.
“I could come with you,” I suggest. She laughs.
“Yeah, that would go over well. I don't know what it was like when you were alive, but nowadays you have to have a social security card, birth certificate. All that stuff. You can't just show up and go to school. Besides, you look way too old to even be a senior.”
“I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I could work it out if you wanted.” It could be easily done, with Viktor's help.
“You would go to high school to be with me.” Her energy is skeptical. A curl flops over her ear. I tuck it away and she blushes. The need for her blood surges, but I push it back. It hovers in the back of my mind, beating its black wings at me.
“Yes.” Of course I would. I experience that soul-tearing coldness every time I am not within twenty feet of her. I have not become used to it yet, but I am willing to go through the pain of leaving her because I do not want to own her.
“That's really sweet, Peter, but I wouldn't subject you to the horror of modern high school. Even if it would be hilarious.” She giggles, lying back on her pillows.
“You should get to sleep.”
“I know.”
According to our nightly routine, I pick a book from the stack she gets me at the library. It's the most recent book in the series about the time traveling woman and her Scottish warrior. Time travel intrigues me.
She is restless, having disturbing thoughts. I can't pinpoint what they are, but I have an idea. Her mother.
For a moment, I think about my mother, Ellen. That last time I saw her. I try not to think about that last time. I try to think about her as she was: putting her pearls on in the mirror before an evening out dancing with my father, her black hair tumbling from many hairpins. I let the memory drift away, like mist.
“Goodnight, Ava.”
“Goodnight, Peter.” Her thoughts continue to swirl, like water going down a drain. I go back to my book, listening to her breathe. Instead of slowing down, it speeds up, and I recognize she is in distress. I wait until she thrashes in her blankets to intervene.
I touch her warm shoulder. When she is asleep is when I want her blood the most. “Ava?” Her arms curl around her stomach, and her eyes open reluctantly.
“Mm?” She pretends to be sleepy. As if she doesn't want me to know she is having a hard time.
“Talk to me.” I want her to believe I am the one who needs her.
Her voice is muffled against her pillow. “About what?”
“Anything. I just want to hear your voice.”
She rolls over to face me. “Why? You want to kill me.”
“Always.” I will never
lie to her about something like that. I have Claimed her, which protects her from any other noctalis. Except me. “What are you thinking about?” I want her to share her turmoil with me. Let me take some of it from her.
“I'm just...” She wipes her hand across her forehead, looking for the right words. “I'm afraid of losing you. I'm afraid of losing my mother and losing you and I'll have nothing left.” Her voice is full of tears. I can smell them on her cheeks. I did not think that I was what she was worried about.
“You are not going to lose me.” Where would I go?
“How do I know that?” She sits up, tears streaming from her eyes. “You tell me I'm beautiful and then you keep looking at me, and it scares me. I told my mother about you and she got sick. I just ruin everything. You should just go.” She wipes her tears with the edge of her comforter. “And Di is going to come up with something or Ivan will do something —”
I cut her off. “Ivan is in Las Vegas, and you need not worry about Di.”
She shakes her head.
“Ava,” I say. I get up and sit on the edge of her bed. She reaches out for me and I draw her toward me. I must pick the right words, like ripe apples from a tree. “I feel for you. I feel so many ways about you. So many other things than what would hurt me. I adore you. I cherish you. I desire you. I care for you. That is all I need. It's more than I thought I would have in this existence. I don't need more, so I will not seek it.”
She grips me tightly. Her head goes under my chin, fitting like a key inside a lock. “How can you stop it? How can that other stuff be enough?”
“It is. It is far more than I deserve.” I deserve nothing.
“Everyone deserves love.” She sniffs and I pull a tissue from the box that sits beside her bed. “Well, maybe not child molesters and serial killers, but everyone else.”
“The world does not owe me anything. That is one of the failings of many humans, I think. They believe the world owes them something.”
She blows her nose and tosses the tissue in the trash. I want to lick the rest of the tears from her cheeks, but I stay silent. She turns her face up. It is blotchy and her eyes are swollen, but she is still exquisite.