Blood Vivicanti (9780989878586) (2 page)

Theo and I danced to the
music of Danny Elfman’s
Topiary Garden
Waltz
.

We would twist our bodies
beyond the limits of the human frame. We would leap high into the
air. We’d spin around and around, far from the ground. We moved
like two currents of clear water.

Ms. Crystobal sat with her
arms folded the whole time. She looked annoyed and
unimpressed.

Theo and I finished. We’d
hardly broken a sweat.

He said I was
“beautiful.”

My porcelain white cheeks
blushed.

Ms. Crystobal said she’d
resume her duties now. She promptly left without another
word.

Wyn was very pleased with
our dance. The good scientist had taken copious notes – like Jane
Goodall observing wild chimpanzees.

Blood Memories helped me
learn more about who I really was. I was beginning to see that I
wasn’t the self others had shaped me to be. I wasn’t the girl my
parents had framed, not the grade schooler my peers had rejected,
not the high schooler my classmates had ignored. My journey as a
Blood Vivicanti was a path toward my true self.

Was my “true” self a blood
drinker?

Yes and no.

I needed to drink blood,
yes. That was my nature now. Blood drinking happens when you’re a
Blood Vivicanti. Blood Memories happen when you drink
blood.

And I liked drinking blood.
I just liked eating memories a little more.

My true “self” would be the
woman I’ve grown into – the woman I’m still growing
into.

No: Blood Vivicanti do not
grow outwardly. But we can mature inwardly.

I stayed drunk on Theo’s
Blood Memories for the whole week.

The hangover was
bad.

Theo became sad and
brooding again when his Blood Memories faded. He liked playing the
violin as much as he had liked rock climbing. He did not like
losing his skills. He missed them all. All he had after they faded
were memories of Blood Memories.

Wyn was similar. With the
Blood Memories of the astronomer, Wyn had understood much about
life and growth beyond the limits of the Milky Way.

He became very mournful
when his Blood Memories faded. It was as if someone had
died.

Wyn listened to a tombeau
all day.

I’ve never understood why
Theo and Wyn used to get that way. Blood Memories do not fade in
me. My photographic memory will not let them.

Wyn and Theo waited another
three days to see if my Blood Memories would fade.

Wyn’s dour disposition
lightened a little by Day Ten. My Blood Memories hadn’t faded at
all. His theory was correct: My photographic memory not only
retained my Blood Memories, but my mind also perfectly balanced
Blood Memories with my own memories.

Theo was glad when Wyn let
us hunt again. He was ready for someone else’s memories in his
mind.

The week before, he had
wanted to drink the blood of a cook.

This week he had other
plans. His plans would surprise me. He was always surprising
me.

Wyn was curious to see how
two different Blood Memories would coexist in me. He theorized
that, in the same way my mind neatly catalogues all my photographic
memories, it would also neatly catalogue all my Blood
Memories.

His null hypothesis had
been:
Retaining Blood Memories beyond a
week will give her a mental breakdown. Prepare a room at
Bedlam
.

Thankfully his null
hypothesis was disproven. It was balderdash.

Mostly.

Wyn encouraged us to feed
outside the mansion. “No blood in the house.”

I made a game of it,
tapping Theo’s shoulder. Tag. He was it. I was becoming more like
Theo by the minute.

He laughed. Then he chased
me from the mansion.

I loved being chased by
him.

We ran faster than I’d ever
run before – down the mountain – past the desert valley – west
toward the setting sun.

Theo outran me. He tapped
me on the shoulder. Now I was “It”. I chased him.

I was always chasing
him.

He led me all the way to
Los Angeles. We ran through the city to the Pacific
Ocean.

The whole run took less
than half an hour.

We stood on the shore of
the sea. Barefoot. Panting. Toes in the sand. Cold salt water
rushing all around our ankles.

The setting sun slowly sank
into the sea. The sky was orange and red.

Theo took me to the
amusement park on the Santa Monica Pier. He bought himself cotton
candy. He used to love cotton candy.

He bought me a soft
pretzel. I still love soft pretzels.

But that night I wasn’t
hungry for food.

I didn’t feel hungry for
blood either.

I was hungry to escape. I
didn’t know how to live life any other way.

I hung around Theo’s neck.
I hung on his every word.

I assumed I was in love
with him. All I wanted was to feel safe. I was too young to know
that love and safety is like oil and water.

I was confusing affection
with certainty.

Theo and I leaned over the
pier. Our sight was strong. We could see fish far below the
surface.

Theo talked about the kind
of blood he’d like to drink. He didn’t merely want to drink a
person’s blood. He wanted to drink the blood of someone with a good
personality. He wanted in him the Blood Memories of someone who had
led a meaningful life.

He wasn’t interested in the
skill of doing something new. He wanted the skill of living
well.

“
I’d like someone inside me
who likes themselves,” he said. “I don’t like drinking the blood of
a self-loathing soul. Their Blood Memories leave me feeling
empty.”

He was sharing himself with
me in a new way. I liked it. And I feared it.

Theo sighed. “That
violinist didn’t like herself.”

I was beginning to realize
how broken my china doll was.

I decided then:
Theo shouldn’t drink from me. He might hate me if
he knew how I really felt about my self
.

Night soon fell.

In the desert it is easy to
see the nighttime stars. They are infinite and infinitely
beautiful. There are so many stars that the constellations get lost
in the thick soup of the cosmos. City lights make it difficult for
human eyes to see the stars. But I could see far through the
atmosphere. I could make out small craters on the surface of the
moon.

I wished I had a
comfortable house there. I’d invite Theo over anytime for tea and a
spacewalk.

Dark clouds were forming
out at sea. A storm would hit the coast later.

Theo pointed to an old man
far down the beach. No human eyes could see him from that distance.
Mine could.

The old man was walking an
old yellow lab. The dog’s hair was mostly white. So was the old
man’s. The two were strolling side by side. The dog was watching
his master. The old man was watching the coming storm.

Lightning flashed in the
dark clouds.

I could hear the thunder.
Theo could too.

He asked me what the old
man was saying to me.

I didn’t understand. I
could hear the old man. I knew he wasn’t speaking. I could see his
lips. They weren’t moving.

Theo was patient with me.
“What do the old man’s movements tell you about who he
is?”

I could hear the old man
breathing. Hear him sighing. Hear his footsteps dredge through the
soft sand.

I could see the redness in
his eyes, see his hands clenching, see his chin beginning to
tremble with tears on the verge of falling like raindrops. The
coming storm would be great, but there was a greater storm swirling
around inside that old man.

I could relate to
him.

Theo stood close to me. His
voice was soft. “The old man lost someone close to him. He’s lost
someone he’s known since he was young. He’s lost a childhood
love.”

I could see that
now.

The old man’s movements
were tectonic. His whole world was reshaping itself. He felt very
alone in the cosmos.

The old man was
mourning.

He yearned, I saw, to
plunge into the ocean, to swim out to that storm, and to wrestle
with the powerful force of the torsional waves.

Yet he would not. He had no
fear of death, and no fear of dying either.

That surprised
me!

The old man had faith in
the fullness of life. His wearied movements told me that he would
not surrender to his sorrow. His old love had taught him the heart
of loving other people and loving one’s self:
Patience
. The old man knew he would
see his love again soon. He just had to be patient. He had more
growth to live through, more experiences to learn from, and more
life to know and understand.

For me, that old man
defined the reason that
patience
can be as painful as it is rewarding.

Theo faced me. “I’m going
to drink from him tonight.”

I couldn’t understand why.
The old man didn’t appear to be anyone special. People all over the
world lose childhood sweethearts. Besides, the old man’s movement
said that he’d also had a desk job for decades before retirement,
that he was living in a gated community in suburban sprawl, that he
had no interest in the arts or sciences, and that he went to
church.

He reminded me of my
dad.

Theo smiled at me
kindly.

“
I’ve played violin
sonatas,” he said. “I’ve scaled mountains. I’ve done so much more
than that. But all of those Blood Memories were from people who had
much skill with work and not enough experience with
life.”

Theo pointed to the old
man.

“
Experience is in his blood.
Wisdom is in his Blood Memories.”

“
Does wisdom come from
experience only?” I inquired.

Theo thought it did. All he
wanted was a sense of interior balance. The old man would give it
to him.

I wasn’t interested in
wisdom, only in acceptance. I wanted to drink the blood that Theo
drank. I feared being unlike him. I worried that he might dislike
me if I was too different from who and how he was.

I was becoming my
mom.

Theo wouldn’t let me drink
the old man’s blood with him. Only a pint could be taken from the
old man, and that pint belonged to Theo. Not me.

He sped off toward the old
man. I watched from the pier. Theo actually introduced himself. The
old man greeted him warmly. The yellow lab licked Theo’s hand, all
sticky from the cotton candy. The dog loved Theo instantly. So did
the old man.

The three of them walked
along the beach together. They talked for a little
while.

Theo pointed to the
storm.

The old man
looked.

Not even the dog heard Theo
move. Theo was behind the old man in a blink. Probiscus in neck.
Drinking his pint of blood. Nothing more.

Wisdom – experience – the
blood of a self-actualized soul – that was all he
wanted.

Perhaps that’s why he never
asked to drink my blood.

I couldn’t fault him. Theo
was right: The old man had a kind of wisdom. He had courage and
humility, knowledge and understanding and prudence, and he had an
awareness of a power greater than himself. For Theo, each of those
facets was an important component of wisdom.

He liked the old man very
much.

I looked for another old
man to drink from. But I didn’t know how to see the embodiment of
wisdom. Old men just looked old.

I was only seventeen after
all.

I went on the Ferris wheel.
I had a seat all to myself. I was used to being by myself. It felt
normal. Normal felt safe.

The Ferris wheel looped
around and around. From the top I could see the nighttime lights of
San Diego over one hundred miles away. Beneath me I could see every
sight, smell every scent, and hear every sound throughout the
amusement park.