Nightmare (9 page)

I do not want to discuss the status of my soul so I remain silent.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

“You.” It is the kind of thing that makes her blush. The scent of her blood fills the car, and I want it so much I have to push myself as far away from her as I can get in the small space. Her blood calls to me, sings to me, taunts me.

“Oh god,” she says, clutching at her stomach. I reach to take the wheel before we veer off the road and into a ditch.

“Put the car in park,” I say. Her breath comes out in little pants of pain. I have hurt her. Again. With my unstoppable need.

“Take it, take it.” Pain colors her voice as she whimpers. I cannot take it from her now.

“I am fine.”

“I am not!” Her face falls to the steering wheel as she curls in on herself. My need subsides in light of her pain. I push it away, struggling with two separate needs. My primal need for blood and my other need for her. One is stronger, at least this time.

“Ava?” Her pain has quieted a little, but she is still slumped against the steering wheel. Her parents will be concerned if we are not back to her house soon.

“It's better. It's getting better. Did you do that?”

“I am not sure.” 

“Well that's good. I guess.” She seems unsure. “You could still have some. I know you want it.”

“I will pass.”

“Fine.” Her relief shivers along our connection. I have never felt that from her. A little bit of fear comes with the relief. She may love me, but she also fears me. That will never change, as long as she is human. As long as I can fight to keep her that way.

When she is able, she turns the car back on and drives the rest of the way to her house. I say nothing, not wishing to disturb her thoughts. They swirl like an angry wind, whipping her emotions around. It is impossible for me to keep track. So I listen and feel and watch. 

Chapter Seven

Ava

Sometimes the Claiming is too much. I hate admitting that, because I love him and I love being in love with him and feeling so special when he looks at me. But being so tied to him is really hard. My emotions and his get so tangled up sometimes, I lose myself for a second. 

It's a scary feeling, losing yourself. I am never prepared for it, but it happens. And there is nothing I can do to stop it. Peter is silent as I turn the car off. I feel his distance. He'd pulled back to give me some space. He was considerate like that. 

He opens my door for me, and touches my face, knowing that I need some time alone.

“Goodnight, Ava.”

“Goodnight Peter.”

After he's gone, I slump against the car. I'm hungry and tired and I have to do homework, but I need a second. I take a few yoga breaths to stabilize myself. My stomach is fine now. 

“Hello?” I call as I walk into the dark and quite house. I find it hard to believe Dad left her alone. 

“Hey baby, I'm in here.” Mom's still in bed, sans wig, reading a bodice ripper that she tries to hide under the covers. Scandalous.

“Have you been in here all day?” Her lack of energy is more worrying than the dark circles under her eyes.

She shoves the book further under the blankets. Like I haven't already seen it. “No, I got up and cleaned a little. How was your day?”

“Fine.” Standard response.

“How was work?”

“Fine.”

“What did you learn?” I lean my chin on her pulled-up knees.

“That when in doubt, the answer is -1.”

The book falls to the floor with a clunk, but we both ignore it. “Even in English class?”

“For that, the answer is almost always deus ex machina.”

“Oh, very fancy.”

“It is, isn't it?” There's a tray beside her with a full bowl of soup that looks like it's been sitting there for quite a while. 

“Not hungry?” She shrugs.

“I could make you something.”

“Your father went out to get pizza.” We'd eaten more takeout in the past several months than we had in my entire life. It couldn't be healthy, but with Mom out of commission, none of us really felt like taking over the cooking duties on a permanent basis. It would be like admitting defeat. I wasn't ready for that yet.

“He left you alone?”

“I had to beg him.”

“You and your feminine wiles.” She wiggles her eyebrows and we both laugh. “How are you feeling?” She holds up her hand, tipping it from one side to the other.

“I missed you today,” she says.

“Weren't we going to talk about me taking some time off school?” At least we did a few weeks ago before Dad put the kibosh on that.

“Yes. I'm not sure if it's a good idea.”

“But I thought –” She cuts me off.

“I don't want you sitting around and being my nurse. You're too young and I don't want to trap you like that.” I move off her knees and she tries to get up. It takes a moment before she can get completely vertical. I would offer to help, but she doesn't need me.

“You wouldn't be trapping me. I want to take care of you. You did it long enough for me.”

“That's different.”

“Just because you're my mother? Well, I'm your daughter. It goes both ways.” She shuffles toward the bathroom, and it breaks my heart how painful her little mincing steps look.

She leans on the bathroom door and closes her eyes. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was going to fall asleep. “I know, baby. I just don't want this to drag you down, too.” I don't say that it's too late for that. I don't say that I'm getting dragged down by so many other things that the cancer isn't even the worst of it. She goes into the bathroom, and that ends the conversation.

I take the tray to the kitchen and wash the dishes, stacking them in the sink. I can't stand to be alone with the thoughts in my head so I turn on a Beatles cd that Mom loves. 

Dad comes back as I'm getting out plates and silverware for the pizza.

“Hi,” I say.

His eyes race down the hall, as if he has x-ray vision and can ascertain her health through the door. “Hi. How is she?”

“Fine. I just checked on her.” He sets the box and a paper bag down on the counter. In the light of the kitchen, I spot a few gray hairs I don't remember seeing a few weeks ago. It's like the cancer isn't killing just her, but it's killing us, too. 

“Good. I don't know if she's going to be up to eating out here, so it might just be the two of us.”

I nod. That should be fun.

He makes up the tray again with more soup, crackers and fruit and takes it in to her. I hear the murmur of their voices from down the hall. It is a mark of how sick she is that she can't even make it to the dinner table. 

I make up a plate for both Dad and I. He comes out, pushing his hair back from his forehead. God, he looks tired. Like an old dishcloth that was once white, but is now gray and stained and wrung out.

We sit down, but there is a hole the size of South America where my mother is supposed to sit. We chew for a few minutes and I can feel he wants to say something.

“We need to talk.” Those are the most awful words ever put together. Alone, they are benign. Together, they make up the scariest sentence in the English language. 

“Your mother is getting sicker. It's going to get a lot worse here soon. She's not going to be able to do a lot of the things she wants. We're going to have to try and keep her spirits up. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yeah.” Oh, you mean telling her that the guy I'm seeing is an angel vampire that gets to drink my blood whenever he wants was a bad idea? Yeah, too late.

“Good.” He takes a bite of his pizza, but he doesn't look like he wants to eat it. I'm not that big on it, either, but I need something to do with my mouth so I end up eating two pieces. I put the rest of it in the fridge. Dad puts his head in his hands, and it makes me feel bad. I don't mean to treat him the way I do. We just seem to be unable to communicate on anything other than a hostile level.

“How's work?” I never ask him about work. Because it's really boring. He raises his head from his hands, as if he's just woken up.

“Oh, it's, uh, it's good. We just approved new rates and there are a lot of people coming in for loans.”

“That's good. Isn't it?” I know next to nothing about banking. I'd probably know more if I paid attention at all when he brought me and Mom to some of the corporate dinners, but I'd been too busy gorging on the fancy food an trying to see if I could sneak a sip of champagne. 

“Yes. It is.” And then we fall into silence again.

“How is everything going at the bookstore?”

“Fine. We made a poetry display today. Tex covered everything in glitter.”

He takes a sip of water, his forehead contracting. It hits me how much I look like him. “What does glitter have to do with poetry?”

“I don't know.” He gets up from the table. Not a bad conversation. More than we've had in weeks. And no one yelled. That's progress. 

I wonder if he's thinking the same thing I am. That in a few months, it's going to be just the two of us. We won't have Mom to keep things lively. Somehow we need to find a way to communicate, or else we're going to fall apart as a family even before we lose her.

Dad interrupts my gloomy thoughts.

“I got a cheesecake. Strawberry. I was hoping she'd be well enough to have some, but...” he doesn't need to finish. 

“I'll get some plates.” Dad makes a cup of instant coffee and we each sit down to cheesecake. It's good, made by a local woman who only uses eggs her chickens lay and organic vanilla and so forth. The berries are also from her garden, tart and sweet at the same time. Like life.

“I wanted to talk to you about something else. That boy you were with when your mother had her episode.” Oh crap. Here we go.

“What about him?” I poke at the cheesecake. I really don't want to eat it now.

“Who is he? Where's he from? How old is he?” Bang, bang, bang. Oh boy, I'm really going to have to do a lot of lying here.

“He's a student at Galdon Academy. He's originally from New York. He's eighteen.” I fire back just as fast. Only the middle thing is true. I hate how easy it is to lie to Dad. Much easier than Mom.

Dad jabs at his own cheesecake. “He looks older.”

“I know. He gets that a lot. Mom says he's an old soul.” The last part is also true.

“How did you meet him?” Oh, how I would love to tell him I met Peter at a bar, or some other scandalous place, but I don't want to test his heart like that.

“We were at a party and I bumped into him and we started talking. We had a lot in common.” Oh, I am pulling this out of my ass. “He really likes books, so we got talking about that and we've been talking ever since.”

“Does that mean you've been involved with him for a while?”

“No, just a couple of weeks.” Weeks that feel like lifetimes. 

“He's been here to the house.” It's a statement that expects an answer.

“Yes.”

“Your mother knew.” I can't fib about this. He'll know I'm lying, but he's so forgiving of her, it doesn't really matter. She could murder someone, and he'd say,
yes dear, I'll hide the body
.

“Yes.” He rubs his chin and puts his fork down. 

“I don't know if I like this or not.” I'm going with or not.

“Mom likes him.” I feel the need to point this out. It's pretty much Peter's biggest selling point.

“She does.” I nod so vigorously my hair flops in the cheesecake and I have to wipe it off with my napkin.

“How many times has he been here?”

“A few.” Hundred.

“Has he been in your room?” Every night.

“Just to get a book.” Oh the lies, lies, lies.

“That's all?” He drinks my blood. But no sex. Other than the eye variety. Oh, I also want to drink yours more than I want to eat this cheesecake. 

“Dad, it's not like that. Peter respects me. Mom would never let him in the house if those were his intentions.” We both know she would never open the door to a skeezy guy who just wanted to get in my pants. Not to mention the fact that I'd never be attracted to a guy who would do that anyway.

“I'm sure he respects you.” He snorts, shaking his head. He definitely put quotes around the respect word. “Just please do not do anything to upset your mother.” Too late.

“I'm not going to.” That cheesecake is going to burst into flames if I stare at it any longer. 

“Well, I had to do my Dad thing. As long as he is respectful of you, and your mother is here to supervise I think it's okay to have him over. But we'll have to set some rules.” Has he lost his damn mind?

“Rules?”

“He leaves before nine-thirty on weeknights, ten on weekends. No unsupervised trips to your room. If you do go to your room, the door must remain open. There will be no making out or horizontal behavior of any kind in this house. Understood?”

“Sure.” The rules he's set out are so laughable given the situation it's nearly impossible to keep a straight face.

“One other thing. I want to have a formal introduction with him so I can ask him some questions myself. Get to know him.” He takes a bite.

“I don't know –” of course he cuts me off. 

“I want him to come over for dinner one night this week.” Oh damn, that's going to be a problem. 

“He, um, his mom's really strict about having him home for dinner.” I'm flailing like a goldfish on a kitchen counter.

“I think she can make an exception.” He scoops up the last bite of cheesecake.

“Maybe he could come over after dinner?” Dad puts his fork down. Great, now he's suspicious.

“Why don't you want him to come over to eat? I won't cook, we can order something.”

“No, it's not that.”

He folds his arms. “Then what is it?”

“Ava?” Mom's voice silences both of us.

“Claire, what are you doing up?” Dad rushes to grab hold of her, like she's going to fall.

“I was lonely.” 

“Oh, Taylor.” He pulls her in for a hug, kissing the top of her head. I put away the cheesecake as they talk in low voices. 

“Maybe we could watch a movie?”

“Whatever you want,” Dad says. Mom winks at me as he helps her into the living room. Well played, Mom. Well played.

I half-ass all of my homework as we watch
My Cousin Vinny
. Mom's snuggling with Dad and keeps laughing. It's nice to hear, even if it's weak. Dad laughs with her, but only after she does. Clearly, he's not watching the movie, and instead watching her. It's kinda sweet. And it makes me think of Peter. I hope he's okay. I feel along the thread that connects us. He's close, but not too close. I'd had enough space to remind me why I never wanted him to leave. Even when it was hard, I was better with him than without.