One Kiss: An Apocalyptic Urban Fantasy (Transmissions from The International Council for the Exploration of the Universe., #1) (2 page)

It was crazy not to. She was gone. And she wasn't coming back.

I stalked back across the hall in just my socks, panties, and bra to Megan's room, passing the bed, not even glancing at it, and pulled open the top drawer of her dresser with such force that the contents on top quivered. I slowed down, taking a breath, the scent of Gilt filling my senses, pricking tears at the corners of my eyes. I picked up the small bottle again, uncorking it and pressing the lip of the glass container to my wrist. I tilted the liquid so that it brushed against my skin. I did the other wrist and then dabbed a small amount onto my middle finger before dipping it between my breasts. The smell of her was all around me.

Replacing the bottle on top of the dresser, I unfastened my bra, the weight of my breasts falling forward, relieved to be free. Turning to the bed, I shrugged it off my shoulders and tossed it onto the end. Leaving it there, I grabbed out a bright pink bra that I'd seen Megan wear several times. It looked amazing with her red hair. The pink and red made her look like a Valentine.

I hooked the band around my waist and then twisted the bra, pulling the cups to the front. I slid the straps over my shoulders; the bra cradled my breasts and I reached in, lifting them up into the cups. Closing the drawer gently, I resisted the urge to crumple to the ground, wrap my arms around myself, and cry. I felt dangerously empty.

Turning back to my room I left Megan's, the scent of Gilt coming with me.

"
So you really had no idea what happened to her?"

Darling glanced up at me, only for a moment, as though she needed to check that I was serious before she answered. "Obviously not."

"You didn't even know what you were?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I had no idea."

<<<<>>>>

––––––––

W
hen I entered the hospital lobby, the smell of it dropped me into my memories, into every walk I'd taken through this place, into every battle Megan and I waged. The bone marrow transplant offices were on the fourth floor. I rode in the elevator with a wheelchair-bound man and a young woman I assumed was his daughter. They shared the same thin noses and full lips. Both looked drawn, their cheeks sunken in and hair limp.

I'd noticed this before. After all that time spent in hospitals I could spot the primary caretaker. Child, parent, or spouse, you could see the diseased patient's effects in the slump of their shoulders and the bags under their eyes. I appeared to be an exception. As Megan grew gaunt, I'd filled out, my hips and ass growing plumper, my breasts rising so that now I hardly owned a shirt that contained them. My lips were pink, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. As Megan died, I grew stronger and healthier.

The father and daughter got off the elevator on the third floor and I finished the ride up alone. Just me and my reflection. The doors opened into a hall, the air heavy with disinfectant. When I pushed through the door I recognized the nurses behind the check-in counter:  Claire and Harriet, both middle-aged and overweight in the way that women of a certain age often are. Their scrubs were large enough to cover up the bulges underneath but nothing could hide the puffiness of their cheeks and the tightness of the watches on their wrists.

Harriet's and Claire's attention was locked onto the TV mounted in the corner of the waiting room. On the screen, a young white guy with slicked-back blond hair, wearing a gray suit and a serious expression, told the viewing audience, "The victims of the attack were brought to Mercy Hospital at approximately 4 a.m. The first victim began having seizures soon after admittance."

The video switched to a bird's-eye view of a city street. Yellow tarps covered two bodies and dark smears stained the cement. "Witnesses say that this woman"—the screen switched to a mug shot: a white woman, crazy bleached blonde hair, chin raised so that she looked down her nose at the camera—"Angela Hoppenheimer, who has prior arrests for prostitution and drug possession, attacked the two men as they walked home from an evening out with friends."

It cut back to the anchor. He held his fingers to his ear for a moment. "Now we are going live to a press conference with the chief of Crescent City Security."

The screen switched to an empty podium with two flags limp behind it. A stout woman in her fifties, hair pulled into a tight bun, stepped up to the podium. She wore a charcoal pinstripe suit with a crisp white shirt. Placing a stack of papers on the podium, the police chief began to speak. "As you all know, there was another attack yesterday in the early evening. While this incident is still under investigation we ask for your patience and perseverance. At this time we believe that a newer form of LSD on the market is causing these attacks," she said, her voice serious. "Citizens of Crescent City, if you encounter a person on this drug, acting erratically, violent"—she cleared her throat—"insatiably hungry, call the police. Do not attempt to engage them."

A reporter yelled a question that the audience at home couldn't make out, but the chief answered it. "At this time we are not sure why the victims of these attacks are having seizures and exhibiting other side effects. That is something we are working closely with the doctors over at Mercy to figure out."

Another unintelligible question.

"At this time the CCA has not been brought in, since we believe it is a drug, not a virus, causing these attacks."

"Do you plan on canceling the annual zombie run?" a reporter in the front row asked, his mouth close enough to the mic for the audience to hear.

"No," she smiled. "These are not zombies."

"They brought the victims here?" I asked.

The nurses turned to look at me, noticing my presence for the first time. "Oh, hi, Darling," Claire said. "Yes," she answered my question, her voice turning grave. "They came in late last night."

"Terrible," I mumbled, casting my eyes to the floor.

"How are you, Darling?" Harriet asked. She pitched her voice upward with my name, something about her tone implying that it was almost impossible for me to be doing well. Or at least, if I was in good shape, it was a struggle. She expected a sad smile, a brave face.

I looked up at her, making eye contact. She started a little under my gaze, her eyes slowly growing glassy as I held my gaze on hers. "I'm fine," I said, turning my focus back to the floor. Looking at my shoes, black little lace-ups, like a schoolgirl would wear.

"Yes," Claire said. "I saw that. So brave of you."

I kept my eyes on the ground as I shrugged. "If I can help," I said. This was my fourth bone marrow harvest. When the doctors suggested the treatment for Megan I was tested but wasn't a match for her. However, I was a match for a lot of other people. In fact, I was a record-breaker. I'd had a surgery every three months since then. This would be my fourth.

Harriet clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Let's get you checked in," she said as she typed. "Oh, you're seeing Dr. Tor," she said, looking over at Claire. They smiled at each other, their eyes alight with humor. Harriet looked back to her screen. "He's new," she told me, "and I think he's from the United Kingdoms."

"I thought further East," Claire said. "Either way," she smiled at me. "He's a nice young doctor."

I gave her a tight-lipped smile and nodded. Got it—I should date the nice new doctor. They had all my information on file, so it only took a moment before I was seated in one of the chairs waiting to see him.

****

M
inutes later a young doctor opened up the door, looking down at a tablet. "Darling Price?" he said, glancing up.

His hair was jet black and pushed off his forehead straight back, as if he ran his fingers through it often. Large, almond-shaped hazel eyes complemented a strong nose. The doctor's skin was the color of wheat fields when they glow golden under the light of a setting sun. He smiled when he caught my eye. "I'm Dr. Issa Tor," he said, his accent slight and yet distinctly foreign. "Please, come with me."

I followed him down a hallway. Each door had a plastic pocket on its face, many of which held clipboards. Watercolors hung between the doors. They were quiet landscapes: wetlands, a gentle wind bending the reeds, mountains covered in happy little tress.

The doctor was slender and tall, narrow shoulders and hips, but very erect. He carried himself like he saved lives. Dr. Tor opened a door for me and waved a long arm toward an examination table. "Have a seat," he said.

I climbed onto the padded bed, crinkling the paper that lay across it. Sitting at the edge, I could just rest the tips of my toes on the metal step. Dr. Tor sat on a low stool with three wheels at its base, allowing him to scoot around the small room. He started in front of the computer, entering passwords and reading warning boxes that sprung up on the screen. Once he had what he wanted he turned to me. "I see you've donated before," he said.

I nodded.

"Thank you, your marrow is very rare." His eyes  stayed focused on the screen. "I don't see a family history here." He turned to me, his eyebrows raised. "You were adopted?"

"Something like that," I said.

He nodded slightly and I thought for a moment that he might ask me more questions, but then he just turned back to the screen.

"What is the disease this time?" I asked looking down at my shoes.

"Leukemia," he answered, his tone turning grave.

"So a harvest," I said.

"Yes," he answered, turning back to me. "Are you up for it?"

I snapped my gaze up to his, my bangs tickling my eyelashes. I saw him through a curtain of hair. "Yes," I said. "I'll be fine."

He pushed off with one of his long legs and rolled his stool across the bench to where a blood pressure cuff hung. He stood up and held it out to me. I offered my arm and he wrapped the band around my bicep. He pushed a button and the band began to expand. I could feel my pulse against my skin. Dr. Tor held his stethoscope up to his mouth and breathed on it. When the sensor touched my skin it was warm; his fingers did not brush me but I wanted them to. It was as if a war always brewed in me, between an intense need to be left alone and a hunger for touch.

"Sounds good," he said, pulling his earbuds out and returning the stethoscope to his neck.

"When?" I asked.

He pulled the cuff off me, the Velcro rip satisfying in its many textures. The doctor sat back down in front of his computer and typed some more. It was one of those keyboards with the tall keys, and each stroke was a clack.

"I'm hoping early next week; we've got all your paperwork, everything is matching up." He nodded at the computer, smiling, pleased with what was on the screen.

"Good," I said.

"Same address?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Phone number?"

"Yup."

"Emergency contact here is Megan Quick, is her number still the same?"

I gripped the edge of the table, my hands pressing down hard into the padding. "She's gone," I said.

"Moved?" he asked not taking his eyes off the screen. "We've got her as the same address as you but I can change that." He clacked some more on the keys.

"Disappeared," I said, squeezing the word from between my lips, trying to keep the truth out of the air I breathed.

He looked over from the computer then, his eyebrows raised in question.

"She was a patient here," I said.

His expression shifted from confused to embarrassed, his cheeks flushing and eyebrows lowering. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"It's fine," I said. "I'll just get a cab home after."

He looked up at me, his skin still flushed but eyes intent. "We don't recommend that."

"I know the recommendations," I said through gritted teeth. "I know all about your recommendations." I bit down on my lip to stop the anger bubbling out of me. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, then blew it out through slightly parted lips, letting my jaw relax. "I'm sorry," I said. "Can we just finish up here? I've got to go."

"Of course," he said, turning back to his computer.  "You're not on any medications?" I shook my head no. He read something off the screen.  "You used to be on antipsychotics, though?"

"Not for a long time," I said. "Is that in the records there?" I had not taken any medication regularly since moving to Crescent City. It didn't make sense that Mercy Hospital would have my records from before I moved here.

"Our system was recently upgraded ," Dr. Tor  said. "It links to any other facility records with a matching name and citizen ID number."

"Oh," I said. "I haven't taken anything like that in a long time. Would it matter if I was?"

Dr. Tor shrugged. "It's not a problem either way."

"I had a messed-up childhood," I blurted out. Dr. Tor nodded; he raised his eyebrows, encouraging me to continue. "They said I had false memories." I couldn't believe I was telling him this but the words seemed to spill out of my mouth. "I haven't hallucinated anything in a long time."

"What did you hallucinate?" He asked, leaning slightly forward on his stool, the metal creaking beneath him.

"I–" a knock on the door interrupted me. Dr. Tor frowned. The door opened and Harriet walked in holding a file. I felt myself blushing, the color sneaking up my chest and running over my throat up to my cheeks. I couldn't believe I had been about to tell him about my delusions.

Harriet passed the file to Dr. Tor. He gave her a weak smile and placed it on the desk next to his keyboard. I glanced at my watch, a gift from Megan, thin black leather band, elegant gold face; it was later than I thought. As Harriet began to exit I stood up, the paper crinkling from my movement.

"I have to go," I said.

Harriet closed the door behind her even as I reached for it. Dr. Tor stood quickly. "Please, Darling," Dr. Issa said. "I just need a few more minutes."

"I'm sorry, but I'll be late for band practice. I have to go."

"But you'll come back? For the surgery, I mean," he said.

"Of course," I said, letting my eyes land on his for just a moment too long. His breath stopped and his pupils dilated. I turned, yanked open the door, and left.