The Silver Kiss (19 page)

S
he was outside Lorraine's house. They were bringing a stretcher out. Zoë's mother was on it, eyes closed, face pale, but she spoke. “I forgot my painting. Can you get it? I have to take it with me.” They carried her where an ambulance waited. Zoë wanted to get the painting for her mother before they left. She walked through the hospital doors.

The elevator was small. A metal grid clamped shut with an echoing crash as she stepped inside. She was trapped. The elevator shook violently as it climbed—slowly, agonizingly slowly. Hurry up. Hurry up. She didn't recognize any of the floors it opened on. The lift ground to a halt, but the doors were jammed. Slats began to fall from the floor one by one. Fear clenched in her throat. She pounded the metal, begging it to relent. She was going to fall, to crash down floor after floor and end up a limp puppet on basement concrete.

The doors opened, but the elevator hadn't quite reached the floor. She struggled for footholds up the brick wall and crawled through the crack, her breath ragged. Blinding white light greeted her.

She was on a ledge high above the street. The ambulance, far below, was leaving. “Don't go!” Stomach-wrenching fear would allow her only to crawl on her belly along the ledge, clutching its sides against the great empty rushing space below. The wind screamed above her.

She swung her legs over the edge. She had to catch up. At first there was nothing except the certainty of plunging death. Great chunks of building began to fly off at her hands' touch. Her toes found wall. Her feet scrambled and slipped. She slid and cried out, expecting to meet the sidewalk abruptly, but found a handhold again. Scraped and gashed, she reached the ground.

The ambulance was still leaving. She ran after it. Her legs wouldn't move fast enough, as if the air were thick. Tears ran down her face.

Lorraine was beside her, and she offered Zoë a painting. Zoë burst with anger and hit her. “It's all right,” Lorraine said. “She's only going to Oregon. You can visit.”

A wave of relief washed over Zoë. She took the painting. In it was a boy with silver hair, dressed in bright colors, laughing.

Zoë lay blinking in the pale dawn light coming through the bedroom curtains. She moved her head slightly to make sure Lorraine was still on the floor in her sleeping
bag. The dream clung to her like a mist. She's only going to Oregon. You can visit. She could still feel the relief. I was angry at Lorraine, she thought. I was getting them mixed up—both going away. It's not her fault, not the fault of either of them. I might have been taking it out on her.

She studied Lorraine's sleeping face. I have to memorize it, she thought.

Around the green sleeping bag, where Lorraine snuggled on the floor, were scattered photographs, yearbooks, diaries, homemade picture books, and Zoë's notebooks full of poetry; the accumulated memories of years of friendship. The turntable still circled lazily. They had forgotten it completely as they lay in bed talking long after the last record had been played.

Lorraine was leaving today. That's what made it different from the many other mornings they had shared. Thank God I called her, Zoë thought. We wouldn't have had even this. I didn't realize it was creeping up so fast.

Lorraine had seemed tentative last night, at first—almost shy, not like her. She seemed eager to please. Maybe I should have got mad at her more often, Zoë thought perversely, and not let her walk all over me.

“You look pale,” Lorraine had said soon after arriving.

“You're not ill, are you?”

Zoë had smiled at her friend's concern. The attention felt good. “No. It's just … things, I guess.”

“Geez, just things.” Lorraine shook her head. “And I
thought you were supposed to be the articulate one.” But the sarcasm in her voice didn't match the way she behaved—unsure if she should take her things up, asking to use the bathroom—almost like she'd never spent the night before.

I never thought of her as insecure, Zoë thought, but I snap at her, and she acts like I might dump her for good.

Zoë found herself trying to reassure Lorraine in small ways, dumb ways, really, like chuckling if she said something even slightly funny, or letting her decide what they should make for dinner, and soon Lorraine got her sea legs again. She happily bullied Zoë into helping her concoct a huge pot of spaghetti and made her eat a large helping of it, all the while complaining of how fat she was getting.

“Bull,” Zoë said. “You've got a great figure, not like me.

Lorraine sniffed. “You might be skinny, but your bra's bigger than mine. You better eat more, otherwise every time you get up, you'll fall over from the weight of your tits.”

They screamed with laughter at this image until they had to wipe tears from their eyes.

They were getting ready to clear the dishes away when Harry Sutcliff came home. Lorraine flirted with him outrageously, as usual, and cajoled him into eating too. Zoë felt warmed by the way he actually smiled a little, and tucked in with more appetite than she had seen in him for a while. It's Lorraine, she thought. There's so much life in her, it's catching. Zoë didn't feel as worried as she might
have when he excused himself quietly and disappeared to his bedroom with a briefcase of work to catch up on, but he never came out to ask them to quiet down as he might have once. Zoë didn't know whether to be relieved or irritated. She kept on half expecting to hear his voice.

They had stayed awake long past the time when things made sense, as if fighting off the inevitable by making the night last forever. They pigged out on chips and dip, listened to records, and giggled at stupid jokes as if they were at a fifth-grade slumber party all over again.

Yet there were awkward silences sometimes, when they strayed too close to dangerous ground.

Finally, Lorraine tried to talk about her mother. She stumbled over her words. “It's not fair. I was just getting used to having to go somewhere else to visit her, and now I'll hardly ever be able to do that even.” She cut herself short and messed around with a pile of albums as if looking for something.

Zoë knew it was the specter of her own mother's death between them, stopping Lorraine from venting all her fears, and she sighed. I sometimes think she's selfish, but she's not, not really, Zoë realized. It
is
unfair for her. She deserves to feel bad. She's losing her mother too. The last took Zoë by surprise. She'd been so wrapped up in herself that she'd never thought about it that way.

“Lorraine,” she said softly, in one of the silences when she could bear it no longer, “I'm sorry I'm such a jerk.”

Lorraine threw a bottle top at her. “You said that last
night.” But she looked warily at Zoë, sensing more to come.

“But I'm still a jerk if you can't talk to me. I'm not going to shatter and break if you talk about your mother. I'm sorry if I've been a self-centered pig, and made you feel that way.” She felt her face glowing with embarrassment.

Lorraine turned away.

God, I've pissed her off, Zoë thought, confused. Lorraine's shoulder's were shaking. No, worse. She'd made her cry. Zoë slid from her bed and crawled across to her friend, unsure of what to do next. I have to be tactful, she thought, just as her hand came down firmly in the bacon-and-chive dip.

“Ugh!”

Lorraine looked around, tears in her eyes, saw Zoë's hand, and howled—with glee. It was impossible not to join in.

“You'll either have to wash it or lick it,” Lorraine gasped between giggles. “Here, have some chips.”

“Shut up, you'll choke.”

Gales of laughter again.

On her way to the bathroom Zoë said, “I guess we can talk now, huh?”

Lorraine took a deep breath. “I guess.”

But there was one thing Zoë couldn't talk about.

What could I say? she thought at one point. There's this cute boy, and he likes to drink blood? She'll think I've gone round the bend.

Often her fingers strayed to her neck and stroked the fading marks. It had been three nights; the wounds had healed fast. They were just pale yellow bruises now. She'd said she'd help him, but how could she do that? What had possessed her to say it? It was his kisses. What if it were all a mistake? What if someone innocent got dreadfully hurt?

She tossed and turned, unable to sleep even after Lorraine had been snoring for what seemed like hours.

But now it was morning, and the first shaft of sunlight lit Lorraine's hair, bringing out hidden gold in the rioting tendrils. It could have been Lorraine down that alley, if Simon was right. Wasn't that reason enough to help him? She tried to hold on to the moment and push that thought aside. It will always be like this, Zoë thought, hard as a wish. It will never change. This is every morning Lorraine has lain asleep on my floor, and I'll be within those mornings, never ceasing, from now on. There is no sad vampire boy, with sharp kisses, waiting out there in the cold somewhere.

Then Lorraine uncurled, and her eyelids fluttered. She stretched to grasp the day, and time moved on.

It was the last time they would toss for the shower, the last time they would decide together what to wear, the last time Lorraine would snitch a spray of Zoë's favorite cologne, and the last time they would try to outmaneuver each other for the best view in the mirror. Well, it wasn't really. They would visit each other, of course, but somehow
that wasn't the same. Although, Zoë couldn't help but think, if Christopher had his way, they wouldn't even have that. She shuddered.

Lorraine made scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. She sang as she cooked, as if the unburdening of her worries had released the music in her.

“You're going to make someone an obnoxious wife someday,” Zoë said.

Harry Sutcliff walked into the kitchen, sniffing the air, and sat down at the table. “I'm surprised you found anything here to cook.”

Lorraine laughed. “I didn't. I brought this with me. Someone had to clean out the fridge.”

“Well, you're a great cook,” he said, pulling a plate of toast toward him.

Lorraine passed him the butter. “It's survival. You know Diane can't cook squat. Anyhow, the way to a man's heart, you know. I'm practicing my skills on you.” She winked at him.

Zoë was amazed to see her father blush. He smiled shyly down at his plate and looked years younger. Such a small thing, Lorraine's flirting, yet it lightened his heart for a moment. Perhaps it was a glimpse of the boy Mom had fallen in love with that she saw. If I could learn to make him smile, she thought, it would be easier for us.

He left right after he ate, because he wanted to get some work in before he went to the hospital. The girls lingered over the cleanup. “He works so hard,” Lorraine said.

“Yeah. Bills, bills, bills.” Zoë's voice was gentle. She felt more compassion for the man she had seen a glimmer of this morning, different from the rigid stranger who had been around for weeks.

Lorraine washed while Zoë wiped dry. Their last minutes ticked away, and Zoë still held a secret from her closest friend.

This is my last chance, she thought. But what do I say? Lorraine, there's this vampire, and I said I'd help him kill his brother, who happens to be a vampire too? It's that little boy you talked to. He almost murdered you. Oh, no, I don't know how we're going to do it. I've left that up to him. If I tell her that, she'll freak.

What could Lorraine do, anyway? She was leaving today. She couldn't tell Diane not to go—not for that reason. Diane would have them both locked up. Lorraine would worry herself sick all the way to Oregon. Zoë couldn't do that to her.

But what am I going to do when he comes back? she thought. Can I tell him I've changed my mind?

“Daydreaming, Zo?”

Zoë started. “I guess so.”

“About a boy? Oh, don't look so surprised. I can tell a hickey when I see one.”

Before she could help it, Zoë's hand went once more to her neck. She blushed. “I—”

“I know,” Lorraine interrupted. “You met some cute boy, and before you knew it, you let him go and nibble
your neck, even though you hardly knew him, and then you didn't tell me because you thought you were being slutty. I was biting my tongue all last night so I wouldn't ask. Honestly, Zoë, you'd think it was a crime. You only live once. Is he cute?”

Zoë nodded, afraid to speak.

“Are you seeing him again?”

“Yeah.”

“Good grief, shut up. I can't bear to hear you run on at the mouth so much. Never mind. I'm just pissed you didn't tell me. But I know you. As soon as you've mulled it over long enough, you'll tell me—'cept you'll have to write this time.” Lorraine suddenly looked solemn. “Promise you'll write, Zoë.”

“Of course, silly.” Zoë shook her friend's shoulder gently, relieved to change the topic. “Huge long, intricate letters about absolutely everything.”

Lorraine sighed. “I can see I'll have to buy a dictionary.”

“It's only Oregon,” Zoë said, amused at her private joke. “I can visit.”

They put away the last dishes, Lorraine collected her belongings, and they walked to Lorraine's house to meet Diane. They went slowly, hand in hand as they had done when they were eight years old.

When they got to the house, everything seemed to speed up. The car was almost fully packed, which Diane was glad to point out to Lorraine, Zoë noticed uncomfortably, but they helped to squeeze in the last few bags. Diane
made a fuss about positioning her guitar safely, while Lorraine looked increasingly annoyed.

“The good thing is,” she whispered to Zoë on the other side of the Toyota, “she can't play it while she's driving.”

They scoured the echoing house for anything left behind and found nothing. Finally, they couldn't put it off any longer. Diane sat in the car, impatiently jangling her keys, and Lorraine had to get in beside her.