The Year of Disappearances
Page 11

I was thinking about Mysty’s voice on the phone that night, the soft drawl that lingered over words of more than one syllable and sped up when she was excited. Wouldn’t she have told me, if she’d been planning to go away?
“Ari?”
One of the boys in the car said my name, twice.
I recognized the voice. “Michael.”
He got out of the car. He was thinner than I’d recalled, but otherwise the same: long hair, dark eyes, dark clothes. I looked at his mouth and thought of our first kiss. It had happened the previous summer, at a fireworks display; I’d seen the reflection of a red chrysanthemum shower in his eyes as he kissed me.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” he said.
“It’s me,” I said.
“How long have you been in town?”
Behind him, someone opened a car door and got out—a tall person with short hair. I couldn’t be sure if it was a boy or a girl.
“Two days. We’re leaving tomorrow,” I said.
“You should have let me know.” For a moment we didn’t speak.
Then I said, “You haven’t changed.”
“But I have,” he said. “I’m a vampire now.” The figure behind him moved into the light from the storefront. It was a girl, and she felt jealous.
Mãe came out of the liquor store carrying a large paper sack.
“This is my mother,” I said, and told Mãe, “this is my friend Michael.”
All the while I was thinking, he’s one of us?
You might wonder how one vampire recognizes another.
There are a few tests. Does he cast a shadow? Is he susceptible to sunburn? (UVB rays burn our skin more than a thousand times faster than they burn human skin.)
Neither of those tests works at night, of course. Others are more subjective. I mentioned earlier that vampires have cool skin, don’t perspire, and have no smell; humans, particularly those who eat meat, have a pronounced sweet, salty odor that deodorants and antiperspirants can’t mask or prevent. Because we monitor our diets, vampires tend to be thin; there are tales of Colonists who gorge themselves on red meat, but I think those are urban legends, all in all.
Many vampires, including my father, suffer from periodic sensory overload syndrome (SOS). Artificial light and sunlight, as well as complex visual patterns that overstimulate the optic nerve, may cause dizziness, anxiety, and nausea.
Since most vampires are aware of SOS, they tend to avoid patterned clothing, particularly paisley, herringbone, and polka dots, as a courtesy to others. And most of us have acute sensitivity to sound, smell, and texture. That’s why we avoid op art, tend to play music low and wear ear protection when we go to rock concerts, don’t wear perfume, and get nervous around shag carpeting and sandpaper.
My mother had told me that vampires are prone to vertigo induced not only by heights and loss of balance, but by enclosed spaces that appear to have spiral or labyrinth patterns.
Short of testing susceptibility to these stimuli, we rely on instinct and observation. Does he speak in carefully phrased sentences? Does he have a low, well-modulated voice? Does he demonstrate near-perfect memory? Since we associate these traits with fellow vampires, we become guilty of the same tendency humans have: to stereotype, or profile, one another.
When Mãe invited Michael to join us for a drink back at the hotel, I was relieved when he said he’d come. It would give me a chance to figure out who he was.
The bartender was falling in love with my mother.
Michael and I sat in high-backed wicker chairs on the glassed-in porch of the hotel bar, a pretty place with tall ficus trees and votive candles glimmering on each table. Mãe stood at the bar trying to order. But the bartender wanted to flirt with her. And she wasn’t stopping it.
Half of my attention was on her, the rest on Michael. As far as I could tell, he was not a vampire. His voice was low enough, and he did think before he spoke. But his thoughts didn’t have the same texture as those of my mother, my father, and Dashay, the vampires I knew best. His were wispy, soft; theirs had more substance, even when they were emotional or perplexed.
“I’ve been meaning to call you.” Michael was watching my mother, too, thinking how pretty she was.
Why isn’t she wearing a wedding ring? I thought suddenly. After all, she’s still married.
Michael looked at me. His brown eyes had an unfamiliar, docile expression.
“Are you taking drugs?” I asked. I felt glad that no one was sitting near us.
“Well, yeah.” He smiled. “I told you, I’m a vampire now.”
I noticed that he was perspiring slightly. No, you’re not, I thought.
“You haven’t tried V?” His voice trembled slightly.
“V as in…?”
“Vallanium. The drug that makes you a vampire.” Michael pushed back his long hair with both hands. “Ari, it’s amazing. You take two a day, and you live forever.”
“This stuff is a pill?”
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small black canister, like the ones film comes in. He snapped off its lid and shook two dark red capsules into the palm of his hand.
“Want to try it? It’s a nice buzz, kind of like smoking weed, but if you take it with vodka you get these images…” He shook his head. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Is it expensive?” I looked down at the capsules. Each was inscribed with a tiny V.
“Yeah. But I have a job now. I’m not in school anymore, I’m working at the All-Mart warehouse.”
The bartender was pouring the drinks, finally.
“Maybe I’ll try it later,” I said. “I’ll pay you, if you like.”
He shook his head. “No, that’s cool. You should try it.” He handed me two capsules, which I slipped into my jeans pocket. “I’m sure you can find a dealer down in Florida,” he said. “Everybody I know is on V.”
“Put them away before my mother comes back.” She was paying for the drinks.
He slid the canister back into his shirt pocket.
Mãe carried a tray to the table: two glasses of Picardo and one of cola. Michael looked disappointed. “What are you drinking?” he asked.
“It’s called Picardo. Want a taste?”
Mãe gave me an inquiring look. I’ll tell you later, I thought.
The red glass glowed in the candlelight. Michael lifted it to his lips, took a sip, and began to cough.
Sorry, my friend, I thought. You are so not one of us.
My mother said all the right things. She brought up the subject of Kathleen so delicately that Michael wasn’t upset. Then again, maybe the V kept his emotions in check.
“It’s been hardest on Mom,” he said. “She’s on antidepressants, and they make her kind of numb. At least she gets out of the house now. For months she stayed in bed.”
“And they never found out who did it?” Mãe’s voice was soothing.
“No, although for a while there they thought Ari or her father might be involved.” He glanced at me. “You knew that.”
“The FBI agent even showed up in Florida,” I said.
“People still say it’s funny that you left town after the murder.” His mind filled with hazy suspicions.
“I could never do anything like that.” I said. “Neither could he.”
“I know,” he said. “Hey, I was sorry to hear that he died.”
Mãe briskly changed the subject. She asked Michael about his plans for college, and he explained at some length, in the vaguest possible terms, why he didn’t have any.
After Michael left us that night, with promises to stay in touch that we all knew would not be kept, Mãe and I stayed at the table, talking about the things we couldn’t say before.
“Doesn’t he deserve to know the truth?” I asked.
“What’s the truth?” Mãe finished her drink and waved her fingers at the empty glass.
The bartender had never taken his eyes off her, and he refilled the glass at once. He wanted to linger, but she cut him short with one glance, and he retreated. I realized that she’d put up with his flirting before to give Michael and me a chance to talk in private.
“All we know is what Malcolm said in Sarasota,” she said. “He might have been lying. He’s good at that.”
But I’d heard him confess, and I remembered the details—he’d talked about the way he killed her. He’d done it because she was a nuisance, he said.
“Even if Malcolm did kill her, what good would it do to tell Michael?” Mãe’s eyes were dark. “We don’t know where Malcolm is. We have no proof. Trust me, Ariella, it’s better not to say anything.”
I trusted her. But I felt the weight of knowing, like a kind of sickness inside.
Chapter Six
We left Saratoga Springs the next morning with boxes and baggage shifting behind us in the truck.
On the drive out of town, I made my mother stop at the cemetery. Kathleen’s name was engraved on a large stone, next to a smaller one headed with the names of her parents. All of their birth dates were on the stones, followed by dashes and spaces to fill in the years of their deaths. Kathleen was the only one with two dates. I left one of the CDs she’d given me near her stone. I’m not sure why.
“And so we bid farewell to Saratoga Springs.” Mãe turned the truck onto the ramp for Interstate 87. She sighed and glanced at me. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I’d thought coming back here would do you good. You know, give you some sense of closure—”
“I hate that word.” Then I apologized for interrupting her.
“Catharsis, then.” She pressed down on the gas pedal, but the truck kept its own pace, barely above the speed limit. “I hate automatic transmissions,” she said.
“Catharsis means ‘purification.’” I stared out at the rolling green hills. “I don’t feel particularly pure.”
“It’s not your fault that Kathleen died.” Mãe edged the truck into the right lane. “And it’s not your fault that Mysty disappeared.”