After three bites of the salad, I felt my throat closing up. Massive anaphylactic shock. Lucky I didn’t die. Spent three days in the hospital, and when I got out, I discovered that I’d developed cross-reaction allergies to everything else in the salad, too: black beans, kidney beans, garbanzos, pinto beans, navy beans, wax beans, green beans. There was some cracked wheat and parmesan cheese in there, too. So guess what? I suddenly had wheat and dairy allergies to deal with.
Yeah, my allergies got really bad. My immune system had just gone completely berserk, all because of that stupid salad. One of the immunologists at UCLA ended up publishing a paper about my case; yay for him, I guess? I landed in the ER a couple more times before I figured out I could really only eat leafy vegetables, fruit, fish and meat. Any grains or legumes at all could make me sick. Even quinoa. I knew I could never pull off being a vegan, but I’d wanted to be a vegetarian because I think animals are pretty cool, you know? But that wasn’t going to happen.
I got used to the new normal, and things were more or less okay for the next decade. Christy and I had our ups and downs. She was kind of a pain in my ass about my diet—she seemed to think my allergies were all in my head, or that I just wasn’t trying hard enough to get over them. Like, how can you just get over an allergy? I took my medicine and avoided problem foods, but she kept trying to get me to eat things she knew I couldn’t have. It got old in a hurry, but like I said, we’ve talked about it and we’re cool now.
But a couple of years before I finally got her to understand the gravity of my situation, we were both in North Carolina for gigs and she invited me to go on a hike in the woods. And she didn’t warn me about the ticks. I know, I know, that’s a common-sense thing, right? Woods equals ticks. But I’m not very outdoorsy, so I just didn’t think about what might happen. I got bit by a couple of lone star ticks, and at first, I didn’t think it was any big deal.
But I had a burger on a lettuce wrap that night, and three hours later I was vomiting and sick and landed in the hospital again. It took the doctors a while to figure out what had happened, but the tick bites gave me an alpha-gal meat allergy. I couldn’t eat beef or pork or lamb or goat anymore. Bye bye, bacon.
So I was down to fish and poultry for my protein sources. But I started throwing them up, too, even though all the tests said they should be fine. I started raising my own chickens so I could control what they ate; it didn’t help. I lost forty-three pounds, and developed all these other allergies and chemical sensitivities. It was horrible; I couldn’t sleep at night from the itching. And I sure as hell couldn’t work: I had this terrible, cracking, weeping eczema all over my body. I was not at all ready for my close-up, you know? My agent was just horrified at the condition I was in. So I moved way up into the mountains for the winter, away from the air pollution and pollen, and that helped so, so much. And I got a line on a manufacturer who makes clean protein powder for people like me.
Within a few months of moving and changing my diet, I was doing a whole lot better. The eczema mostly went away, and I’d gained enough weight that I looked pretty again and not like a walking skeleton with skin and hair. My agent agreed I was in fit shape to start looking for new work, even if it was just voice acting.
But Christy was convinced—convinced!—all my allergies were psychosomatic, and that I was turning myself into this crazy antisocial hermit. Ruining my career, she said. She didn’t have a boyfriend or a job or anything then, and I think she was a little obsessed with me. Our parents had kind of written her off as a flake and she just didn’t have anyone else. And I admit that I was still not over her dragging me into the woods and getting me bitten by ticks. I did not want to see her. At all. But she kept calling me, and emailing me, saying she wanted to talk. And she wore me down, like she always does, and I invited her up to the house.
She strolled in reeking of Chanel. It was like she’d showered in it or something. It instantly gave me this blinding headache. And I’d told her at least fifteen times, do not wear perfumes to my house. Do. Not.
I blew up at her, and started screaming at her about how disrespectful and inconsiderate she was, and she started screaming back at me about the damned sandwich I don’t remember giving her when we were eight.
“I wish you’d starved to death, you ugly cunt!” she yelled at me, and shoved me into my bookcase.
My hand landed on the Emmy Award I won for playing Sally Ferndale, and I just . . . disconnected for a second.
When I came back to myself, I was standing there with my Emmy in my fist and Christy was lying there in a heap, staring up at nothing. I’d caved her temple in with the base. I don’t know if you’ve ever held an Emmy, but they’re pretty heavy. Built to last.
And of course, I had that gut-churning, oh-shit moment when I realized I’d done something permanent and stupid.
My head was killing me, though, so I dragged her into the zero-entry shower in the first-floor guest room to wash all the perfume off her. It seemed like the thing to do while I was trying to figure out what the hell I was going to say to the police. As I was rinsing her body, I thought, why does this have to be a bad thing? Maybe this was meant to happen.
It hit me like lightning: I could pretend to be her. Nobody would have to know she was dead until I was ready. I had her keys, her wallet, her clothes. Full access to everything in her life. The only people who might be able to tell the difference were our parents, and even if they figured it out, I knew they’d never narc on me.
I mean, you couldn’t tell, could you?
And because you’re family, I know you can keep all this a secret, right?
So there I was in the bathroom, thinking about my sister as an ongoing role, when I had another thought: why let any of this go to waste?
I went to the kitchen, and sure enough, I had a couple of cookbooks that had instructions for dressing deer and boar, and others that covered basic butchery. So I got some good sturdy knives and plastic bags and whatnot and went back to the bathroom and took care of her.
She and I had a really good talk while I worked. I think I mentioned that earlier? Yes, it was a little one-sided, but I think she understood me. And I forgave her for everything she’d done to harm me.
And, oh, she’s made some great recipes. Anything pork-related has been just mwah! Roasts. Steaks. Chops. Stir-fry. I used almost all of her, and the bits I couldn’t I cremated in the barbecue out back. Roasted her bones and used them in stock. When I’m done with her, there won’t be anything for the CSI folks to find, if they ever get wise.
Oh, no, honey, don’t try to get up, you’ll just fall—
—whoops, that looked like it hurt. I should put some bumpers on that coffee table. I’m so sorry. Let me get you back onto the sofa, okay? There we go. Looks like the drugs are really getting the better of you now, aren’t they?
Why? Is that what you just asked? Well, you were looking so hard for your mom, I figured you’d want to know the whole story.
Oh, you mean, why am I doing this? Because I’m nearly out of Christy. And she is so, so good. I just can’t go back to nothing but tubs of protein powder and salad; I can’t. So I put my DNA out on the databases—which is, conveniently, also her DNA—to see who might be a good match. Someone lonely, someone who wouldn’t be missed.
I found you. And I’m sorry you won’t be missed. It’s rough that things went so sideways with your adoptive parents. And it’s hard out there for girls who chase boys away with their big scary emotions. You took after Christy a whole lot.
The good news is, it won’t hurt. Cross my heart. I promise. You seem like a good kid despite it all; you really do. Your mother would have been so proud of you.
DEAD BODIES DON’T SCREAM
MICHELLE ANN KING
Allie takes the bowl of cold, congealed chicken noodle off her sister’s bedside table and replaces it with a fresh, hot one. She tells herself the level in the old one has gone down, that Rae has eaten at least some of it. That might be true.
> She also tells herself that her sister’s color is better today, her eyes brighter. That’s not.
Rae coughs, a bubbling underwater sound. The force of it lifts her halfway off the bed and when she finally drops back, panting and limp, her lips are bright with blood.
Allie sinks to the floor beside the bed, the taste of despair bitter and metallic in her throat.
This isn’t right.
Some people might be meant to come to a squalid, meaningless end—Allie herself, for example; she’d accept that—but not Rae. She’s the useful one; the one who learned to be a normal, functioning member of society. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen to people like her.
She should have had a miracle—a medical breakthrough, a pioneering treatment, an experimental drug. Something. Anything.
Instead, she got nothing but grave-faced regret and I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more we can do. She got a musty bedroom, a surrender of hope and a long, slow wait.
It isn’t right.
It isn’t right.
Allie wipes her eyes, then stands up and kisses Rae’s hair. “I’ll be back soon.”
Because the universe doesn’t care about right and wrong; she’s always known that. It doesn’t care about fairness or justice or providing miracles.
If you need any of those things, you have to go and get them for yourself.
***
Parents, grandparents, siblings, cousins . . . all of them have dropped out of the picture over the years, either into prison or the grave. Uncle Fraser, who might be an actual uncle or might not, is the only thing resembling family they have left.
He lives in a studio flat in a development on the river that was supposed to be part of an urban regeneration program but long since gave way to entropy and disinterest. Now it’s the kind of place where taxis won’t go and kids post dog turds through the letterboxes like junk mail.
He’s fifty-four but looks two decades older, thin and pale like some kind of nocturnal animal. But he’s still alive, which has to count for something. Better genes, perhaps. Or better drugs.
Even when they were kids, Rae never believed the stories about him. But Rae’s always managed to live in a different world to Allie; one where things make sense and logic prevails.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” Fraser says now. His voice sounds rusty, as if he doesn’t use it often. “But I can’t help her. You know that.”
Allie shakes her head, because that’s not what she knows.
He sighs. “Allie, all that stuff your mother told you—it was just a game, a stupid game. An excuse to take drugs and have sex. It wasn’t real.”
“I know it went wrong, before,” she says, aiming for gentleness. “I know people got hurt. But—”
He runs a hand through his stringy gray hair and won’t look at her. “Allie, I can’t—”
Okay; fuck gentle. She hasn’t got time for it.
Rae hasn’t got time.
She grabs his coat, a filthy, ratty thing that smells of wet dog, and throws it at him. “But it was thirty fucking years ago, Fraser. It’s time to get over it. Let’s go.”
He still won’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, I really am. But there’s nothing I can—”
Allie hauls her arm back and punches him in the face, because she’s fucked if she’s listening to that anymore.
It’s a good punch, thrown with accuracy and vigor, that connects solidly with his jaw. His head snaps back and he goes down hard.
She crouches beside him. Spilled sugar crunches under her boots. “It’s just a healing spell, Fraser. Just healing, that’s all.”
“There’s still a price,” he says, and his voice is broken. “There’s always a price.”
“That’s fine,” she says, straightening up again. “I’ll pay it.”
“You don’t know what that means. You don’t understand.”
Allie shrugs. He’s probably right, but she doesn’t care.
“Let’s go,” she says again, and this time he doesn’t argue.
***
Rae’s asleep when they get back. Allie starts moving the bowls and glasses out of the way, then sees the bottle of vodka and the bottles of pills on the floor by the bed. The empty bottle of vodka. The empty bottles of pills.
“Oh, shit,” Fraser says softly.
Allie grabs hold of Rae’s arms and hoists her into a sitting position. There’s a folded piece of paper in her hand.
“No,” Allie says. “No, no, no.”
The note is terse and barely legible. It’s better this way is all it says.
“The fuck it is,” Allie says, but Rae doesn’t respond. Her skin is cold, her limbs heavy. Allie puts a hand on her chest and a cheek against her lips, but there’s no movement. No breath.
Eventually, Fraser puts a hand on Allie’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “What can I do? Do you want me to start making the calls?”
“What calls?”
“The police, the hospital. They’ll need—”
“No.” She stands up and crumples Rae’s note into a ball. “Nothing’s changed. We carry on. We just need a different kind of spell, now.”
He let out a short, explosive exhalation, as if he’s been punched in the gut. “Oh, Allie, no.”
“Yes,” Allie says. “Understand me, Fraser: you’re not walking out of this room unless she does.”
He doesn’t answer, but she knows he means it. She can see the truth of it in her own eyes, reflected in his.
His shoulders sag. “This is bad magic, Allie. Really bad. The power for a resurrection—it literally means dealing with a demon. And it’ll go bad. It always goes bad.”
Allie feels her lips stretch in a grin. “I never expected to get old, Fraser. Do what you have to do.”
For a second he looks at her as if he’s wondering whether he’s got the guts to kill her himself. But in the end, he does as he’s told.
***
It hurts, letting a demon possess you. It hurts like fuck. But Allie can handle pain. She’s done it before. Grit your teeth. Focus. Breathe.
Her insides are burning, as if the blood’s been set alight in her veins. Sweat stands out on her skin, drips into her eyes. That burns, too.
Grit. Focus. Breathe. Scream, if you have to.
She can hear Fraser talking, but can’t make out the words. She vomits green, which makes her laugh—because, really, what a cliché—then choke.
Fraser helps her stand up and walk over to Rae’s bed. His eyes are wide, the pupils huge and black. People have looked at her with fear before but not quite to this extent. She kind of likes it.
He takes her hand and puts it on Rae’s forehead. She looks down and is amazed to see that her body is still made of flesh and blood instead of blackened, charred bone.
Grit. Focus. Scream.
Rae screams, too. She screams long and hard. It’s not supposed to be this bad, is it? Not for her? Allie was prepared to suffer, but this wasn’t part of the plan. Rae’s supposed to be getting better, not shrieking in agony.
Fraser is no use. Either he doesn’t know or he’s simply too scared to speak. It goes bad, he’d said. Was this what he meant? But it’s too late to worry about that now. Too late to back out.
At some point, the police come. Allie sends Fraser down to get rid of them and by some miracle he does. She doesn’t know how. If she were a cop, she wouldn’t find Fraser a reassuring presence. Maybe he pays them off, maybe he mind-controls them. Maybe he slits their throats and buries them in the back garden. She doesn’t care.
Rae carries on shrieking, over and over. The sound hurts Allie’s ears and her heart, but she keeps reminding herself it’s a good thing.
Dead bodies don’t scream, after all.
***
Allie wakes up on the floor with a foul taste in her mouth and pain spiking behind her eyes. She struggles to orient herself—where is she, what happened, is she in trouble?—but her memory doesn’t want to comply.
&
nbsp; It’s not the first time she’s had this experience. Usually, she almost enjoys it: a few moments of tabula rasa, with no guilt or regret. She’s often wondered if amnesia would be like this. Or dying.
Then she sees Fraser watching her, and it all comes back. He’s huddled in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest and his back resting against the wall. He eyes her warily.
She clambers slowly to her feet. “Where’s Rae?”
“Downstairs.”
“Is she . . . ” she trails off, not knowing how to complete the question. Not knowing exactly what it is she’s trying to ask.
He shrugs, as if that’s an answer. Maybe it is.
She finds her sister sitting at the kitchen table with an untouched cup of coffee by her side. She looks exhausted. But alive. Alive.
Allie waits, although she’s not entirely sure what for. A hug? A punch?
Rae says nothing at all, so Allie pours herself the rest of the coffee. It’s strong and bitter and hurts her throat, but she forces herself to finish it. It feels important, a symbolic act. Here we are, having breakfast. Life goes on.
“So,” Rae says eventually. “What does this mean?”
Allie gives her an enquiring look. “In what sense?”
“In every sense. Does anyone else know? What are we going to say happened to me? Misdiagnosis, spontaneous remission, the power of prayer? What are the practicalities? Is there a limit on how long I get? Or you? Did you sell your soul, ten years of your life, your first-born? Are there conditions? Do I need to stay out of the sun or drink blood now? Do I turn into a pumpkin at midnight? Come on, Allie, what are the logistics of this thing?”
Allie can’t help but laugh. Logistics. At least she knows it’s definitely Rae that came back. Only she would think like that.
She spreads her hands. “You’re here. You’re alive. Does any of the rest of it matter?”
Rae gives her a look—an old, familiar look that says if you don’t understand, I can’t explain it to you.
Tales from The Lake 5 Page 11
