Kindred

by J. A. Redmerski

  We spend the next hour dragging our bags in from the cars and checking out the rest of the house. There are three bedrooms, but Megan stresses that hers is off-limits, so that leaves two for all of us to choose from. Harry and Daisy get the one he always stays in when he visits, and Nathan, being the oldest, gets the other room for him and Hannah. That leaves Isaac and I to snatch up the full walkout basement and Zia and Sebastian get the den area with a roll-out couch bed.

  By mid-afternoon we head into Portland’s Downtown District and leave the Jeeps parked in a public parking lot. We missed the Old Port Festival by a week, but Harry insists that there’s still plenty to do when the weather’s as nice as it is. On the way downtown, I’ve never seen so many fishing vessels and sailboats. And even though we missed the festival, once we make it into the Old Port District perched on the water’s edge, I see there is no shortage of people walking the cobblestone streets with vendors and shops and restaurants teeming with business and a lot of tourists. By four o’clock, my feet are killing me from walking around so much. We visited just about everything that wasn’t boring, but inevitably it was unanimously decided that the girls must break off from the guys because they want to check out the Harley Davidsons at a small motorcycle show nearby, and we of course, do not.

  Kissing Isaac goodbye, even just for a little while I think will always feel like I’m kissing him goodbye forever.

  “We’ll meet back up at Deering Oaks Park,” Isaac says, standing underneath a small white awning settled between two copper-colored signs. “Cell phone?” he looks at me quizzically.

  I reach into the leather purse he bought for me not long ago and dig around for my phone. “Yes, Daddy, I have my cell phone,” I say, holding it up to prove it and my grin just gets bigger.

  Isaac rubs his hands up and down the sides of my arms. “What am I going to do with you?” he says. “Might have to conjure up a fitting punishment for that smart mouth of yours.”

  I push myself up on my toes to kiss him. I meant for it to be a simple loving peck on the lips, but before I move away, he pulls me closer to kiss me more deeply. “But I happen to love that smart mouth,” he says now inches from my lips.

  “Oh come on,” Nathan says. “Don’t make me get cliché and tell you two to get a room.” He’s holding Hannah’s hand, who seems to blush when her eyes meet mine. Someone as quiet and petite as Hannah seems unlikely in our oddly arranged group. They’ve been going out for about a month. And she’s tiny. She can’t weigh more than one hundred-two pounds. She’s pretty, in that cute Hailee Steinfeld sort of way.

  We break off from the guys and cut through a small park from Market Street and head to the corner of Middle and Exchange Street to find a mandatory Starbucks. I’m trying to keep a mental map of these places in my head so we don’t get lost. It doesn’t matter that most of us have cell phones with built-in GPS systems; I like to take extra precautions and don’t want to be one of those people who depend solely on technology for everything. As Aunt Bev might say: “It’s casual-thinking like that, that ends up lost in the middle of nowhere with a dead cell phone and the only way back is to map your way out by the stars.”

  Some kind of blues music carries through the streets like only live music can, the rawness of the guitar and accuracy of instruments that recorded music tends to modify and bury.

  We hit several smaller stores tucked into side streets and alleys before finding a restaurant we all agree on and I finally get a chance to rest my feet. The picnic tables outside by the water are full, so we sit inside by a window to eat our food, watching tourists walk by on the side deck. Daisy and Hannah sit across from Zia and me and our shopping bags sit next to us. I only spent a total of $32 on a turquoise beaded necklace for Aunt Bev and a couple of knick-knack’s that’ll probably sit on a shelf and collect dust.

  “I started to think you didn’t eat at all,” Zia says to Hannah who smiles almost childlike with her shoulders pushed up near her cheeks. She eats like a bird, pecking at the organic greens and mushrooms her salad had been made with. She does look like she could use a nice fat steak with a buttery baked potato on the side.

  I really don’t know much about Hannah except that she is a werewolf. Newly Turned. Not even a year ago. I wonder how in the world someone as small as she is could’ve lived through the transformation. How she can continue to live through it. I guess it’s obvious that how small one’s body is has nothing to do with whether a female can survive it, or not. And I try not to think about the process much. Nothing about it exactly deserves my consideration. It would be kind of like sitting around daydreaming about horrific scenes from Dog Soldiers, or those two crazy chicks in those Ginger Snaps movies.

  Not exactly my kind of daydreaming.

  Hannah places her fork in her salad and daintily wipes one corner of her mouth. “I’ve never really had much of an appetite,” she says in a voice almost too soft to hear.

  Daisy smiles over at her and says, “I think that’s one reason Nathan likes you, doll.”

  “Because she doesn’t like food?” Zia says incredulously, stuffing a torn-off piece of flatbread in her mouth.

  “No, honey,” Daisy says, “Nathan just has a thing for petite girls, and vegetarians tend to be smaller than meat-eaters, I guess.”

  Personally, I’m not sure what it is about Hannah that Nathan really likes. Yeah, she’s really pretty, but he usually goes for fun, outgoing girls with loveable personalities. Hannah isn’t very fun, definitely far from being outgoing. And honestly, I think Daisy is just trying to be nice by helping Hannah to fit in with us. Because Daisy knows even better than I do that Hannah isn’t Nathan’s usual type.

  That whole talk of being petite and of vegetarianism, it’s just Daisy’s way of including Hannah, as weird as the approach may be.

  “You’re a vegetarian?” I say, surprised, yet at the same time, not so much.

  “Yeah,” Hannah says coyly, “I’ve never eaten meat in my life. I was raised vegetarian.”

  I feel my eyes get a little wider. Zia’s are as round as softballs and a piece of flatbread hangs precariously between her lips. “You’ve never had meat? Ever?”

  I think Zia’s eyeballs are about to fall out.

  Being a vegetarian really isn’t a big deal to me at all. Both of my best friends back in Georgia were vegetarians. What’s so hard to swallow about this information is the fact that Hannah’s a werewolf and the picture I’m trying to visualize isn’t coming together like I want it to. I keep seeing her all wolfed-out, chomping down on some poor human’s collarbone and stopping to throw up instead of finishing the job.

  I lean over the seat so the couple sitting nearby doesn’t hear and I say to Zia, “But she’s…a werewolf.” The word ‘werewolf’ I forced through my front teeth.

  Zia finally swallows that piece of flatbread hanging from her lips and throws her head back and laughs.

  “Adria!” she says, “werewolves don’t actually eat people!” She pauses, looking upward and corrects herself, “Well, not intentionally, anyway.”

  She had said it all so loud that the nearby couple looks over at us warily.

  “Well I know that, Zia!” I say, still pushing the words harshly through my teeth. “Just that being one means you’re likely going to at least taste human flesh at some point—know what I mean?”

  “I guess that’s true,” Zia admits, going back to her food. “She’s bound to wake up one morning with bits in her teeth.”

  I shudder visibly and my face has scrunched up so much I know I look like one of those hideous troll dolls. “God, Zia! That’s gross. Seriously.”

  Hannah looks pale now and the coy smile has fled from her face.

  “Oh, doll,” Daisy says, reaching over and laying her hand on Hannah’s, “they didn’t mean to make you sick.” Daisy looks across at me and Zia with a cautionary expression. “Maybe we should talk about something else. Maybe a spinach garden, or those cute little shoestring carrots.”

  I not
ice Zia roll her eyes, laughing quietly.

  Something tells me that Hannah is going to have to get over that whole vegetarian thing now that she’s a werewolf. I can tell, just by looking at the way her scared, submissive eyes dance around on the table, that she’s just trying to hold on to anything she can of her humanity. Being a vegetarian all her human life and then suddenly she’s made into this flesh-biting beast, it must be traumatic for her. As if being a werewolf alone isn’t traumatic enough.

  I’ve said over and over again that when it comes to this stuff, I’m no expert. But it doesn’t take an expert to see that someone like her won’t make it in this dark world.

  I feel sorry for her.

  “I’m starting to think I should’ve gotten the blue top instead of the red one,” Daisy says reaching inside one of her shopping bags. She pulls out the sheer red top she bought at one of the little shops earlier and holds it up for us to examine. “I wear too much red. I should try to diversify; what do you think?”

  I swallow the last bite of my chicken salad and look at the top for a moment. “But you look good in red,” I say. “Goes perfect with your hair color.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t like the blue one anyway, Daisy,” Zia adds.

  “The red one is gorgeous,” Hannah says and I’m a little surprised that she offered her opinion at all. But Daisy has that effect on people; she can make anyone feel comfortable.

  “Adria! Daisy!” I hear a familiar voice say from behind.

  Before I even turn around, I know that it’s Cecilia from the skate park. And judging by the look on Daisy’s face, she expected to see her about as much as I did.

  “Hi Cecilia,” Daisy says, smiling.

  Cecilia literally reaches across the table to give Daisy a hug. As Daisy sits back down, I stand up and do the same, stretching over Zia sitting on the outside, to hug Cecilia. Zia just shrinks back into the booth, probably hoping that she isn’t next in line.

  “This is my dad—Dad, these are my friends from Hallowell.”

  Her dad, standing tall behind her with a pair of glasses pushed up to the top of his nose, smiles at all of us.

  Daisy reaches out a hand for her dad to shake. “A pleasure,” she says.

  “Nice to meet you girls,” her dad says with a customary smile and nod.

  “Where are you guys staying?” Cecilia says.

  “Near Scarborough,” Daisy says, but knows not to offer up any more detail than that.

  “Oh, I’m over in Westbrook,” Cecilia says sort of disappointedly. I get the feeling that Westbrook must be in the opposite direction, or else her face might’ve lit up and her plan-making gears would’ve started moving around in squeaky little circles.

  Another moment of awkward silence. I notice Cecilia’s dad touch her elbow to sort of urge her along, but all the while smiling back at us.

  “Well, I gotta go,” Cecilia finally says. “It was good to see you. I’ll be back in Hallowell next week—oh, hey Adria, tell your boyfriend not to forget what I said!” She smiles a big, toothy smile.

  “Uhhh, sure,” I say, feeling a little embarrassed that her dad is standing there, though really he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, I’m sure. “I’ll let him know—good to see you too.”

  We say our quick goodbyes, feeling like we dodged a bullet.

  “Isn’t that the obnoxious girl from the skate park?” Zia says.

  She and Daisy go into a conversation about Cecilia, but my mind veers off.

  A group of people walk past the window every few seconds and the crowds are beginning to thicken as the late afternoon wears on. I also notice that the later it gets, the more people our age start to come out of hiding. I could’ve sworn I saw that obnoxious guy screaming from the SUV on our way here, but I could never really know for sure. A group of girls pass the deck hand in hand with their boyfriends. They stop just feet from the window and I can barely hear their voices through the glass, two of the girls making food recommendations. One couple points toward the street, while another seems set on where we’re eating.

  Something catches my eye. Just as the guy who had been pointing lowers his hand, I notice a small, eerily familiar circular-shaped tattoo just between his thumb and index finger.

  He looks right at me and my whole body locks up in the booth. I don’t blink for the few seconds it takes him to look away and my gaze is starkly fixated on the window. The group slips down the walkway and out of sight, but I have become heedlessly determined to follow him and so I lean up and press my forehead against the glass. Absently, I hear my purse fall out of the seat and onto the floor.

  “Ummm, what are you looking at?” Zia says behind me and I can feel her shifting to pick my purse up from underneath the table.

  I turn away from the window and try to compose myself, letting the shaken stupor drop from my face.

  “Nothing,” I say and make a movement toward Zia so she’ll let me out of the booth. “I need to use the restroom.”

  Zia stands up to let me slide out and I grab my purse on the way as she hands it out to me.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say just as Zia sits back down again. I don’t even look at Daisy or Hannah before leaving, but I know they’re probably looking at me as strangely as Zia is.

  I walk at a normal pace initially; just until I can get far enough away from them, but when I make it to the front of the restaurant I take another turn and dash out the door and onto the sidewalk. I run to the end of the building and look in every direction, but at first I don’t see the guy or the group he is with anywhere. I look again, desperately, over the heads of people and past moving cars until finally, as one group of people are shuffling out of the way and in-between two buildings, I see the guy out ahead. I follow fast, my steps picking up pace the farther away he gets, but I don’t run. I don’t want to draw too much attention to myself. I follow him all the way down Commercial Street, past dozens of restaurants and massive parking lots jutting out over the ocean and lined by sailboats until I see the guy cross Commercial and slip out of sight.

  This time I run.

  I hear my cell phone buzzing around in my purse, but I don’t have time to stop and answer it.

  By the time I make it across, weaving my way through oncoming traffic and onto another cobblestone side street, he’s gone. Mexican music funnels from a nearby restaurant, muffled behind its outside greyish-blue walls and oddly-positioned windows. People come and go less frequent from the buildings that surround me than they did on the busier main street. I stop to rest and catch my breath, leaning against a brick building, pushing my purse against my side as it hangs sloppily over one shoulder. I don’t bother to check and see who had called yet because I know it was probably Zia. I’ve not been gone long, but long enough that I should be done in the restroom by now.

  And knowing Zia, she probably went into the restroom shortly after to find me.

  I’m kicking myself for losing him, but at the same time, for chasing after him in the first place. But that was no coincidence. Okay, maybe it could’ve been a coincidence; that this guy and Genna Bishop would have the same tattoo in the same spot, of a symbol that I’ve never seen before. I guess if Genna were an average girl who everyone else knew, then I might not find the matching tattoo so investigative-worthy.

  My chest heaves once, letting out a heavy sigh of defeat and I lean my head back against the cool brick. My phone does a series of light chimes to indicate that there is a new voicemail waiting for me. As I go to reach in my purse, I freeze again, seeing the guy across the street sitting on the steps of an ivy-covered four-story rock building. He’s looking at me, this I am sure of. What I’m not so sure about is going any farther than where I stand. But this is stupid, to just stand here and not finish what I ran halfway here to do.

  Even though I’m not exactly sure what that is.

  He motions his head back once to indicate that I should walk over and talk to him.

  I’m afraid to, but I do it anyway. I need answe
rs.

  I take a deep breath and brace myself, fastening my purse tighter against my side and I walk slowly alongside the brick building and toward the Mexican restaurant.

  16

  HE’S JUST SITTING THERE, looking at me from across the street; his arms hanging over his knees, his feet propped two steps down. He’s of average height and build, with short brown hair. He’s wearing blue jeans and a dark gray t-shirt, but most distinctly he’s wearing a knowing look on such a placid, attractive face and I can’t help but wonder if I really should just go back to the company of my friends.

  I start to wonder too, if I’m the only one who can see him.

  But that girl had been holding his hand and between thinking about the relief that gives me and about where she is now, I don’t know which holds more urgency.

  I stop on the sidewalk and just look across the street at him for a moment, studying him. A blue station wagon drives slowly between us. The door behind me to the Mexican restaurant opens and a customer steps out; the music from inside funnels around me and into the street briefly until the door closes and the man shuffles down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets.

  The guy seems really patient as I stand here, undecided. He continues to just look at me as though he’s watching an interesting movie, showing no visible emotion, but too engaged to get up from it at least until a commercial break. But then finally I see the faintest smile play at one corner of his mouth.

  “You followed me all the way here,” he says. “Is that as far as you’re gonna’ go? It’d be a disappointment.”

  I don’t respond, but I do take that first hesitant step into the street and after a few more, commit to crossing over. I don’t just watch him, but I watch everyone and everything around me, constantly feeling like eyes are at my back. I realize I’ve been clutching my purse so tightly to my side that my fingernails have started to dig into my palm as my hand grips the leather strap. My heart is beating fast and I’ve swallowed so much that my mouth is dry.