Forever 51

by Pamela Skjolsvik

  “Oh my god. Have you noticed? My butt? It’s like perfect! I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “For one, I assumed you knew—but now that I think of it, Danvers kept mirrors to a minimum.”

  “I need to get laid. Seriously. For years I thought I was a living, breathing Quasimodo but I look like one of those chicks you see in a beer commercial.” Millie growled at her reflection, baring her white teeth. “And I’ve got killer teeth too!”

  “Speaking of killer choppers, Millie. Those days are done.” Veronica wrapped her arm around Millie’s shoulder. “From now on, you shall forgo the blood of Fido and eat heavily processed food like a normal American.”

  It wasn’t easy to leave the next morning, but once Veronica witnessed the joy and enthusiasm with which Millie strutted down the street in the presence of her shocked neighbors, she knew that her great-granddaughter would be okay.

  She would be better than okay. Millie could now reside in the pleasure of possibility instead of the usual monotony of slang-laden survival. Veronica wondered what it would be like to be young again as the two-lane blacktop stretched out before her. “Back in Black” boomed from the car’s speakers as the sun kissed the exposed skin of her forearms. The world and all it had to offer felt as if it were streaming through her open hand. Smiling, she glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. She was still fifty-one. Wiping the beads of sweat from her upper lip, she turned down the stereo.

  The lot of the motel was empty with the exception of a lone police cruiser hidden behind its prominent red sign. Veronica looked up at the room she’d rented. The curtains were still drawn. As she stepped out of the car, Veronica told herself that Jenny was probably happily ingesting the gas station smorgasbord while binge watching a Golden Girls marathon. She was definitely not lying stiff and cold on a vomit stained mattress. Inserting her card in the door’s reader, the light flashed red. She turned it around and inserted it again.

  “Jenny? Let me in. My card’s not working,” she whispered into the door frame.

  Silence.

  Veronica took a deep breath and stepped back, approaching the door as if to reason with it. She wiped the card on her shirt, studied the printed instructions as if there were a special secret to make it work, and tried again.

  Red.

  Irritated, she clomped down the stairs to the front office. An elderly woman in a lavender pant suit smiled at her from the desk. “Can I help you?”

  “My key isn’t working.” Veronica placed it on the counter. “Astrid Dahling. Room 23.”

  The woman typed something and stared at the computer screen. “Looks like your daughter checked you all out of the room yesterday, Ms. Dahling. Bart’s notes said we refunded her the cash deposit, since there wasn’t a credit card on file.”

  Veronica felt like screaming a Millie-esque stream of profanities at the elderly woman. Instead, she forced a closed-mouth smile. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot she was going to check us out early. Would you mind pointing me in the direction of the nearest bar?”

  26

  Despite the early hour, the local watering hole was hopping with a motley assortment of alcoholics drinking their way towards sanity or at least steadier hands. Veronica scanned the mostly middle-aged crowd, looking for Jenny’s jet-black hair and grimy clothes. Everyone in the dim, cavernous space eyed her expectantly, as if she might be the one stranger to buy the house a round or liven the place up by feeding the jukebox.

  Veronica maneuvered herself between a ripe old man and a middle-aged woman with her head resting on the bar. The bartender winked in her direction and pounded his fist beside the sleeping woman’s open mouth. “Wake up, Marge! You can’t sleep in here!” His voice startled the sleeping woman. He smiled at Veronica as if he couldn’t believe the audacity of the drunks in his care. His front teeth were missing, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Get you something to drink, sweetheart?”

  “I wanna another one,” the woman slurred and slowly raised her head, as if an invisible hand was pushing it back towards the sticky surface of the bar. “And I’m not sleeping, Richard, I’m thinking.”

  Veronica took a deep breath and tried to reciprocate the bartender’s eager smile. “I’m looking for a young woman. She’s petite, dark hair and probably wearing black.”

  “Hey, me too!” The man beside her cackled. “If you find her, send her to this side of the bar.” The old man elbowed Veronica’s ribs. His laugh morphed into a phlegmy, uncontrollable cough. She pressed her lips together to ward off his spewing germs. She hadn’t been sick since she was mortal, but lately, anything was possible.

  As the bartender contemplated Veronica’s question, the opening notes of “Dream On” began to play on the yellowed Wurlitzer. “Yeah, she was in here yesterday. Had a real mouth on her.”

  “Sounds like the girl I’m looking for. Was she with anyone?” Veronica leaned away from the coughing man and moved towards the waitress station, clutching her purse tightly as if it were Jenny’s tiny head. The bartender followed.

  “You a cop or something?” He eyes narrowed.

  “Actually, I’m her aunt. She’s not supposed to be drinking. She’s in recovery.” And leaving her alone for so long was irresponsible on bad old Auntie V’s part. She wanted to kick herself, and everyone in this bar, for being so stupid.

  “Well, she was drinking alright. Wild Turkey and Miller Lite. And she was with a guy I ain’t never seen before.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Like most of them oil guys do. Young, dirty hands, wearing Wranglers and some old flannel shirt.” He wiped at a spot on the bar with a damp gray towel. “We get all sorts coming through here ever since the oil boom. Some are a bit seedier than others, if you catch my drift.”

  “They weren’t on drugs, were they?” She leaned in to the bar, flashing him a smile as if it didn’t matter one way or the other.

  “Well, they was awfully amped up considering all the beers they was drinking. They were dancing everywhere and as you can see, this ain’t exactly the kinda place to cut a rug.”

  “I see. Well, thanks for the information.” Veronica pushed away from the bar and rolled her shoulders. She was ravenous, and it was way too easy to slip in a place like this.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  She flashed him an inquisitive look. Don’t tempt me. “Do you have anything fresh and warm, Richard?” The question was ripe with sarcasm, which was more to feed her need to tear flesh than an honest inquiry of his liquid wares.

  “Sorry, the coffee machine’s out. Tequila makes you warm.” He lifted a bottle of rot-gut from the well and smiled his toothless grin. When she didn’t bite, he plopped the half-empty bottle back into its slot and continued to wipe at the invisible spot on the bar.

  “Yes, it does. It also makes my clothes come off, which defeats the original purpose. I need to go. Thanks for your help.” Veronica fished in her purse for the car keys and practically sprinted out of the dank bar. For the first time in decades, she felt the overwhelming need to burst into tears. The last place she wanted that to happen was in a crappy bar in North Dakota. She didn’t know if it was the depressing Aerosmith song or the fact that Jenny, her only ethical food source, had abandoned her for a few free beers and a roughneck stranger.

  She pulled the atlas from under the seat and studied it. Although Jenny certainly wasn’t inside its pages, she felt overwhelmed that the people she’d turned could be anywhere. Her best bet was to look in the place she’d left them, as that was her pattern. Turn and burn. She was resolved to search the streets of Pembina for Jenny, but from there, it would most likely be I-94 towards Detroit. The thought of being in the same town with Kevin Black turned her stomach, but whether she liked it or not, eventually she’d have to meet up with him. But first she needed to find Mary Katherine. Of all the people she’d turned, Mary was the only one who forced her hand.

  She was only a mile out of town when she spotted Jenny sitt
ing on the side of the road. Her orange arm was resting on her knees, but it was extended out towards the road with a tiny, tentative thumb in the air. Veronica pulled over and Jenny leapt to her feet.

  “Where the hell were you?” Jenny yelled into the open passenger window. “When you didn’t come back to the room, I thought you’d been killed or…”

  Veronica gasped. “What happened to your eye?”

  Jenny leaned into the window, giving Veronica a better look at the black and blue shiner. “Some douchebag bought me a couple of drinks last night and thought he could fuck me in his truck.”

  “And your neck. Oh my god, Jenny. Are you alright?” Jenny’s neck was covered in angry, deep, finger-shaped bruises.

  She opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, throwing her bag behind her. “I’m fine. You should see him.” Jenny forced a laugh.

  “Oh god. Let’s get out of here.” Veronica shifted the car into drive and peeled out from the shoulder in a halo of dust, her empathy for Jenny’s battered face fast rising into rage.

  Jenny secured the belt and pulled down the visor. Inspecting her ravaged face, she touched her split lip. “I look absolutely fucking horrible. No wonder no one gave me a lift.”

  “Listen, Jenny. I need to eat. And it’s either going to be him or you.”

  Jenny rolled up her window. “You don’t need to find him.”

  “Why not? Don’t you think he should pay for this? I certainly do.” She clawed her nails into the steering wheel.

  “I seriously doubt there’s an ounce of blood left in his body.” Jenny rested her face against the window.

  “What do you mean by that? What did you do?” Veronica’s gaze darted between the rearview mirror and the speedometer.

  “Gee, well, while he was busy raping me, I managed to grab the gun from his holster. He didn’t like that very much. But he stopped.” Jenny picked at the grime beneath her nails.

  “Why would you leave the bar with him?” Veronica looked towards Jenny.

  “What? Are you saying I deserved it?”

  “No. Absolutely not, but come on. What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t thinking, alright,” Jenny snapped. “I was high. And I don’t know if you’ve ever snorted coke, but when you’re coming down and it’s two o’clock in the morning, it’s pretty fucking depressing. All you want is more.” Jenny’s voice cracked. “He said he had some more in his truck, so I followed him outside.”

  “So, you shot him?” Veronica placed her hand on Jenny’s trembling shoulder.

  Jenny sobbed. “Yes.” She buried her face in her hands and winced. “First Maynard and now this. I’m like a fucking serial killer.”

  “You are not a serial killer, but we should probably get out of here.” Veronica floored the gas pedal.

  An ambulance screamed by with its lights flashing. Jenny turned to look and grabbed her bag from the back seat. “So, where to now?” Her voice was flat and lifeless.

  “You didn’t steal his phone, did you? The police can find us with that.”

  Jenny removed a 9mm revolver from her bag and stared at it. “No. Just this.”

  Veronica hated guns even more than she hated North Dakota. “We’re going to Massachusetts. And please put that thing away. They make me nervous.”

  “They make me feel safe.” Jenny returned the gun to the backpack but clutched it closely against her chest.

  Veronica didn’t know what to do. The nurse in her wanted to rush Jenny to the ER for a rape kit and some good old-fashioned retribution, but the man was already dead. What more could anybody do? If anything, Jenny would be questioned and possibly convicted of murder.

  “I am so sorry that this happened to you, Jenny. It’s my fault. I should never have brought you along on this stupid trip. You could have been safe and unharmed in California if it wasn’t for me and my selfishness.” Veronica’s eyes welled with tears. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Do you want me to take you back home to Texas? I will. You just say the word and we’ll go.”

  Jenny straightened in her chair and set the bag in front of her. “Let’s just keep going where you’re headed. You’re getting pretty good at this apologizing shit.”

  27

  Massachusetts - 1949

  Veronica felt that her time was drawing to a close at Danvers. Even though the overcrowded, mentally unstable population was perfect for her needs, the old-timers on staff began to question the fact that her appearance never changed. While their hair greyed, and their faces became roadmaps of increasing age and disappointment, Veronica remained forever frozen in middle age. Despite that, they never questioned her about the many patients who swore that she visited them in the middle of the night to poke them with needles and suck their blood through metal catheters. That was, until the night Mary Katherine Malone, a fellow nurse, caught her in the act.

  Mr. Jones had undergone a lobotomy earlier in the day and was heavily sedated. In the darkness of the room, Veronica palpated his inner thigh until she found the steady pulse of his femoral artery. Blindly, she inserted the needle, carefully straddling his lower body for the best angle. She was starving. As his O positive blood saturated the inside of her mouth and ran dreamily down her throat, she moaned with pleasure.

  It was at this point that Mary Katherine Malone entered the room. Mary averted her eyes and gasped at the impropriety. Veronica turned and waved her away as a dribble of blood escaped her tightened lips.

  “It’s not what you think, Mary.” Veronica pulled the needle and applied pressure to the puncture wound.

  With a clipboard clutched tightly to her chest, Mary shuffled towards the bed, her eyebrows raised in disbelief. Veronica quickly placed a large bandage on the man’s thigh and hopped off the bed.

  “You’ve been drinking his blood, haven’t you?” she whispered, as if the man might be listening. “I knew it. Is that how you stay so young?”

  “Don’t be silly. I wasn’t drinking his blood. I was inspecting his leg for clots. He underwent a surgical procedure earlier today.” Veronica wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then smoothed her smock.

  Mary wrinkled her upturned nose. She was in her early thirties, single and Catholic. Despite her parent’s needling suggestions, she avoided marrying Jesus. On her knees every night before work, she prayed that one day she might have sexual relations with another human being. Those unclean thoughts were specifically directed at Dr. Dan, who also worked the graveyard shift at Danvers. She mostly avoided the other nurses. They were competition for Dan’s affection.

  She bravely took one step closer. “I saw what you were doing. Plain as day. And by the way, there’s still a little smidge of it…just there.” Mary moved in closer and inspected Veronica’s face. “Do you need a hanky, dear? Blood on your face could raise suspicion.”

  Veronica didn’t know whether to run, reveal the truth, or slug Mary in her pouty little kisser. “No, but thank you for the offer.” With a heavy sigh, Veronica wiped at her face and walked towards the door with rounded shoulders.

  “No need to worry, dear. I won’t tell a soul.” Mary flashed Veronica an impish grin and tucked the covers around the sleeping man. “Well, I might tell Father Patrick.”

  For weeks, Veronica tiptoed around Danvers, while Mary stayed tight on her heels. Each night, the fledgling detective attempted to catch the elusive vampire in the blood-letting act. If Mary had a purpose in mind, it didn’t involve getting her coworker fired or hung in the town square. After a while, the chase became their own private joke. Mary would peek into a darkened room and blurt out, “Drinking the blood of psychotics will do nothing for your crow’s feet, dear.”

  The first time it happened, it felt menacing, but with each successive occurrence, the teasing became frivolous and fun. It became friendship—something Veronica hadn’t experienced in years.

  When Mary was diagnosed with breast cancer at 34, Veronica dreaded havin
g to watch her friend suffer. She knew how quickly a person’s priorities changed when their last day was no longer an ephemeral future ending, but foreseeable. There would be no more days of cat and mouse or camaraderie. Instead, Veronica was forced to bear witness to the slow, sad death march, accompanied by a rehashing of all the things Mary failed to accomplish or do in her short life, including Dr. Dan.

  The day before Mary’s heavily dimpled right breast was scheduled to be removed, Veronica snuck into her hospital room in the middle of the night. “Wakey, wakey, Mary. I’m here for a collection.” She tapped her lightly on the shoulder and inched slowly towards her face. “Hey, lady, can you spare a pint or two for a good Lutheran?”

  Mary slowly opened her eyes and smiled. “What are you, Astrid?”

  “I’m a Norwegian from the north.” Veronica knelt beside her bed as if she were about to pray. “Why do you ask?”

  “No. I mean, what are you? Are you some sort of female Dracula? I really think you owe me this information before I die.” Mary rubbed her tired eyes and struggled to sit upright in the twin bed.

  “You’re not going to die, Mary. You’re going to be fine.” Veronica forced a smile. She could smell impending death.

  “I should have just become a nun and maybe this wouldn’t have happened.” She peered inside her hospital gown. “You know what irony is, Astrid? I am going to die a virgin, just like a nun. No man will ever want to see, let alone touch what’s left of my Franken-boobs.”

  “Sure they will. Men don’t care what they look like. They just want to be able to touch them.” Veronica rested her chin on her entwined hands. “Franken-boobs. I like that.”