Lust for Life

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “He went down pretty fast, didn’t he?”

  “And stayed down, once that other little girl started beating him with the piñata bat. What was her name?”

  “Beth-Ann Moseley. She was my best friend that week.”

  “Too bad we had to leave that town a little sooner than planned, since the clown was on the town council.” She angles her head. “I’m sorry about the surprise. But I’m here now.”

  “I can’t even take you shopping or out to dinner, since I have to play dead.” I pull out my phone and check my calendar. “I have a wedding gown fitting tomorrow. I’ll have to have Lori reschedule. Or maybe I should just not show up. What would a dead person do?”

  “Maybe if you wore another disguise . . .”

  I give her a guilty look. They came back from the hospital before Shane and I arrived from our brunch. David was predictably pissed.

  “No, Kashmir’s people will be looking for me at the bridal boutique. We just have to hide for a couple more days, I hope. We can plan wedding stuff after my funeral is over.” I doubt anyone’s ever uttered that sentence aloud. “You ready to play mournful mommy?”

  She waves her hand, like I’ve asked her to pick up a quart of milk at the store. “You know I’m a good actor. The more emotional the role, the better. I even bought a funeral dress on our way home from the hospital.”

  “That was efficient.”

  “I needed all new clothes and toiletries, anyway, to replace the belongings that man stole from me. Luckily it was just one suitcase.” She reaches behind her to the coffee table, careful to keep her bandaged ankle elevated on the adjoining chair. She pulls a black dress from a department-store shopping bag. “I held off on the hat and veil. I figured that was just for widows.”

  “It’s nice.” I add the dress my mom just bought for my funeral to the long list of today’s surreal images.

  “I also got a couple scarves. I’ve been missing them so. Obviously we can’t have them in prison, not that many people hang themselves in minimum-security facilities.” She pulls out a green-and-blue silk scarf.

  I scan the long piece of cloth, relieved not to see a security sensor hanging off it. She never needed to steal things, but sometimes she liked the thrill. Maybe she’s rehabilitated, just like Jim.

  “It’s not too garish, is it?” She shakes it to make the colors undulate. “I don’t want to look like a Gypsy.”

  “You mean real Gypsies or Dad’s Gypsies?”

  “Real ones. Though your dad’s kinfolk dress crazy, too.” She folds the scarf and lays it back in the bag. “But they don’t like to be called Gypsies.”

  “I know.” In April, I met four of my Irish-American Traveller cousins, three of whom were vampires. They carried boulder-size chips on their shoulders about the way they were viewed by “country folk,” which is anyone who’s not a Traveller. I’m a full-blooded Traveller myself, but I’m still country folk to them because my dad stole me from my neglectful teen “bio mom” and ran off with this woman sitting across from me.

  Though Dad had escaped a family of enterprising criminals, and though Marjorie was presumably squeaky clean, they soon embarked on a decade-plus tour of deceit as fake faith healers (and, apparently, insurance brokers), gathering more money than our Traveller cousins ever would with their petty short cons.

  Lori enters the lounge and passes us with a quick wave on her way to the bathroom. Thankfully it’s on the other side of two doors, and I have human ears again, so I can’t hear her barfing while I’m trying to eat.

  “I should get Lori a congrats-you’re-pregnant gift.”

  “Ooh, you can use this.” Mom hands me a coupon from the department-store bag. “There’s a sale on sweaters.”

  “She likes the clothes I buy her. But I don’t know what size to get now. How fast do pregnant women swell up?”

  Mom laughs. “ ‘Swell up’ sounds like she has an inflammation. Freudian slip?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re upset that she’s having a baby and you’re not.”

  “Yes. But not because I want one.”

  “Because you’re afraid you’ll lose her.”

  I gape at her. She actually understands.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I was young once.” Mom pulls out another scarf, one with broad red and violet zigzags, a bolder look than I knew her to have. “My close girlfriends all got married right out of high school, and all had babies by the time we were twenty-one. They talked about nothing else all day long. I was the ‘weird’ one who didn’t think potty training counted as high adventure.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Dad sure gave you adventures.”

  Stroking the vivid silk scarf, Mom smiles to herself. “Yes, he did.”

  “If you could do it all over again, would you change anything? Would you run screaming when he said hello, or maybe push him off your grandmother’s roof he was supposedly fixing?”

  She looks at me like I should be pushed off a roof. “Not a thing. It was worth the jail time, the uncertainty, hardly ever seeing my family except at funerals and weddings, and not being able to bring my husband and child home for those.”

  “That must’ve been hard.”

  “Before you pity me for giving up my family, remember that your dad did it, too, but for him it was forever. He was exiled.”

  Shane and Jeremy enter from upstairs on their way to the studio, discussing the latter taking over Shane’s show while we pretend he’s dead. They each grab another piece of pizza, though they’ve already eaten an entire one of their own.

  Shane kisses the top of my head. “Ready to go soon? Lori needs to drive us to their place while it’s still light. David’ll bring Dexter after dark.”

  “Can’t wait.” Seriously, I can’t wait to get him alone and see what his human body is like. Then I realize we have a speed bump. “Mom, we need to find you a safe place to stay. You can’t come to David’s house until Dexter gets used to you. He doesn’t generally like humans. Dexter, that is, not David.”

  “Oh, I’m staying with Franklin. He said his house is too big for one person and he needed someone who can cook something other than breakfast.”

  “Did you learn how to do that on the inside? Because last I remember, your cooking began and ended with Hamburger Helper.”

  “I’ll have you know, I am now skilled in all forms of boxed Helper.”

  Shane laughs. “That sounds amazing right now. By the way, can I get you anything, Mrs. O’Riley? Drink? Food?”

  Mom beams at him. “I’m fine, thank you, and please, call me Marjorie. Or just Mom, since that’s what I’ll be in a month and two days.”

  Shane’s eyes fill with wonder. “Wow. That is . . . wow.” He takes another bite of pizza as he follows Jeremy to the studio.

  Mom watches him go. “How old did you say he was now?”

  “Forty-two. In four years we’ll pass the half-his-age-plus-eight cradle-robbing standard.”

  “Hm.” Mom gives a heavy but ladylike sigh. “If he makes you happy, I suppose that’s what counts.”

  “That is exactly the right thing to say, especially after telling me what a great choice it was to run off with Dad.”

  She purses her lips like she’s trying not to smile. “I wouldn’t want to be a hypocrite.”

  “Mom, you guys were living out of wedlock while preaching family values to the masses. You were professional hypocrites.”

  “I do regret that I never made your father divorce Luann. But most of all, I regret lying to you about being your real mother.”

  “You are my real mother.” I pick the onions off my pizza, deciding I don’t like them anymore. “Did you ever regret not having a baby of your own?”

  “Oh, sweet pea.” With her paper napkin, Mom dabs the corners of her mouth, then her eyes. “You were always my own.”

  30

  Like a Prayer

  It feels weird to go to bed at night.

  Shane and I (and D
exter) have slept here at Lori and David’s house before, in this downstairs guest room with thick blackout curtains on the window. The only thing that’s changed is that now those curtains are hiding what’s inside instead of what’s outside.

  As I finish changing into a pair of Lori’s pajamas, she knocks on our bedroom door and enters. Shane’s in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, and probably taking a good long look in the mirror, though he’d never admit it.

  “I have something you might need.” She hands me a half-full box of condoms.

  “Thanks.” I examine the contents of the variety pack. “Funny, all the double-pleasure ones are gone.”

  “Yeah, those were . . . hmm.” She sits on the edge of the bed. “So you think you’ll use these after you’re married?”

  “I’ll go back on the Pill until we go for something more permanent.”

  “Oh.” She gives a wistful sigh.

  “We’re not having kids.” At the sight of her disappointment, I add, “We don’t even know if we can.”

  “Won’t the Control give you fertility tests? I would think they’d be curious.”

  “I guess.” I riffle through the box. “Between extended pleasure and glow-in-the-dark, which do you recommend for first-time human sex?” I look at the ceiling. “Oh, no, you’ll be able to hear us through the vents.”

  “We sleep on the other side of the house, so you should have privacy.”

  “Okay, we’ll try not to break too much furniture.”

  She lets out a pealing laugh. “I’m so happy you’re back. I mean, I loved you as a vampire, but now we can do all the things we used to do.”

  “Like hug each other without me wanting to bite you.”

  “Yikes.” She examines my face. “Are you happy to be human again?”

  “There were some really cool things about being a vampire”—I pinch my forearm—“but this feels right to me.”

  “Because you were undead for such a short time?”

  “Because something inside me always rejected the magic. I was fading fast, wasn’t I?”

  Her eyes turn sad. “Yeah. Maybe that was part of why I had trouble accepting it. There was something not quite right about you.”

  “Well, that’s always a given.”

  “It was still wrong of me to freak out over you changing. I promise it’ll never happen again.”

  I look away to hide the doubt in my eyes.

  “Ciara.” She puts her hand on mine. “I know you’re afraid we’ll grow apart after the baby comes, especially if you choose not to have your own. But David and I talked about it, and he said he’ll make sure I get at least one girls’ night out every week with you. Just the two of us, grown-up stuff.”

  I smile at the ceiling, where I hear David’s footsteps going down the hall. “You know he’s amazing, right?”

  Lori gives a coy, one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah, he’s all right.”

  “Your kid is going to be ridiculously cute and smart. I’ll try to not be a bad influence.” I swallow and force out the words. “As a godmother, I mean.”

  Lori gasps. “You’ll do it?”

  “If Shane agrees, too. And only if I never have to go to church except that one time.”

  “Of course!” She throws her arms around me. “I can’t stop hugging you. You’re so soft and warm now.”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘flabby,’ but thanks.”

  Out in the hall, the bathroom door opens. I let go of Lori. “Hey, you know what my only regret is about being human again?”

  “What?”

  “That I never got to bite you.” I snap my teeth. Her cackle fades as she retreats with a good-night wave.

  I’ve just gotten under the covers when Shane enters. He spots the box of condoms on the nightstand and shuts the door slowly behind him.

  “I’m all nostalgic now.” He climbs into bed beside me. We face each other under the covers, like soap opera characters.

  I wonder if he feels insecure now that he won’t have supernatural potency and stamina. I worry that, with his decreased senses of touch and smell, my body won’t have the same appeal to him. Maybe it’s too much pressure for our first night together as humans.

  “We can wait,” I tell him. “If you’re tired, or if—”

  He answers me with a deep, hard kiss. I give a low moan and pull him close to me, every inch, not missing yesterday’s strength, in my body or his. This is still us. His lips, his tongue, his hands, his thighs—all my favorite parts—are still Shane.

  I slide my fingers inside the waistband of his boxers.

  Oh. Wow. Yes. All my favorite parts indeed.

  His breath catches and he lets out a groan, loud and raw.

  “We should probably be quiet,” I whisper.

  “No.” Shane claws at my silk nightshirt. “We’re alive.” He tears open the shirt, sending buttons flying, then hurls back the covers. “Let’s live.”

  If Shane’s insecure, he’s covering it well.

  Naked, we kiss and grasp and feel every inch of each other. I savor each breath, filling my lungs with his new yet familiar scent. We murmur our usual filthy words of encouragement, stoking our desire to animalistic, pornographic heights. Shane covers my body with his, holding me down and driving me crazy, tugging at my nipples with teeth and tongue, spreading my legs with an exploring hand as I urge him on my with voice and fingers.

  Then he stops.

  Then I stop.

  We stare at each other in the low lamplight.

  “We did this before,” he says, “the night we got engaged.”

  “Did what?”

  “Planned to fuck mindlessly, to prove to ourselves that we were still young and crazy and full of lust.” His hand drifts over my belly. “That a real commitment wouldn’t change us.”

  “But it did. And that night we decided not to go for the porn action right away. We made love first. Even though it was kind of scary.”

  “So the fact that we went straight to bow-chicka-bow tonight means we’re more afraid than ever?”

  “Shouldn’t we be?” I put my hand over his, wrapping his long, strong fingers around my ribs. “Things are different.”

  “And we’re pretending they’re not, at least in bed. We’re pretending we’re still two animals, tooth and claw.”

  “We can still be that sometimes.”

  “But tonight, maybe we shouldn’t.” He rolls over, pulling me gently to lie against him so we’re side by side, facing each other. “I don’t know what we should be now, or what we should do.”

  “First we need to forget the ‘shoulds.’ It’s not like we have some precedent to follow. Let’s do what we want.”

  “I just want to look at you.” He fingers the ends of a lock of my hair. “What do you want, Ciara?”

  “I want you to do something you haven’t done since you came back to life.” I touch his throat with my first two fingertips. “Sing for me.”

  “I don’t have my guitar.”

  “You don’t need it.”

  “I might be off-key.”

  “I won’t notice.” I slide my fingers under his chin, then up to his lips. “Sing for me, Shane.”

  He starts off softly, eyes closed, crooning a song I’ve never heard before, a song I could swear he’s writing even as it leaves his throat. I have to remind myself to breathe.

  His voice is more beautiful than ever. It skates over the middle-range notes, caresses the lows, and lifts the highs with just enough effort to avoid sounding polished.

  His words and melody tremble with the awe of being alive, and with the lingering fear of a new kind of death. A human death of blood and weakness, where strength will drain from us one day at a time. A death we won’t return from again.

  The last verse counters it all, with a hope I’ve never heard before. In his new-old human form, Shane is a little less lost, a little more certain of salvation. But as bright as he becomes in the sun, he’ll never shed the darkness that ou
tlines his soul. If he did, he wouldn’t be Shane McAllister.

  He stumbles over the final chorus, a lighter variation on the previous ones, as if the new reality is a stranger to be let in only with caution. But he goes back and repeats it, stronger and surer, and by the time it’s over, my face is soaked with tears of joy.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “How is it possible?” I wipe my eyes with the edge of my thumb. “You sound even more incredible now.”

  “Nah, it’s just your weak human ears.”

  “My weak human ears listened to you for three years.” I notice my unintentional rhyme but don’t stop to admire it. “You never sounded this good. Were you like this before you turned, and if so, why weren’t you a rock star?”

  “I didn’t sound like this.” He rubs the spot where his collarbones meet. “It feels different. Not easier or louder, just . . . I don’t know. Like something’s there that wasn’t.”

  “Nothing builds character and talent like dying, and now you’ve done it twice.”

  “Seems like we should’ve come back with some sort of superpower to make it all worthwhile.”

  “No.” I shake my head and run my hand down his arm, wondering where the freckles will appear first. “This is enough.”

  Shane inhales, soft as a cloud, then exhales, his eyes roaming my face like he’s seeing me for the first time.

  I draw my fingers over his brows, noticing a gray hair on the outermost edge of the right one. A smile pops onto my face.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Finding hidden treasure in my own backyard.” I follow the new thin line that crosses his forehead, like the Arctic Circle on a globe. Shane’s face could be my whole world right now, or at least a hemisphere.

  “I still can’t believe it,” he whispers. “We’re alive.”

  I place my hand over his heart. “You’ve always been alive to me.”

  He draws his thumb over my lips, first to trace them, then to part them. Slowly he moves forward, slipping his tongue beside his thumb at the edge of my mouth, then inside.

  This time there’s no doubt or fear or anything to prove. Our bodies find each other as they are, and it is perfect.