Die By Night

by Kaitlynn Aisling

  Her eyes widen in shocked delight, and she leans back in her chair.

  “That’s amazing. He’s developing so fast. What does it feel like?”

  “Like a miracle, like I’ve been blessed beyond measure.”

  “Wow,” she breathes out.

  “But we may have a problem.”

  “Oh, Lord. We got any of that chocolate milk left, or did you drain the carton already?”

  I motion to the fridge, and Meagan gets up to pour her own glass. The idea is so good that I take another large gulp of my own drink.

  “All right, spill.”

  Just as she says the words, a stream of milk misses her cup and splashes onto the counter top. The timing of her statement with the mishap is so hilarious to me, that I slap my hand against the table and burst into laughter.

  “Pregnant people,” she mutters under her breath. “All right, what’s the problem?”

  “I saw Gavin today. He knows.”

  “Knows?”

  I’ll give Meagan a little bit of slack because her date sucked, but really, what else could Gavin know?

  “He knows.” Still no recognition on her face. “Meagan! He knows I’m pregnant with his child!”

  “Oh! Ohhhhh. OMG!”

  With the revelation, she drops the cup, chocolate milk splashing all over the counter. I don’t laugh this time. Some of my buoyancy seems to have deflated now that I’m thinking of my baby’s daddy. My baby daddy. Man, I sound like trash.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, what happened? What did you say? What made you tell him? How did he find you?”

  I explain the events that led up to my confrontation with Gavin, skipping over the part where I bought ice cream. When I mention the baby doll and diaper training, she rolls her eyes at me, but otherwise keeps her comments to herself. Then I reveal that I didn’t admit anything to Gavin, no surge of conscience for me, but he knows anyway.

  “So, he may or may not have another baby on the way with another woman,” I finish.

  “Natalie, I think it’s safe to assume that the woman he was referring to is you.”

  She’s found the celery and is munching on the sticks dipped in peanut butter. Gross.

  “We can’t know th—”

  “Natalie!”

  “OK, OK. He’s still a cad.”

  “You never explained why you wouldn’t tell him about the baby. I’m pretty sure what you’re doing is illegal.”

  “You didn’t hear the messages!”

  “Do you think he’s part of some cult?”

  “Yes. And you should be scared, because cults like blonde sacrifices.”

  “We’re both blonde,” she says, waving a celery stick in the air in dismissal.

  “I am scared! But let’s not talk about that. We need to find a way to hide, and I need to learn to diaper a baby.”

  Because after today, I have no plans of going back to the store any time soon for a baby doll. Hmm, I wonder if I can find a diaper changing simulation online.

  “We can’t hide; we just moved here, and I know how to diaper a baby. I practiced on my siblings when they were little. You should know from Maxim.”

  “My parents didn’t let me change his diapers. I was four!”

  “Hmmph. Excuses, excuses.”

  “You know what? Go to bed. You’re ruining my nursery planning vibe from earlier.”

  “I think I will go to bed,” she huffs.

  “Well, fine; but just so you know, there’s ice cream in the freezer, and I will be eating it at midnight.”

  The look she sends me is judgmental and haughty, but I laugh anyway because I know that we’ll both be snacking on mint chocolate chip ice cream at 12:00 a.m. sharp.

  Every morning when I wake up for work, it seems my stomach is bigger. It feels like I blossomed overnight. I’m still not huge, and my online research advises that you expand the least with the first pregnancy. Some people don't even realize they’re pregnant until after the baby is born. I think my height plays a role in it as well, more room for the baby to lounge around in or whatever. However, I’m worried that my days of hiding my condition are fast approaching an end.

  On the first of February, my worst fears come true. Mr. Edmunds stares a little too long at me as I pass by his office on my way to my thirty-minute, unpaid lunch. Though I’ve been trying to keep my eating under control, I know that I can’t starve the baby through my efforts.

  I’ve been craving chocolate and ice cream, but also vegetables and fruit. But no pickles. It’s weird. The very mention of pickles has me gagging in my mouth, which is strange considering I always used to be indifferent to pickles. Put them on my burger? Sure. Forget to put them on? No problem. But now, ruin my Whopper with pickles and I’m coming inside the lounge to get two Whoppers in apology.

  Today, as I carry my lunch bag full of kale chips, an apple, and a turkey sandwich, I’m interrupted. Mr. Edmunds calls my name, pronouncing it wrong of course, and motions at me with one hand. His glasses are perched low on his nose, giving him a distinctive principal vibe.

  “Yes, Mr. Edmunds?”

  “Shut the door, please.”

  Oh, great. A shut door is never a good sign when talking with your boss. That means this won’t be a quick chat about how we managed to find that error in another accounting firm’s work for our new client. It won’t be to discuss how it sucks that football season is over and the Steelers didn’t even make it to the Super Bowl this year. No, this will be a discussion I won’t enjoy.

  “How are you?”

  Dandy. Out loud I say, “Great! How are things with you?”

  “Yes, fine. You see, Ms. Donetsk, it seems something curious has been going on with you lately. You don’t seem yourself.”

  “Oh why, Mr. Edmunds, everything is fine with me.”

  With his right pointer finger, he pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. The eye pad pieces seem to be digging into the tear ducts of his eyes now. His beady, little brown eyes shift downward and seem to glare a hole into my stomach, which is covered by a loose, boyfriend cardigan. My hand shifts there, as if to protect my hidden bundle from Mr. Edmund’s laser gaze.

  After a full minute of uncomfortable silence, his eyes return to my face, and he coughs. The motion causes his glasses to slip back down a little.

  “If ever you need anyone to talk to, or if you need any help, with anything, please let me know. Human Resources is also available for any concerns you may have. Our benefit plan has also recently expanded to include counseling; if that is something you’re interested in.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Edmunds. I will consider that,” when Hell freezes over, “And I appreciate your concern,” like a rusted nail in my foot.

  He steeples his thin, hairy fingers, resting his chin atop them. It’s an awkward silence, while I wait for him to dismiss me. He doesn’t, so I gather up my lunch bag once again and lurch forward to my feet. I feel like he catches every little movement and is judging it all as signs of my condition. I grab the edge of his desk to steady myself, knocking his nameplate askew.

  He knows.

  I want to be snide and mention Kimber. I know she’s been struggling with her new position. I often see her huddled over her desk, while on her Bluetooth headset, yelling at some poor support tech about discrepancies in her files. Can anyone say user error?

  But I need this job more than ever now. I need to continue to pull my weight. I can’t expect that Meagan will pick up all the slack; it wouldn’t be fair. Maybe I’ll look for a new position with a different firm. Schedule a maternity leave, find a job in the break, and just never return to Waller Funds.

  Maternity leave! I’m nearly five months along. I can’t leave that to the last minute, but I find I can’t request it now, not with him watching me that way.

  “How far along are you, Ms. Donetsk?”

  The abrupt question inspires fear that I might fall out right there. The spasmodic movement of my fingers against his desk cau
ses the nameplate to edge even closer to a fatal fall.

  “E-excuse me, Mr. Edmunds?”

  “I believe you heard me fine.”

  Is there any point in lying now? Why is he being so forceful all of a sudden? I don’t know if it’s the sudden tension and pressure of the moment, but his beady eyes look even more piercing than normal. They almost burn. His face takes on a devilish cast in my mind. It feels like he’s the enemy, and I’m the doe, carrying vulnerable young, ready for the taking. A double meal.

  “It’s my lunchtime, Mr. Edmunds. Please excuse me.”

  Then, with a grace I don’t feel, I straighten and make my escape. As I shut the door behind me, I give one last glance to Mr. Edmunds, who is nudging his nameplate back into place, using his fingers as guidelines. His countenance is back to its normal, sagging demeanor. His eyes no longer seem to glow, and he appears to be the middle-aged, soft manager he’s always been. But no matter how I try, the former image won’t leave me in peace. It possesses my mind with the same tenacity that seemed to possess Mr. Edmunds just moments before.

  The weird occurrences don’t stop there.

  After lunch, Mr. Simmons does a surprise code check. He spends an inordinate amount of time at my cubicle. I’m being targeted. I call Meagan, but she’s busy studying for a procedure she’s going to observe later in the day and doesn’t answer. When five o’clock rolls around, I tiptoe past Mr. Edmund’s office on my way out; it doesn’t do any good. His eyes follow my progress past his doorway, once again filled with a strange glimmer.

  Me: Is paranoia a symptom of pregnancy?

  Meagan: Lil busy.

  Me: Real quick, Meg. It’s important.

  Meagan: I don't no. Y? U think someone’s out to kill u?

  Me: Maybe…

  Meagan: I promise to give a good eulogy. C u lata.

  At least she took the time to respond.

  At the bank, the cashier asks me if my boyfriend is in a hurry to get somewhere, gesturing toward a very pale man in the waiting area. The man doesn’t even try to hide his stare when I turn to see just who the cashier is talking about. When I shake my head in the negative, the cashier hands me my deposit receipt in a hurry. At the gas station, it feels like eyes are burning holes through my spine. The pump won’t take my card, and I have to go inside to pay. Another man, different from the first but just as pale, grabs up a container of Pringles without ever looking at the flavor and moves behind me in line.

  Me: Saw a pack of lifesavers gummies and thought of you.

  Maxim: Did you buy?

  Me: What’s in it for me?

  Maxim: My eternal brotherly love.

  Me: And…

  Maxim: A free Redbox code.

  Me: It’s yours.

  “Mam? Did you need something? Mam?”

  The pressure of a foot stepping on the heel of my flats pushes me forward before the cashier’s voice does. I drop my phone into my slack’s pocket and grab up the lifesavers.

  “Pump five wasn’t taking my payment,” I tell the man.

  “Five is busted.”

  “Oh.”

  The breath of the ghostly pale man behind me smells rancid. He’s that close to me when I turn to leave, lifesavers in hand. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but I swear his eyes hold that same evil glow, except they burn at a higher intensity.

  As I exit the gas station, the bell on the door isn’t loud enough to disguise the sound of the Pringles hitting the shelf. He put his item back. He’s not going to buy anything, because he’s following me.

  Forget the gas.

  I speed out onto the road, cutting in front of a Buick to ensure no one can follow. I make it back to the townhome on a quarter of a quarter tank and a prayer.

  I run as fast as my full bladder will allow me. Locking and dead bolting the door, I rush to the bathroom first. Once that need has been relieved, I head straight to my laptop. A Google search on pale skin and glowing eyes provides results one would expect.

  Vampires.

  The whole thing is absurd. However, when I add body possession to the mix, I get even scarier results, compelling results. Some believe that vampires have the power to compel a mortal to do their bidding. They have the power to overwhelm someone’s free will.

  Different sites provide different lore. It’s all a mix of history, myth, and plenty of exaggeration.

  This is ridiculous. Vampires aren’t real.

  Of course they’re not real, but I still don’t plan on tuning in to Vampire Diaries any time soon. My mind is filled with blood sucking images anyway. I read Dracula in high school, and I’ll admit that I read Twilight too. All four of them, though that’s all Meagan’s fault.

  My scream is uncalled for, but I can’t control my reaction when Meagan gets home. Just the sound of anything at the door has that power right now. She rushes in and slides to her knees in front of me on the couch.

  “Are you in labor? Wait! It’s too early! Are you having evening sickness? Is ER on?”

  “No, just shaken up a bit.”

  “Jeez, Nat. You gave me a heart attack.”

  Getting up from her position on the floor, Meagan goes back to the front door and shuts it while I watch. Then she sets her bag and purse on the counter. I jump past her and lock and deadbolt the door, then run back to the couch. If there was a blanket on the couch, I’d be huddled beneath it. I bite through all my nails while I wait for her to get her snack ready and come sit back down.

  She plops down on the couch with an apple and the jar of peanut butter. I don’t wait any longer to start in on the tale.

  “Gavin started the paranoia. Ever since he confronted me at the grocery store, I feel like I’m being watched.”

  “You’re being paranoid. Just take out a restraining order and be done with it.”

  “I can’t do that! That’ll give away my address! Right now, I have the upper hand because some of my stuff still lists the old apartment, and Chloe doesn’t know we’ve moved yet. I can’t lose that advantage. But it gets worse. It’s like he sent minions to follow me too.”

  “Just who did you sleep with, Natalie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Once again I think, what will I tell my baby when he’s born? What will I put on the birth certificate? What about when he gets older and starts asking questions, or is assigned a genealogy project?

  And what about in the meantime? How do I keep us safe from whatever mystery lies behind the weird incidents of today?

  “We need a cover story,” I say.

  “We’ll say that Gavin was a fireman who died in the line of duty,” is Meagan’s quick response.

  “I guess cover story is a nice way of saying lie.”

  “Well, you can’t tell your child the truth!”

  She’s right, and yet the statement sounds wrong. It feels wrong. I don’t want our lives to be made up of lies. But really, it’s not like I’ve been encouraging any other future.

  Once Meagan goes to bed, I go back to my research. When I’m so tired that I’m blinking repeatedly just to keep my eyes open and my head up, I go to bed.

  My dreams are filled with blood and gore, fangs and fear. An army of Count Choculas gouge themselves upon my blood, counting as they leave crescent-shaped bite marks all along my body. I wake up over and over, never managing more than an hour of sleep at a time.

  Finally, I rifle under my bed, through my blanket storage bin, and drag out the tattered, red plaid shirt. I’d never admit it to Meagan, but his shirt is like magic. Somehow, it soothes me and eases the nightmares for a little while. I swear I can still smell him in the fabric, like he embedded himself into it; the same way I sometimes worry he embedded himself into me.

  He left me altered, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I don’t know how to accept it; so I don’t. When I wake in the morning, I hold the shirt over my trash bin and hesitate for a full-blown five minutes, before relenting and once again stashing it beneath my bed.

  Today,
I have a family barbeque, and I dread the thought of pretending everything is OK. I pack my laptop, and with one more longing glance toward my tousled sheets and inviting bed, I set out. At various times on the drive I get the sense I’m being followed, but I dismiss it in favor of being rational.

  I take a roundabout way to my family’s house just in case. Relief lies heavy on my shoulders when I pull into the drive.

  “Hey, sis! Need any help with that?”

  The question should be a rhetorical one, because as I exit my car my arms are filled with Walmart bags containing all of our favorite chips, my keys are hanging from my mouth by my Lego Batman keychain, and my phone is balanced between two fingers. However, Max stands at the door as if waiting for an answer. Shifting the bags to the left, I attempt to shut the car door with my foot. This seems to be the signal Max was waiting for, because he jumps to action.

  “Thanks though,” I mutter around the keychain.

  “You’re getting spit on the Bat Suit!” he moans.

  His sandy brows furrow in disgust as he holds out a hand for me to drop my keys into. I follow his silent instruction, laughing at his grimace.

  “Thank you, Maxxie!”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Did you get the BBQ curly ones?” Nic comes bounding out the door yelling.

  Macy calls from behind him about manners, and I can’t hear Papa’s response, but it has her laughing.

  I did get the BBQ curls. I feel so guilty for avoiding my family that I’ve brought six different varieties of chips and three different dips to our Saturday cookout. As if salty snacks could make up for my distance and omission. I hug my brothers and Macy, trying to keep some distance between them and my body. I’ve layered again today, with a large hoodie over my long sleeved tee shirt. I’m getting far too fat, far too quick. When summer comes, I’ll be in trouble.