Papa pulls me close in a side hug.
“Lapushka! You never come to visit your papa! We have missed you.”
“Sorry. You know, work and all.”
Papa goes out with Nic and Alex to “teach” them to grill properly. Macy stays in the kitchen to mix spices for the chicken, and Max and I start setting aside salad ingredients and preparing the potatoes for roasting.
“Got my lifesavers?” Max asks.
“Got my Redbox code?” I ask in return.
“I’ll text it to you after I have the gummies in my hand.” Max wags one finger at me, “I’m not sure I trust you.”
I motion to one of the Walmart bags, laughing at Max’s crow of victory when he holds up the package.
“Good to see you, Natalie,” Macy says.
“You too, Macy.”
My brothers are dressed in their usual jeans and sports hoodies, but Macy is wearing charcoal slacks, heeled booties, and a black sweater with gold threading. Her fuchsia hair cascades down her back in perfect curls. She’s always tan, and with her lightly lined olive eyes, she’s especially classy and pretty today. She makes me feel frumpy.
I’m going to have to buy maternity jeans. I’m planning on going shopping after the cookout. Right now, I can fit in sweats and one old pair of fat jeans. For work, I’ve been wearing some slacks that were donated to me by a well-meaning, but size impaired family friend. When I first received the slacks, I was offended, but now I’m glad I never got around to throwing them out. Who would have thought they would come in handy?
We settle into a familiar rhythm, like no time has passed since our last family get-together. I wash the potatoes, Max peels and cuts them, and Macy seasons and drops them into the pan.
I remember back when Mama was the one who prepared the salad and potatoes. I miss those days now more than ever before. She’d know what to do with an extramarital grandchild. She would have calmed Papa when I revealed the news. She would have kept my brothers off my back and away from Gavin. She would have been able to handle all of this. Instead, I’m left dealing with it on my own.
I tried to call Chloe, but she’s still on her nature trip, sans technology. In my mind, that’s enough due diligence to try and alert Gavin to the fact that he’s going to be a father, even if he thinks he already knows. The problem is that I don’t lie to myself well. I push that thought away with all the other worries I’m juggling, in order to better enjoy my time with family.
Our family is able to fill their individual roles like magic. Macy sets the table, and I volunteer for cleanup. When Max disappears to the backyard to “help” grill, Macy and I sit at the table, sip tea, and make small talk. Normally, I would tease her about future nieces and nephews, but now I avoid that subject. Macy is a teacher, so talk shifts to children anyway. She’s looking forward to summer, and I direct the conversation to the vacation she’s taking with Nic.
Once the boys comes back in with pans full of sausages, steak, chicken, and vegetable skewers, I’m able to tease Nic about souvenirs that he better bring me back from the beach.
“Nice try, squirt. Macy and I are on a budget. If anyone has souvenir requests, write them down and staple a twenty to it.”
“Papa, I’m not sensing the brotherly love here,” I interject.
All three of my brothers roll their eyes at that, as Papa begins a speech about the importance of family. Alex mocks falling asleep until Papa smacks the back of his head. Macy leans forward to hear him better, but it’s made difficult with Nic’s symphony of groans, especially when Max joins in with harmony one octave higher.
That ruckus continues until Papa announces the need for a prayer before the meal. Everyone quiets and grabs the hand of the person beside them.
The food is delicious, as always. I caught Macy going behind us while everyone washed up to add her own touch to all the food. I try to keep my eating to a single person serving, to avoid unnecessary attention or teasing. I’ll have to eat another serving on the way home. I still have Meagan’s food donation. She’s busy all day today studying for another observation, so I’ll be on my own for second lunch and dinner. It’s a shame really, because Meagan had gotten in the habit of coming along for these family cookouts, and I know she enjoys them just as much as we enjoy having her here.
The boys move to the living room to check if any sports are on. I clean up the table, and Macy pulls out a laptop.
“You don’t mind, do you? I have lesson plans for days!”
“Of course not. Plan away. Let me know if you need any input from a child’s perspective; I can get Alex for that.”
“Ha! You’re right. The man is so like Nicolai in that. When I’m planning at home, Nicolai always wants to test out all the crafts and puzzles.”
Despite our joking, Alex comes back in the kitchen once I turn on the sink to wash dishes. He dries them without complaint and sets them aside. He ruffles my hair before leaving to go back to the living room.
They must have found something on TV, because it isn’t long before shouts and groans drift in from that direction as their chosen team scores and fouls respectively. I pull out my own laptop and sit across the table from Macy and her stacks of papers and binders.
Once again, my thoughts drift to vampires. How could they not, what with the dreams that filled my sleep last night? And though I still believe my own wild suspicions are nowhere near plausible, I can’t help but delve into the subject a little deeper.
Opening my own laptop, I find sites hosted by people who believe themselves to be monsters of the night. One guy named Steve has an entire website devoted to a vampire community, where a vamp can source blood, meet with those like them, and learn about slayers and how to avoid them.
The very thought of drinking blood sickens me, and in my condition it’s enough to have me considering rushing to the toilet.
Other sites claim that there’s too much evidence for any other conclusion to be reached about the existence of vampires. There’s a listing of myths, forums devoted to Vlad the Impaler and Dracula, and horrifying images of drained corpses. Other sites point to demonic activity and Satanism.
It’s then that Papa walks back into the kitchen.
“Turn it off,” he commands, his voice as strict as I’ve ever heard it.
“Papa . . . I . . . ”
“Turn it off. Seychas.” Now.
I shut the lid on my laptop, though I don’t exit out of the tabbed websites first. I’ll go back to the sites later.
Looking up to see Papa’s face, I’m shocked by the intense hatred dwelling there.
“Papa?”
I have never seen my papa look at me in such a way before. It’s more than unsettling, it’s frightening.
He turns his back to me.
“Come outside with me, Lapushka.”
Macy is oblivious to us as we walk outside, involved in her work. For some reason, I still feel embarrassed. It’s like I’m a kid again, being pulled aside by Papa for a scolding, or worse, some discipline.
I follow him to the backyard, and we sit on the patio furniture out in the sun. The smell of grilled meat lingers in the air. The fruit trees in the yard look like they are beginning to consider recovery from the winter’s harsh cold. Spring is on its way with new life. In more ways than one . . .
However, the beauty of our surroundings is overpowered by the tension between us.
“Are you involved in these,” Papa waves his hand, eloquent even in the weakness brought on by his illness, “activities?”
“No, Papa. I’ve just been doing some research. It’s for a proj—”
“I do not want you involved in such. These things tend to escape our control,” he interrupts. When I don’t immediately respond, he stiffens in his seat, becoming so rigid that his muscles must be cramping. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Eto khorosho.” It’s good. “You know I love you, Lapushka.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“My darli
ng daughter,” he says, love in every syllable.
He comes to his feet slowly, always so tired now. He moves to stand before me, one hand resting on my head. Now, like this, it’s just like when I was a child and he’d comfort me after a scrape or fight. He’s always known what to say to infuse a situation with love and caring.
“I know it’s difficult now, but this storm shall pass. We’ve weathered worse, have we not?”
“Yes, Papa.”
I’m so tempted to tell him the truth; I can tell he’s waiting for something. It’s like he can sense everything is not as it should be, but he’s still confident in my strength of character. He still holds hope that I’ll tell him of my own volition.
I’m not as strong as either of us wants.
I watch the moment go by with regret, but it passes all the same: unclaimed.
Chapter Seven
Two hours later, it’s time to leave. Papa needs a nap, and we can all see it, though none of us draw attention to it. There are hugs all around. Macy and Nic are the first to leave, to much ribbing from us about their need for romantic time. Max throws an arm around Papa’s shoulders. He uses the guise of patting his bicep and talking about how he hopes to one day have his father’s muscles to lead him inside.
“Wait up a sec,” Alex says to me.
“I really need to go, Alex,” I say.
The food filled Tupperware already loaded into my backseat is calling my name, and I still need to go buy some maternity jeans. I just went to the bathroom, and I don’t want the need to come back while I’m driving.
“Now just hold on one minute.”
Alex is the carefree one, always trying to one up Nic. But he’s serious now.
“I know that you’ve had a lot going on with the breakup, the promotion situation, and the move, but Pops is struggling. He’ll never admit it, but it’s like he lost his will to thrive after Mama died. He’s getting worse, and it’s gotten to the point where we have to drag him to his transfusion appointments. Nic, Max, and I are working to handle everything, but it would help if you were around more.”
As if I need more guilt piled on top of me. Thanks, Alexei.
“I’ll try harder, OK?”
“What’s going on with you? You walk around layered like the abominable snowman, you don’t want to hug us, you barely say a word when you’re here, and it’s like you’ve been avoiding our phone calls and invites.”
Alex’s tone is exasperated, angry, and worst of all, sad.
“I’m busy. Promotions don’t earn themselves. Kimber won’t be able to hold down that job forever; she doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing. Soon they’ll see how she’s hurting the company, and Waller Sr. will lay down the law and insist that she be fired. I need to be ready to step in at that time.”
My explanation falls flat, because I don’t know if I believe what I’m saying. I’m sure Kimber doesn’t escape Waller Sr.’s notice, as she is dating his son, but how involved is he in running his company? That’s what he pays people to do for him. All it’ll take is Kimber to hire a groveling assistant to do the work and let her take the credit. Waller Jr. may even suggest it. Then where will I be?
“I’ll . . . I’ll try harder,” I stutter the words.
This is more upsetting than I’d realized. Is it pride or fear that keeps me from finally spilling the truth and getting the confession over and done with?
“That’s good and all, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“I’ve really got to go,” in more ways than one now. Dang, compressed bladder!
“Fine. Just forget it. We’ve got everything handled.”
Shaking his dark head at me, he gets in his own car and speeds away. I’m left standing outside, alone.
I’m too proud to go back in to use the restroom, so I climb into my own vehicle and drive away myself. Too hungry to wait, I grab the Tupperware filled with vegetable chicken kabobs and munch as I drive.
They don’t get it. Alex doesn’t have a clue.
Because you won’t tell them.
What would that get me anyway? Honestly, would Alex extend any more leniency toward me if he knew? I don’t think he would. I can still picture his distrust and anger toward Gavin that night at the bar. My brothers still see me as their baby sister who needs a staid, boring man.
A light flashes on my console, advising me that I need to stop for gas. I’ll just wait. I’m not in the mood to stop to fill up now. I just want a nap and the time to wallow in my self-pity.
The townhome is quiet and dark when I get there. The sun has begun its descent.
I imagine Macy and Nic sitting outside of their little starter home, rocking in their wooden swing. I can picture Max watching over Papa while he naps on the couch. Then Alex, well, who knows where Alex is or what he’s doing. Meagan will be at the library, or the coffee shop, huddled over her notes and anatomy diagrams. And me? I come home to a dark house with shivers dancing along my back and the feeling that someone is watching me. It’s not a happy comparison.
I lay out on the couch and drift to sleep. I could have slept the whole night through, but my phone chimes, rousing me from my slumber.
Meg: Hey! Alex showed up at the café. He’s TICKED with u! Anywayz, we’re going out for dinner. Don’t get 2 excited. It’s just dinner, but you’ll need to fend for yourself for food.
Me: Too late. I’m already excited. And tell Alex to get over it!
Meagan: He’s too stubborn to get over it. :p Make sure you drink some milk.
Meagan won’t be home for hours now, but maybe she’ll use that time to romance Alex or get him to forgive me. Well, I still have that twenty bucks, and I still need gas.
I’m going to claim that Wendy’s salad, and no one is going to stop me. Hopping in the Honda Accord as if it’s a Cabriolet, I zoom down the road. I want to be cheerful, but a part of me is still scared, which is why I’m driving a little too fast.
The gas light is flashing faster and faster, insistent on getting my old Honda fed. I guess it’ll get to eat before I do. I don’t want to risk being stranded somewhere without gas.
I pull into a nearby Shell and rev myself up for it. I hate filling up at night, in the dark, all alone. It’s scary for a woman alone in this world.
Grabbing my card and keys, I lunge out of the car and speed walk to the other side to fill the tank. That feeling of being watched increases the longer I stand by the pump, as the gas seems to drizzle from the pump to my tank.
Paranoia. It’s just a symptom of Peanut. There’s nothing to worry about.
The light over my pump flickers ominously. A surge. It’s a power surge.
Could that affect my car? I wonder if a power surge could cause a spark . . . the spark a flame . . . the flame an inferno . . .
Paranoia. It’s paranoia.
The light flickers again.
OK! The Accord has had enough. I pull the pump out of my car and close the gas hatch. The screen flashes. No, I don’t need a receipt.
Another two flickers in quick succession, and then something new happens. The lights go off and don’t come back on. Even the dim, screen backlight fades to black. My keys clutched in my hand, I try to get in the car as quick as possible, but I’m clumsy in the dark. My hand reaches out to use the car for guidance, sliding along its form. The cold metal of the rear hub turns into the raised form of the taillights. Now I’m on the driver’s side, my hand sliding along the back door handle. Almost there!
Suddenly, claws dig into my arm, wrenching me backward. I scream, angling back to kick and flail against whoever holds me back. I can’t get a good hit in! Tears burn at my eyes in helpless frustration. I knew someone was watching me, and yet I didn’t trust my own instincts. Now, I’m paying the price.
“Let me go!” I scream.
The huge man hunches over me, his talons pressing against my throat. He cackles an evil, hoarse laugh.
“So prettyyy,” he hisses against my right ear, his tongue sliding alo
ng my skin.
I do the only thing I can think to do.
I bite his arm. The flesh I feel beneath my skin is horrifying. I bite harder despite myself, but the skin is tough, like jerky. It’s scaly, almost reptilian. Disgusting.
“Yessss, that’sss what we want from you.”
I don’t want to do anything that he wants, but at the same time, I don’t know of any other way to fight back. Terror rises up faster and more powerful than anything else I’ve ever felt. It’s not just me now, there’s also Liam to worry about. But what can I do when my foe laughs at my blows and revels in my bites?
“Please, let me go,” I moan, releasing my teeth’s grip of his forearm.
“We will never let you go.”
There’s a commotion behind us, at the little gas station store, but it ends with a bloodcurdling scream. The sound renews my fight. I kick out harder trying to wrench the clawed grip from my throat. I gain enough room to scream, but only just.
A howl echoes in the distance, almost as if in response.
“Sssshut up,” the words are harsh, scary.
This time the clawed hand goes for my mouth, pressing so hard that my teeth dig into my own flesh. Another body presses in from my right side, and then together they bend their knees, forcing mine to bend along with them. I think I may vomit.
We all launch forward, then upward. A flapping sound behind me reminds me of the sound of bats’ wings from that documentary I watched in high school. Echolocation and You, or something or other. I’ve never much cared for bats. I don’t even like that children’s book, Stellaluna, and that book is semi cute.
One of the men has wrapped his sinewy arm underneath my belly, while the other keeps hold of my right arm, with his other arm curved around my back. I shut my eyes against the ever shrinking landscape below us. The flapping grows louder and faster as we rise higher.
This has to be a dream. People don’t fly. They don’t kidnap other people using their claws and skin as weapons. It just does not happen.
Die By Night Page 10
