Le Remède

by Densie Webb

  He says nothing as he walks over and positions himself across the table from me.

  “You can look through the papers if you want,” I offer. “A lot are in French and I can’t read them.”

  He reaches for the folder on top of the pile, flips through the papers and pulls out one of the yellowed documents and begins to read.

  The room is still except for the rustling of paper. I find a file labeled “photographs” pull out the one we’re both anxious to see and announce, “Here it is. This is her,” and place it in the center of the table. I take the brooch from my pocket and lay it next to the photograph. It’s an exact match—an exact copy?

  He doesn’t look. “Vincent, this is the picture of my great, great, great grandmother, Aurelia Galland, wearing the brooch.” I swallow hard before whispering, “So, is this your Aurelia Galland?” I lean back and sit on my hands, as I anxiously wait for the verdict. Is this the moment of truth or is this when his story gets ripped to shreds?

  But, instead of grabbing the photograph, his eyes remain on the document in his hands. “I don’t have to see it. I already know beyond a doubt that it’s her.”

  He avoids looking at the photograph, as he hands me the document he’s been studying so intently. “Vincent, it’s in French. I can’t read it.”

  He asks me if I remember the town he told me he was born in. I don’t, but as soon as he says, “Saint-Remy-de-Provence,” and points to the town clearly written on the document in his hand, it comes back.

  “What is this?”

  “A will.”

  He points to her name, and the name of the town they both lived in. And the names of her children, including my namesake, Antoine Rogé.

  I glance at the photograph again, before I slide it and the brooch closer to him. He hesitates. He doesn’t pick up the photo, doesn’t look. Instead his fingers hover over it as if touching it might reinfect him.

  Chapter 39

  Vincent

  The truth is here, inscribed in these yellowed papers, screaming at me from the grave. Her four children are clearly listed as heirs. Though Aurelia mentioned them by name only once, and without emotion, I want to believe that she had once loved them, just as I loved Phillipe. That she cared for them, nurtured them.

  She had come to me, before she was changed, when her husband was in prison, penniless, groveling to feed them. But, my knowing their names provides no clear proof of my story for Andie. She would claim I’m simply matching my story to what I’ve found here.

  I have not looked into Aurelia’s eyes in well over a century. As much as I want to know the truth, I’m reluctant to face the undeniable ugliness, unable to accept the truth’s unintended consequences. I feel Aurelia’s eyes on me, demanding to be seen, to be acknowledged. I desperately wish to shove that demon back in the file and seal it shut.

  But, I force myself to look at the picture, really look, and I’m taken aback. It’s her, but it’s not. There is warmth in her eyes. I pick it up to examine it more closely. Her head is held high and there is the beginning of fine lines around her eyes, hinting at a smile?

  She’s wearing the brooch that now sits on the table between Andie and me. More proof that the women we speak of are one and the same. But I can’t hate the woman in this picture. She is not the monster who destroyed my family.

  I look up at Andie; she is patiently waiting for my verdict. “Andie, this is the woman who would become the Aurelia Galland I knew, but this woman, the woman in the photograph, is not her.”

  “What does that mean? Is it some kind of riddle?” She’s lost patience.

  “No, Andie, it’s not a riddle.” I reach across the table to hold her hand, but she pulls back. “This photograph is indeed my Aurelia Galland, but it was before she became a Kindred. She looks different, warmer—human.

  Andie’s voice trembles as she poses the heartfelt question, “So, what does this mean?”

  This is the question I’ve been asking myself as the facts have begun to pile up, becoming impossible to ignore. “I believe she may be the reason for our connection. Her blood runs through your veins.

  “And mine.”

  Chapter 40

  Andie

  “Wait, just wait,” I say as I flash my palm in his face for a time out. “None of this is true; it can’t be.” I’m shaking my head as if that will erase everything.

  “Andie, I am having difficulty putting all the pieces together as well.”

  “I’m just trying to decide if any of this bizarre tale you’ve laid on me contains some bit of truth.”

  Even as I deny all of it, my brain is being carpet bombed with impossible facts—the date on his wife’s portrait, the brooch, the will, the way the deep gash on his arm healed itself, the night he bit me and the bite’s miraculous healing.

  Our inexplicable attraction.

  And now he’s looking at me with such desperation—desperate for me to believe him, desperate for me to love him, desperate for me to—do what? The path of least resistance would be to let myself believe he’s not crazy. Not a monster. That he’s actually telling the truth.

  I drop my guard and answers to the bizarre riddles tap dancing on my brain finally get in step—as long as I suspend my disbelief. It’s like being given glasses after trying in vain to bring everything into focus on your own. It’s a relief, but overwhelming to see everything so clearly.

  “But, but if all this is really true—that would make my family responsible for the death of yours. You should hate me, not…”

  “Love you? I could never hate you, Andie. I’m impossibly in love with you.”

  “Because it was fated?” It occurs to me that the whole “I love you desperately” scenario might not be love at all, but some sort of animalistic instinct, like salmon swimming upstream or swallows returning to Capistrano.

  He reaches for my hands, clasped together on the table and my shoulders relax as he gently interlaces his fingers with mine. “Our attraction was fated,” he says, “but my love for you came of its own accord. How could it not? I love your lifelong friendship with Mack, your desire to carry on your mother’s genealogy research, your passion for your work, your lack of self-awareness of your incredible beauty, both inside and out. Should I go on?”

  I’m focused on our joined hands. “I’m not sure I would feel the same if our positions were reversed.”

  “Blaming you for what your great, great, great grandmother did to me, would be like—like holding Tyler responsible for the Holocaust because his father is German.”

  “And you really are…” I mumble calculations under my breath. “almost two hundred years old?” I let out an uncomfortable laugh.

  “Chronologically, yes. But my body ceased to grow older at the age of twenty-seven.”

  “So, what happens if you don’t—get what you need?”

  “I would slowly starve and eventually cease to exist.”

  I’ve heard horror stories of people turning on others when starvation sets in. But it’s not the same, not even close.

  His truth is stomach turning. I can’t look at him right now. How can I possibly accept what he is, what he’s done, what he will continue to do? And if I do, what does that make me? His accomplice?

  My head is spinning and I’m losing my footing, as if I’m on a heaving ship in the middle of the sea, blackness swirling around me. I want to give in to it and let the comfortable darkness take me. But giving in isn’t an option. Not when he’s right in front of me. By sheer force of will, I pull it together and make myself look at him. And when I do, the darkness lifts.

  Despite his incomprehensible confession, the detestable details of what he’s done, I still feel this undeniable visceral connection, this chronic ache when he’s not around and I’m acutely aware of only one thing—he’s not an animal or a soulless monster; he’s Vincent, my Vincent. I want to exorcise the demons from his past—and mine—and somehow start fresh.

  Chapter 41

  Vincent

&n
bsp; “You don’t eat food?” she asks, incredulous.

  “No. Nothing at all.”

  “But you drink.” It sounds more like an accusation than an observation. “I’ve seen you.”

  “I discovered early on that I could tolerate alcohol. It quells my…craving and makes it easier to control.

  “After I broke away from Aurelia, I tested every edible I had loved in a desperate effort to satisfy my burning hunger—baguettes, Brie, escargot, coq au vin, pate—and my weakness, my downfall, mille-feuille. Danielle often teased me that I could easily become rotund like mon pére if I didn’t stop indulging in the rich dessert.

  “But I would never have the chance to know if I would follow in his heavy footsteps, would never have the chance to sit down to another meal with my family, to watch Danielle hurrying about in the kitchen preparing dinner, to satisfy my appetite or to follow the meal with a snifter of cognac.”

  Now my hunger can be satisfied only by a belly full of sweet, warm blood, inevitably followed up with a double shot of remorse.

  “Food is one of life’s great pleasures. And, it turns out, one of life’s least appreciated luxuries—the scent of chicken roasting, accompanied by the musical sounds of the wood-burning stove crackling; the sight of perfectly browned potatoes; juicy plum tomatoes; crisp, green lettuce; deep purple grapes, swollen with juice.

  “And the anticipation. Only when deprived of it, knowing you can never again indulge in such a repast, can you appreciate the sheer joy of taking part in a meal. I learned not to dwell on it, because, if I did, my craving for food was inevitably replaced with another far more demanding and deadly craving.

  “In time, I learned that I could tolerate alcohol—bourbon, scotch, rum, vodka. I discovered that I could drink large quantities without becoming inebriated. But solid food refused to go down. The sustenance my body had once required was now rejected as something putrid.

  “Like a child craving sweets, I would stand in front of the window at the patisserie, staring longingly at the artful display of cakes, croissants and pastries, trying to remember the flavors, the textures, the feel as the flaky crust melted on my tongue and easily slid down my throat. As customers exited, I was disheartened to find that their scent was far more appetizing than that of the pastries they had purchased.”

  Andie pauses. She’s thinking, considering, formulating. I’m ready with all the possible answers, no matter how distasteful, but instead of peppering me with more questions she closes the space between us once again and looks up at me. “But nothing’s really changed, right? You’re still the same Vincent that—that…”

  Relief rushes through me, and I take her face in my hands. “Yes, Andie, I am the same. We are the same.”

  Her love and desire have quelled her shock and damped down her disbelief. Somehow we have made it through the gauntlet of truth and emerged on the other side. Together. I gather her in my arms and her head rests on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Andie. Truly sorry.”

  I lift her chin up to look into her eyes. Tears silently trickle down her cheeks, as she says, “Me too.”

  This is the moment I have hoped for since I first laid eyes on her—the moment when she fully knows what I am, the things I’ve done, but loves me and wants me still.

  Somehow, my confession and her acceptance has given me strength, reinforced my resolve, my self-control. When we make love, it transcends the events I have been forced to relive as I reconstructed my past for her and pieced together the events driving our unexpected connection.

  “Antoinette,” I whisper, “I will never leave you,” breaking my heart in the process. If Gus doesn’t come through with the cure, it is she who will eventually leave me. Time is our enemy, but whatever happens I will love her and stay by her side until the last beat of her heart.

  Chapter 42

  Andie

  This time I’m not so anxious when I wake up to an empty bed, even less so when I see the note pinned to his pillowcase.

  Andie, mon amour, as I leave your side this morning, the blush returns to your cheeks and the rhythm of your heartbeat slows. I hope these are signs you are feeling better. I will meet you in your lobby after work and we can go for a drink.

  “Like a normal couple”? Is that the unspoken portion of his note?

  I jump out of bed. What time is it? What day is it? Shit. Yesterday blazes across my brain in sporadic scenes—waking up in his bed; the shock of his gaping, self-inflicted wound; him showing me the brooch; our scrutinizing my genealogy documents together and having the final piece of the puzzle click into place. Unlike the proverbial frog in a pot of water, the heat has been turned up so fast, I haven’t had time to jump out—not that I could, even if I wanted to.

  In the other room, Mack is tittering, talking low on the phone. She sounds happy. I grab my phone from the nightstand—seven a.m. I need to get moving. After going AWOL yesterday, without so much as a text to anyone in the office, being late is not an option. Despite everything, the real world is still out there and the bills that go along with it.

  When I open my bedroom door, Mack says into the phone, “Andie’s up. Gotta go. Love you.” She puckers her lips and kisses into the phone.

  Did she actually just say she loved him? That’s almost as hard to believe as what’s happening with me.

  “Morning,” she says as she tosses the phone on the sofa.

  “Morning. I’m guessing that was Chester? Plans today?”

  “Oh noooo. Right now you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on with you. Last I knew, you were literally sick over breaking up with Vincent—what was he doing here yesterday? You’re not thinking of getting back together, are you?”

  What can I possibly say that will come anywhere near the truth? “Mack, it’s so complicated I can’t begin to explain and I don’t really have time right now.” I look toward the kitchen. “Any coffee left?”

  “Yeah, but you’re not getting off so easy,” she says to my back as I my bare feet slap across the floor to the kitchen. I fill my mug to the brim with coffee just the way I like it, light and sweet. That first sip is the nectar of the gods. I take another sip. I’m procrastinating. I have absolutely no idea what to say to her.

  Well, you see, Vincent and I are fated to be together. If we’re not together, I get violently ill. My great, great, great grandmother turned him, he drinks blood to survive and oh, yeah, he’s immortal. That’s when stark reality suddenly slaps me across the face—he will live forever; I will not.

  I walk slowly into the living room with both hands on the mug, trying not to spill.

  “But you do look better,” she says, as she settles in on the sofa. “A lot better. I take it you’re feeling better?”

  “Much. I’m not sure what that was.”

  Vincent withdrawal. That’s what that was. Not that I could ever say those words out loud. To anyone.

  “So?” she says, raising her eyebrows, waiting for me to spill, confess, admit my latest man mistake.

  “We’re back together.”

  She heaves an exasperated sigh. “Really, Andie?”

  “I know, I know. But this is different. He’s not David, I swear. This is right for me. You’re going to have to trust me on this.”

  She hesitates then nods a reluctant acceptance.

  “Okay, your turn,” I say, “in five minutes or less, bring me up to speed with this Chester guy. I’ve got to get ready for work.”

  “I realize it’s not like me, and it happened fast—kind of like you and Vincent. But this is it, Andie. I’m sure of it.”

  She hesitates, glances at the floor and then at me. “I know this isn’t the best time to spring this on you, but I haven’t seen much of you lately and—”

  “Spring what on me?”

  “He’s asked me to move to Chicago with him.”

  I swallow hard and push down the “WTF?” rising in my throat.

  “Chicago? Why Chicago?”

  “He’s from Chicago. He and
a friend have plans to open up a craft beer joint with 100 beers on tap, Battle of the Beers Pub and Club. Clever, huh? It’s been in the works for a while. He’s really psyched and…”—she pauses to look me in the eye. “He wants me to go with him.”

  “But what about your job here?”

  “Real estate is thriving in Chicago. I won’t make as much, but Chicago’s not as expensive and I have a nest egg, thanks to Mr. Celebrity.”

  “When is this move to the Windy City supposed to take place?” I ask as calmly as I can, while my stomach drops to the floor.

  She pauses again, glances at her feet and begins chipping off nail polish from her thumb. I know I’m not going to like her answer.

  “He’s leaving in a week and I’ll follow soon after. I don’t want him to be alone too long.” She gives me a broken smile. “Don’t hate me. Please?”

  She’s being impulsive, even for Mack. And uncharacteristically naïve to think she can just move halfway across the country and duplicate her success. I want to tell her that Chicago isn’t New York, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “I wanted to tell you earlier, but you’ve had so much going on with your job—and Vincent… I’ll help with the rent until the end of the lease and I’ve already talked with Seth in the office. He’ll find you a great place that you can afford by yourself—or maybe you want to get another roommate?”

  My emotional safety net is about to move halfway across the country at a time when I need her the most. I need time for this info dump to soak in, but then maybe it’s for the best; I don’t want her to get embroiled in my situation, my blank slate of a future. I walk over and hug her tightly.

  “I’m so happy for you, Mack. Really.” She pulls back to look at me. “Don’t start crying. I haven’t left yet and you’re going to make me ruin my makeup.”

  But now we’re both sobbing, hugging each other tightly before we jump into a future with no guarantees, no assurances, no certainty.