by J. R. Rain
When I catch myself starting to dab foundation on my bare butt so I can see it in a mirror, I know it’s time get away from the evil reflective thing.
By Monday―Tammy’s start date for preschool―the constant sense of hunger that’s been dogging me has grown from simply irritating to, ‘I will eat your family pet.’ Alas, a few attempts at food on Sunday night when everyone slept resulted in a sprint to the kitchen trashcan.
Danny jostles me awake at 7 a.m., which is about when I used to set my alarm for work, but at present, I can barely function. Only thoughts of my daughter’s first day of preschool keep me motivated, and I eventually get myself dressed after covering my face, neck, shoulders, arms, and legs from the knees down in sunscreen. Makeup, sunglasses, and scarf later, I collect Tammy from her bed, get her dressed, and carry her to the kitchen while telling her how much fun she’s going to have today.
“Why are you dressed like that?” asks Tammy.
“Well…” I fix her a bowl of cereal and sit in the next chair. “You know I was hurt. Something I don’t understand has happened to me, and I’ve become allergic to the sun.”
“Like Uncle Rick and cats?” asks Tammy.
I laugh. “Something like that, only I don’t wind up sneezing like he does when he’s around cats. The sun hurts.”
“It’s okay. I like the beach, but we don’t have to go if it hurts you, Mommy.” Tammy shovels Kix into her mouth.
Aww.
Carrying Anthony, Danny walks in, grinning at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You, uhh, look like an eccentric wealthy recluse from France or something.” He winks. “The only thing missing is a little step-on dog in your handbag.”
“Step-on dog?” I raise an eyebrow.
Danny sets our son in his high chair, then holds his hands about eight inches apart. “You know, one of those little suckers, always under your feet. Smaller than a cat? Shih Tzu or something?”
“Ooo!” Tammy gasps. “Daddy said a bad word!”
I snicker, and spend a few minutes explaining it’s a type of dog while my husband feeds Anthony.
Giant, angry butterflies swim around in my stomach, but I do my best to ignore them. I have to. In only twenty minutes, I’ll be leaving my daughter at the preschool. One stage of her life is ending, another step toward adulthood. She doesn’t mind me hovering and fussing at her hair and dress. Danny makes faces at me for being overly clingy. He’s right, though. It’s not like I’m sending my child overseas never to see her again, so why does it feel that way?
Since I still don’t quite trust myself out in the day, Danny agrees to drive. Hell, even looking at our curtained windows hurts my eyes. Sure enough, when we make our way out to the Momvan, the world is painfully bright like I’ve just come out of the eye doctor’s office. Despite sunglasses, I can’t keep my eyes open all the way without it hurting. My hat/scarf/sunscreen getup keeps the sun down to a light microwaving. It’s highly unpleasant but doesn’t burn so much that I can’t keep a straight face. Still, I sprint to the van and hop in, giving serious consideration to getting the windows tinted.
Safe inside the inconveniently unattached garage, I crawl into the mid-row and buckle the kids in once Danny sets them in their car seats. He hops in and starts the engine. Once I’m back in my seat, we’re on the way. The whole ride to the preschool, I keep telling Tammy how much fun she’s going to have and not to be scared. It’s only a few hours and she’ll be home soon.
Danny knows I’m talking to myself more than Tammy. For her part, my daughter’s as blasé as it gets.
“I know, Mommy. You don’t have to cry.”
For some reason, that gets me crying harder.
We arrive at the preschool after a short ride. I step out into the inferno and force myself to walk at a normal pace across the parking lot, holding Tammy’s right hand while Danny holds her left. Anthony toddles along on Danny’s left, clinging to his other hand. The sun rains down on me like a hail of hot needles. Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to run, almost to the point of a panic attack and losing conscious control of my body. The searing pain is so bad, I weep in silence. That horrible dream of watching my arms and legs disintegrate to ashes comes to mind.
A subtle glance over myself confirms no visible flames or smoke, just dump trucks full of pain. My legs wobble, knees threatening to give out at any moment. I’m not about to run for the awning over the front doors and watch Danny and the kids like some outsider. No. This is my family. I have to be here for Tammy. This is her first day, and I won’t ruin it no matter how much pain I’m in.
Tears are full on streaming down my face by the time we reach the shelter of the concrete awning over the area in front of the doors. Danny looks over, but he likely thinks I’m crying about sending Tammy off to school. And, yes, a few of these tears are mourning my daughter hurtling onward toward no longer being my little Tam Tam, but alas, the majority are an involuntary reaction to the most pain I’ve ever experienced.
He puts an arm around me and I lean on him for support as my legs are about to mutiny; as in, I may not be able to control myself, no matter how hard I try. Mercifully, we soon we make our way to the front office and wonderful cool air conditioning. The place is fairly big despite being only a preschool. While it has the appearance of containing multiple-grade classrooms, it’s really separate groups of four- and five-year-olds. We confirm the registration, sign some last-minute paperwork, and accompany the administrator to Tammy’s new classroom.
I can’t help but think of my first day at school, though it wasn’t pre. I was eight or nine when the homeschooling stopped by court order. My brothers were all terrified of other kids, and their fear took the form of aggression. Clayton, the youngest, hated that he had to wear clothes to go to school. I remember being thrilled at a chance for a ‘real’ education, though I hadn’t been fond of other people much. Mary Lou took to socializing the best, though always struggled to get decent grades. I wound up the invisible kid, neither popular nor unpopular with decent-to-good marks.
Tammy hugs me, hugs Danny, and marches straight into a cluster of about eighteen other children. Wow. Fearless. Perhaps a third of the little ones fall silent and all stare at me. I can’t help but feel like a big ol’ alley cat who’s just walked into a nest of baby mice. One tiny Indian girl bursts into tears after a few seconds of petrified staring and begins screaming for her mother.
“Wai go too.” Anthony starts charging after her, but Danny picks him up. The boy reaches both arms out toward the classroom, squirming.
Tammy plops down on the rug amid a group of seven or eight other kids and just starts talking. I watch for a moment with tears in my eyes, then cling to Danny and stifle sobs. At the rustle of fabric approaching me from behind, I turn. A thirty-something woman with shoulder-length black hair approaches.
“First time?” asks the teacher. “I’m Miss Larson.”
I nod, sniffling.
“I can tell.” She grins. “By second grade, you’ll be throwing her out the car window at school, barely stopping outside, glad to be rid of her for a couple hours.”
I’ve heard that joke before, but that’s not going to be me. I’m never going to be glad to ‘be rid of’ my kids. Still, no sense making a scene. “Yeah, so I’m told.”
We get a brief explanation from the teacher about the lesson plans, nap time, play activities, and so on. She asks about any allergies, favorite foods/activities, and if Tammy is on any medications. For the first two weeks, classes will be finished by noon to ease the kids into the concept of going to school. After that, we’re to pick her up at 2 p.m.
“Great. Thank you.” Danny shakes the teacher’s hand.
“Do you mind if I ask about the… umm, hat and such?” asks Miss Larson.
For an instant, I feel like my mother just walked in on me touching myself, but I manage a smile. “Oh, not at all. I’ve got a skin condition that doesn’t agree well with sunlight.”
“Oh.” She touches a finger to her chin, eyeing Tammy. “Is it something hereditary? Should we keep an eye on her?”
“No. We’re still trying to work out exactly what it is, but it’s a reaction to another medical issue that’s definitely not genetic.”
Danny puts an arm around me. “We’re thinking it might be something like xeroderma pigmentosum, but we haven’t gotten an official diagnosis yet. It only started a short time ago.”
Anthony pulls my giant hat off. Since we’re inside, I don’t make a big deal of it, but I do pry it out of his little hands and put it back on. Please don’t let him do that to me when I’m under direct sunlight.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Miss Larson purses her lips. “I hope you get some good news.”
“Me too.” I glance over at Tammy, who’s fully integrated herself with a pack of chatty kids.
“C’mon.” Danny tugs at my arm. “We’re supposed to go now.”
I fake a whine, but smile enough that the teacher knows I’m kidding. This time, at least, I can run across the parking lot without tearing my heart in little bits. As soon as Danny gets me back out to the Momvan, I burst into tears. I start rambling and worrying about her. Any of a million possible things could happen when I’m not there to protect her and… well, I won’t be there to protect her, dammit.
Danny grins and bears my neurosis as he drives, muttering reassurances that she’ll be fine. When he says that every parent feels like I feel the first time they drop off a kid at school, I glare at him… and notice he’s got tears brimming in his eyes too.
It’s a little tricky with the wide-brimmed hat, but I lean against him and cling to his arm.
Danny flips on the radio, perhaps to mask his own sniffling.
“…police continue to investigate reports of a rock thrown through a fifteenth-floor window of the Fullerton Towers building last night. According to Sergeant Rafael Guzman, they have no leads. Anyone with information is urged to contact the police.”
I eye the radio.
“Wow,” mutters Danny. “Who the hell chucks a rock through a window? Probably stupid teenagers.”
Of course, the real question was… who can throw a rock up fifteen floors? The problem here being that the Fullerton Towers sit adjacent to Hillcrest Park. And, yeah, I had thrown a rock just last night… in the direction of the towers, too.
Crap. Well, at least I can hope I didn’t leave fingerprints on it. Mine are definitely in the system from being a federal agent, but if this ridiculousness going on with me is true, I can’t leave prints anymore. I know from my forensics studies that a dead body has no oils on the skin, hence, if I am an undead creature, I’d leave no fingerprints unless I got stuff like oil, paint, or ink on my hands. Besides, it’s pretty damn difficult to get fingerprints off a dirty rock.
Wait… Fullerton Towers? That’s got to be over a thousand feet away from Hillcrest Park. Sure, it’s somewhat downhill… but did I really throw a stone that far? I couldn’t have. It’s not humanly possible.
Humanly being the operative word here.
***
My body objects to being awake, and the next thing I know, I’m lying on the sofa and Danny is shaking me by the shoulder.
I do the sunscreen and stupid outfit thing again, and we pick Tammy up. I’m a veritable zombie the whole time, barely managing conversation with anyone. My hunger’s only getting worse, and I find myself not wanting to look at Danny or the kids, though I am beyond thrilled/relieved to have Tammy home in one piece. Who knew day one at preschool could be such hell on a mom?
I lose chunks of the day, finally breaking out of my stupor a little past six when the sun weakens in the sky. Tammy’s curled up beside me on the sofa, cartoons blaring from the TV.
“Hey, it’s… oh, what the hell?” blurts Danny, a hair shy of yelling.
“Huh?” Groggy, I force myself to sit up.
Anthony’s sprawled on the floor in his birthday suit. A handful of paper towels lay nearby smeared with unmentionable brown horribleness. His loaded diaper is near my feet, wide open.
“Umm…” I feel like I’ve come out of a thirty-year coma and can’t even recall my own name. My blank stare seems to worry my husband who starts shaking his head while gesturing at our little Nature Boy. “I don’t know what happened…” I mumble to no one in particular.
“We’re not hippies, Sam,” says Danny. “Our kids wear clothes before the age of ten.”
“I didn’t do that…”
Tammy pushes herself up to sit. “Anf-nee diaper dirty. Mommy sleeping, so I changed him.”
I lean forward, coming more to my senses. I mean, really coming to my senses. In fact, yes. The sun had just set. I knew it. Could feel it. Hell, I could practically taste it. Don’t ask me how.
“That’s very sweet of you!” I hug her. “Come on, I’ll show you how to put a new one on.”
Hopefully, that won’t last too long… we really ought to get Anthony potty trained, but with everything going on, it’s gotten lost in the mess. I take the kids into Anthony’s room, clean him up with a wet wipe and demonstrate putting on a diaper. I’m not going too slow, since I don’t really plan on having Tammy change him. With any luck, he’ll be weaned off diapers soon, anyway. Unless he’s like my brother, River. It took forever to potty train him. Mostly, because our parents told him to use the toilet―so he did precisely the opposite. He’s always been like that with authority. Being their firstborn, they had no experience either, so yeah, I bet that was fun.
Anyway, after I get the kids back to the living room, Danny gives me the eye from the kitchen. I drift over there.
“So, umm. What’s going on with you and food?” he asks in a near-whisper.
It occurs to me again that I haven’t been breathing all day, until hesitation makes me take a deep one. I trust Danny as much as one can trust another person who didn’t pop out of the same womb. “I… umm. Every time I eat something, it comes right back up.” I explain everything that’s happened with me and food. Including how the beef blood seemed to be the only thing to stay down.
He grasps my shoulders, looking worried. “You haven’t eaten at all since we got you back from the hospital?”
I shake my head.
“How are you not starving?”
Probably for the same reason I’m not dead, despite having a single-digit heartrate, but I can’t tell him that. I stare down and mutter, “I don’t understand it either. I’m hungry, but everything I try to eat, my body rejects.”
“Hmm.” He stares at me, wary and worried. “Keep an eye on them for a bit? I’ll be right back.”
“All right.”
We kiss, and he runs off out the door. I join the kids in the living room for a while, watching Nickelodeon. Tammy still appears to think I’m ‘not doing well,’ and tucks herself against my side. That makes me think back to when I’d been so much pain after being shot in my armored vest―another close call where my family almost lost me. It’s also a time before all this unexplainable crap started.
Danny returns in about fifteen minutes with a paper bag, and heads straight to the kitchen while giving me a ‘come here’ look.
After easing Tammy aside, I kiss her on the head and follow him.
He peers around me, making sure the kids aren’t following. Then, he surprises the hell out of me by extracting a half-gallon plastic bottle from the bag, with dark liquid in it. “I’m going out on a limb here with a crazy theory, but… sniff this and tell me what you think it is.”
I take the bottle, pop the cap, and sniff. There’s a faint hint of old milk, but the overpowering smell of blood rushes up into my sensorium. A distinctly uncomfortable tightness spreads across the middle of my face under my nose and in my lower jaw. The hunger that had been clawing at my gut surges, and before I can make any sort of conscious decision about anything, I’ve upended the bottle and I’m chugging.
Danny leans back, but I barely register the expression of surprise on his face. All that matt
ers right now in the world is what’s in my hands. I down a little more than half of it before I feel full, and stop. The strangest feeling comes over me as I lower the bottle. Warmth swirls in my core and spreads down my limbs in a flurry of tingles.
“Sam,” whispers Danny. “You’ve got some color back in your face.”
“I do?” I look down at my hands. Still pale, but not corpse-white anymore. The hunger’s receded to a tiny, irritating presence at the back of my mind, as if I’d eaten too much oatmeal when I’d wanted filet mignon.
He grasps my hand. “You just drank beef blood.”
That it didn’t disgust me―in fact, it tasted quite good―disturbs me on a primordial level. “I suppose I did. What do you think that means?”
“It means we’re both about to be fitted for straitjackets.” He fidgets. “Let’s, umm, keep this quiet?”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
He gestures at the bottle. “Done?”
“For now. Where’d you get this?” I re-cap it.
Danny takes the blood and tucks it deep in the fridge, behind the milk, orange juice, and Diet Coke. At the moment, the kids are too little to go rooting around in there, but that won’t last forever. Hopefully, I can recover from whatever disease I’ve gotten, but in a couple years, we won’t be able to leave a half-gallon of blood in the fridge for the children to find.
“Represented this guy, Jaroslaw, last year in a lawsuit… he owns a butcher shop.” Danny shuts the fridge door and faces me, his expression a swirl of confusion and curiosity. “Told him I was experimenting with British food and wanted to make a blood pudding.”
“I realize what I just drank, but that phrase is nauseating.”
He chuckles. “That’s about what he thought too.”
“So what now?”
“Well.” He hugs me closer, rubbing a hand up and down my back. “We’ll figure something out. Eventually, we’ll find a reasonable explanation. For now, we can tell the kids you’ve got to drink special milkshakes or something the doctor wants you on, and can’t have solid food.”
