The Source

by J B Stilwell

  Ugh. Another repulsive idea.

  I sit on the couch in the living room with my glass of wine, ready to enjoy some mindless entertainment on the boob tube when the phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Good mornin‘ Emma Jean. Did I wake you?” my mother says.

  “No, mom. I actually just got home not too long ago.”

  “Just got home?” she asks. “What in the world have you been doin‘ out at all hours of the night in some strange town?”

  “Working, mom. My new job is during the night, remember?”

  “Of course I don’t remember. I don’t hardly remember what I had for dinner last night much less anything else. Do you like the new job?”

  I pause for a moment, “It’s definitely interesting work. It’s just the first day so I haven’t really decided yet.”

  “Now, Emma Jean,” she begins, “if you know within the first couple of seconds whether or not you’re gonna like a person, you should know after a whole day whether or not you’re going to like the people you have to work with. And that’s really what makes a job. You’re smart enough to do anything and like it, but if you don’t like the people around you, you ain’t gonna be happy. You remember what your paw-paw used to say?”

  I smile, “You can’t dress up a pig.”

  “That’s right. You can put fancy clothes on it, but it’s still a pig, so why bother? You’re better off calling it a pig, and unless you want to wallow in the slop, find some place else.”

  “I know, mom. Thanks for reminding me. Hey, did you have your check-up with the doctor?”

  She grunts, “Yes. They don’t know what’s goin’ on with me. I just hurt all over. Gettin’ old, I guess. I’ve got a prescription to get filled that’s s’posed to help with the tinglin’ in my legs, but that’s it.”

  “Why don’t you see another doctor to get another opinion?”

  “No, I ain’t gonna do that. I’m not going to start with a new doctor who has to completely learn my medical history. Not to mention the fact that he would probably be young enough to be my son. No, I’m gonna stick with Dr. Lester. I’ve been seein’ him for over fifteen years and if he tells me wrong, then God meant it to be that way.”

  I’m thankful that she can’t see me roll my eyes. “Just promise me you’ll think about it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “So what’s going on?”

  “Do you remember Donna Cook from high school?” she asks.

  “Yes, we graduated together, but I didn’t know her very well.”

  “Her dad died,” she states matter-of-factly. “He had a massive heart attack while working at the plant.”

  I don’t really know what to do with that information, so I just say, “Okay.”

  “And the woman across the street, Agnes, she got a new dog. The damn thing barks all through the night. I told her that if she didn’t get that dog to shut up I was going to use my BB gun to shoot it.”

  “Now, mom, you can’t do that. What if it were your dog and she shot it with a BB gun?”

  “I don’t have a dog. I have a cat that minds it’s own business. Maybe I should let Cookie out so she can piss in her flower garden. That would show her.”

  “It would show her what?” I ask. “That cat piss kills flowers?”

  “No, it would show her that having a yappy-assed dog is not nearly as bad as a cat that will piss all over everything. And that I’ll control my animal when she controls hers. Dead flowers ain’t nothin’ compared to all of the nights of sleep I’ve lost.”

  I stifle a laugh, “Your reasoning is beautiful, mom.”

  “It’s about time you learnt that,” she says.

  “Well, I would love to talk some more, but it’s been a long night and I need to get some rest.”

  “Okay, Emma Jean. You get some rest and don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

  “Love you, mom.”

  “I love you, too, Emma Jean. You take good care o’ yourself now.”

  I hang up the phone and sit unmoving for a moment, smiling to myself. I may not always agree with my mom, but one thing is for sure. She can always make me laugh.

  I set the phone back on the end table and pick up the remote to the television It’s 5:00 in the morning, so there’s probably nothing but infomercials on, but like the part-time couch potato that I am, I feel obligated to check. I get sucked into a cheesy movie about a woman’s struggles with a secret admirer. The woman finds herself in somewhat comical situations because she cannot figure out who it is that likes her.

  This is a major problem with humans. Often we communicate with one another without ever saying what we really mean. Most people are pretending to be what they think is cool or most acceptable. Those who go against the grain usually do it for the attention. Hey, look at me! I’m being fake in a different way! How do we know when someone is being real? When we’re seeing the real spirit of the person and not just the social accessories of the human casing? When am I going to start being real? Even more than that, who is the real me? If I can’t answer that question, I can’t really expect it of others. The last thing I want to do is drown in a sea of hypocrisy.

  Okay, I definitely need to go to bed. I’ve gone from repulsive thoughts to questioning humanity’s intentions. I turn off the television, pick up my half-empty glass of wine and head to the bedroom. Setting the wine glass beside the glass of water on the nightstand, I snuggle up into my queen-sized bed and hope for dreamless sleep.

  I jerk awake to the sound of the alarm, only it isn’t the alarm. The phone is ringing. It’s either my mom or the wrong phone number because no on else has my number. Maybe I should just let it ring and try to go back to sleep. I look at the clock and it reads 1:00 p.m. I still have a couple more hours before I have to get up and get ready. It could actually be work as they also have my number. I should check.

  “Hello?” I say, more as a question than a statement.

  “Hello, Emma. Are you resting comfortably enough?” a man’s voice asks.

  “I was until I was rudely awakened up by the phone ringing. Who is this?”

  “Aw, to forget me so soon.” He chuckles. “This is Tucker.”

  “Tucker? How did you get my phone number?” My pulse is racing, exhilaration coursing through me. A part of me is excited that he had called - that any man had called. The other part of me is filled with dread at how he found me.

  “I’m an archivist, remember?” he says. “I have access to all of the researchers’ contact numbers.”

  In complete shock I gruffly say, “Yeah, for work purposes. So, is there something going on at the facility that I need to know about?”

  He clears his throat, “Um, no. I just thought that since you don’t know anything about Rowan, I would re-extend my offer to show you around town.”

  “Tucker,” I grit my teeth, “first off, I was in a deep sleep and so not ready to wake up. Secondly, access to my number through work does not give you license to harass me.”

  “Hey, excuse me if I wanted to help a young woman that I found attractive. I just thought that maybe if I could spend some more time with you, I would be able to make up for the disaster that was our first meeting.”

  “You’re not winning any points on the second try by going the stalker route.”

  He grunts, “You know what? You’re not worth the trouble. I thought that you would be fun to get to know. It looks like you’re just another insecure fat chick who is sarcastic and belligerent to shield herself from everything so that when nothing good does happen, she can say, ‘See? This proves that I’m unattractive, fat and not worth anything.’”

  He abruptly disconnects line.

  My mouth drops open. I continue to hold the phone to my ear as if I were waiting for him to say that it was all a joke, that he didn’t mean any of it. My eyes begin to burn. The world around me becomes very bleary as I close my mouth, my lips trembling. I set the phone in my lap as tears fall down my cheeks.

  How coul
d someone be so cruel? Especially someone who was pretending to like me? Was it some sort of game? If I had played along, would he have just done the same thing, only after I started to like him? What kind of person does that?

  The same type of person who uses their work connections to invade your privacy. A person who does not respect others. Not their space. Not their feelings. A person who actually doesn’t respect himself because he thinks so little of himself that he has to attack others to maintain his sense of pride. A false sense of pride. False pride is worse than the sin of pride itself. If you have nothing to be proud about, then a false sense of pride is characteristic of a fool.

  I set the phone back on the bedside table and lay down, drawing the comforter up around my chest. I blink quickly, my lashes heavy with tears. I close my eyes tightly and pray that I will be able to sleep just for one hour more. One hour of unconsciousness, on a plane where that phone call does not exist. I toss and turn, unable to relax, my mind replaying what Tucker had said over and over like my brain has a repeat button.

  I roll over and put the blankets over my head, thinking maybe I can drown out the sound of my own thoughts. I get too hot, so I roll over to the other side and kick my legs out from under the blankets, wriggling my toes in the cool air. After about twenty minutes of this, I sit up and decide that I might as well get up instead of wearing myself out trying to get back to sleep.

  I go to the bathroom and undress for a nice, hot shower. In some ways I’m hoping to steam thoughts of Tucker right out of my mind, but I don’t think that I can get the water hot enough for that. I settle for trying to distract myself with what I do best, which is come up with great ideas in the shower. Some people get them while using the toilet; I get them while taking showers. So maybe if I focus on everything that Rick and I discussed, then I will get that clear vision of the path to my intellectual destination.

  Rick. He could be such an ass. So why did I think he was so hot? Sighing, I turn the water on high, with hot on full throttle with cold just a trickle. The heat from the water is just this side of scalding. Scalding. Much like sunburn because both ways, the skin is basically cooking.

  I look down at the dark pink skin of my arms, running my fingers over them as I imagine a vampire burning in the sun. Quickly cooking. Thinking aloud while still running my fingers over my arms, “To cook something you need a fire source. In this case, that would be the sun.” I turn around under the spray of the shower. “For something to cook quickly, you have to increase the heat or add an agent, a quickener. Is there something in the vampire body that acts like this?” Shaking my head, “I don’t think that’s it. If that were the case, it would be possible that increased heat could also kill vampires. Which would mean that a spark from an electric wire could be enough to kill one. I haven’t heard of that before, but it doesn’t mean that isn’t possible.”

  I run my hands through my hair. Think. Vampires are technically humans, so is there something in humans that causes a similar reaction that is intensified in vampires because of their biological changes? I lather my hair up as I massage my scalp. Humans get sunburns, which are directly related to the protective effectiveness of melanin. But, we have already determined that vampires have the same level of melanin. So what else could it be?

  I stand very still, shampoo dripping from my hair. Is it really a sunburn type of reaction? I mean, I’ve never seen a vampire die in the sunlight, so I don’t know exactly what happens when it starts. I begin rinsing my hair. I need to get more information from Rick.

  Once I’m done in the shower, I wrap an extra large towel around myself and walk out to my bedroom. When I get there, I just happen to notice that the light is blinking on my phone letting me know that I have a new voicemail. Probably my mom again. I pick up the phone from the nightstand and dial my voicemail while I go to the closet to look for something to wear. I jerk to a stop in front of the closet door as I hear Tucker’s voice.

  “Emma, listen, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what came over me thinking that I had a right to call you…and here I am doing it again. Christ. Okay, I just wanted to apologize. I hope that this doesn’t mean that you won’t talk to me anymore. Let me make it up to you in some way. Okay. I guess that’s it. I’ll see you tonight.”

  I lean my hand against the door as the recorded voice told me of my options for saving and deleting the message. My first reaction is to delete it as quickly as possible. As I start to feel lightness all over, like my soul has just had the breath knocked out of it. I press STAR 1 on the phone to save the message.

  I turn and look at my bed, trying to think of what to do next. I mean, I know I have to get ready for work, but I have this nagging sense that there is something else that I should do. I walk over to the bed and sit down. I hold the phone in my lap as I raise my head and look at nothing. I slightly tremble as I feel the hairs on my forearms stand at attention. I take a deep breath and steel myself to get up, place the phone back on the nightstand and begin to look for an appropriate outfit.

  Now, which color best screams “not your victim?”

  Chapter 9

  I sit in my car, looking at the research facility, wondering when I should venture out into the open and into the building. I grip the steering wheel and look around the parking lot. I’m trying not to be too paranoid, but I can’t help but wonder when Tucker might jump out at me. I take a deep breath and let my eyes scan the parking lot in front of me. I bounce in my seat as something hits the passenger-side window. Twisting my hands on the wheel, I panic at what to do because there is a person, apparently male, standing by my car. I pray that it’s not Tucker.

  I reach for the ignition to start the car again and there is another knock on the window. Rick leans down to peer into the car. Whew. I feel every muscle in my body relax like air rushing from a balloon. I unlock the car door and motion for Rick to get inside.

  “Hey,” he says while closing the door, “are you contemplating not showing up for work tonight?”

  “No,” I respond, “I plan on going to work. I just don’t want to get out of the car.” I sneak a glance at him. He’s comfortably dressed in blue denim and a black shirt. Just a glance. Shouldn’t be obvious.

  Rick slowly smiles, “Well, to get to our research suite, you will have to get out of the car.”

  "I know. I just don't want to right now."

  Rick stares at me. I don’t look at him because that would have required me to say something. The car suddenly feels very small. I twist in my seat to adjust to the sudden discomfort I feel.

  "Okay, I'll bite. Why don't you want to go in right now?" he asks.

  I continue looking forward. "First off, don't say bite. You're a vampire so that expression is a little unnerving. Secondly," I relaxed my shoulders, putting my hands in my lap, "I didn't sleep well last night." I stare out the front window, aware that Rick is still turned to me.

  Another long pause.

  Rick starts to open the door, "Okay, if you say so." He steps out of the car then leans back in, "And Emma?"

  I finally turn to look at him. One corner of his mouth lifts up in a lopsided smile. His face suddenly gets very serious.

  "I would never bite you. For you, I would nibble."

  He smiles then closes the passenger side door and walks toward the facility.

  I realize that I'm still staring after him with my mouth hanging open. Two males. One a vampire who flirts playfully. The other a human who has the flirting skills of a great white shark. How can a woman work under these conditions?

  I shake my head as I gather my purse and notebook. I step out of the car and take one more look around the parking lot before beginning my journey into the facility.

  I walk slowly to the entrance trying not to be obvious that I was looking around me to see if there was anyone lurking in the shadows. I cannot help but have the feeling that something was crawling up the back of my neck. Hopefully jumping right into work will make that feeling go away. Or at least distract me from i
t.

  I open the door and take a long look down the white hall. I breathe deeply and begin my descent into the bowels of the research facility toward our suite. I walk very slowly so that I won’t have any more humiliating run-ins with anyone. As I reach our door, I let out a breath that I didn’t even realize that I was holding. I guess the issue with Tucker shook me up more than my conscious paranoia. My subconscious was on the fight-or-flight bandwagon, too. Nice.

  I open the door to the suite to see Rick washing his hands at the sink and Ms. Montgomery sitting at the table setting up what looked to be some type of digital transcription contraption. Jolly. We're going to have an audience this evening.

  I set my purse on the table and begin to walk toward the sink in the middle of the room.

  "We do have closets."

  I turn around and look at Ms. Montgomery. "I beg your pardon?"

  She looks up at me, "We have closets in each suite so that you may stow your personal items, rather than leave them laying about in the open."

  "Oh," is all that I can think of as a response. I walk back to the table to retrieve my purse and begin looking around for obvious signs of said closets. Ms. Montgomery looks back up at me, "Would you like for me to show you the closets?"

  I feel that familiar slight blush erupt across my face. "Yes, please," I reply.

  She gets up without taking her eyes off me then walks to a far corner of the room and pushes a button on the wall. A door slides open and reveals enough space to house a royal family that doesn’t want to accidentally see one another. I smile my thanks at her, place my purse on one of the shelves then press the button for the door to close. Ms. Montgomery is already on her way back to her seat when I turn around so I begin walking to the sink where Rick is watching everything with an amused look on his face.

  "Shut up," I say.

  "I didn't say a word, yet. But now I will say that your stubbornness seems more trouble than it's worth."

  "My stubbornness?"

  "Yes, your stubbornness," he replies. "It would have been a lot quicker if you would have just asked for her help to begin with."