I sigh and relax against him. “I wasn’t prepared for how hard this would be.”
“No one ever is.”
I sip my wine, looking out over the vineyards, unsure how to broach the subject. After a while, I say, “I keep thinking about Max.”
Frey looks surprised. “Are you thinking of him because he died recently?”
“No.” I draw in a breath. “Because I could have saved him.”
The glass in Frey’s hand stops midway to his lips. “Saved him? You mean ‘turned him,’ don’t you?”
“You don’t see it as the same thing?”
The corners of his mouth turn down in a sharp frown. “You do?” His eyes narrow. “What are you thinking, Anna?”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “You can’t think your mother would want—”
“Want what?” I interject hotly, angry words rising like lava. “To be like me? A monster? A freak?”
He puts his glass down on the table with a sharp crack and gathers me into his arms. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
Irrationally I’m angry, so angry I struggle violently to break free. Frey tightens his grip until I can scarcely move. When I stop fighting, he still doesn’t loosen his grip. He bends his face close and whispers in my ear, “When you got back from Mexico, you told me that you didn’t turn Max because you couldn’t be sure that it was what he wanted. That you wouldn’t do to someone else what had been done to you. Is that what you’re thinking now? That you’ll ask your mother if she wants to be turned? Do you realize what that means? Her life—your Dad’s life, Trish’s life—nothing will ever be the same.”
He pushes back now, tilts my chin up so that I’m looking into his eyes. “Think about it, Anna. You have so little time left to spend with her. Once you tell her that you’re vampire, regardless of her decision, your relationship with your mother will be changed.”
A wave of fatigue overtakes me. Everything Frey says is true. But another truth interjects itself as well. I don’t want my mother to die. Trish needs her. My dad needs her. I need her.
I close my eyes and lean my head wearily against Frey’s chest. Maybe I’m being selfish, but if I didn’t at least offer her the alternative to what she’s facing, I will never forgive myself.
Frey glances at his watch. “Listen, Trish won’t be home for another hour. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap. You look exhausted. I’ll come and get you when Trish is ready to go to town.”
Numbly, I nod and get to my feet. “Are you coming with me?” I ask.
He smiles, slow and sweet. “If I come, how much sleep do you think you’ll get? No, I’ll go find your dad and John-John. I’d like to see that winepress myself.”
He steers me toward the house, then takes off down the path to the outbuildings where the wine is processed. I watch him go, glad that I didn’t tell him my decision. First chance I get to be alone with my mother, I’m going to tell her.
About what I am.
About what it could mean to her.
I have to.
* * *
I GO UPSTAIRS, PAUSING OUTSIDE MOM’S DOOR. IT’S quiet inside her room, only the sound of her soft breathing. She seems to be resting quietly, no labored gasps, no moans of pain.
I could wake her now.
My heart flutters in my chest.
No. Better she rest.
No rest for me, though. Instead of stretching out on the bed, I sit at the window looking over the countryside and go over the ways I can explain to my mother what I am.
And imagining her responses.
There are only two, really.
She will be horrified and order me out of her house.
She will be horrified and have me committed.
Frey is right. Do I dare risk our last few days together?
On the other hand, does it have to be our last few days?
What if Mom understands what I’m offering and is willing to accept it to stay with her family?
For how long?
Immortality is something I’m wrestling with all the time. Frey and I haven’t discussed it, but he knows the reality of our situation. He will age, naturally, gracefully, while I will stay forever the same. I will watch him die, John-John and Trish, too. And I will stay forever the same.
Can Mom cope with that? Watching Dad die—watching Trish and maybe her grandchildren from a self-imposed distance because they can never know the truth?
But she and I can be together, then, right?
Is that selfish?
Yes.
Still . . .
A car is coming down the drive—Trish’s ride from school. I go into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I will talk to Trish this afternoon. See how she’s holding up. She’s had a rough life and now this. It’s so damned unfair. Maybe she will help me decide what to do. Maybe her devastation at Mom’s loss will tilt the scales in favor of presenting my case.
Maybe I’m grasping at something, anything, to take the decision out of my hands.
CHAPTER 17
TRISH AND I ARE STANDING IN THE DRESSING AREA of one of Lorgues’ nicest boutiques. The attendant has just brought in the dresses we chose on our shopping trip a couple of days before. They are in three white garment bags, which she hangs on a wooden rack. She leaves with smiles, a flutter of hands and effusive assurances that she is right outside if we need any help.
Trish goes to the rack and reads the tags. “Here’s yours, Aunt Anna. Try it on! I can’t wait to see you in it!”
I take the bag from her outstretched hand and step behind the changing screen. I’d chosen a champagne-colored peau de soie sheath, simple, knee-length, tailored, adorned only with seed pearls at the portrait neckline. The silk is light as air against my skin. I can’t see myself in the mirrors surrounding the dressing area, so I’ll have to judge by Trish’s reaction when she sees me whether or not I made a good choice.
Her eyes sparkle and her smile beams. “It’s perfect,” she breathes. “Oh, Aunt Anna, you look beautiful. Wait until Daniel sees you!”
I twirl around, laughing, before taking her dress down from the rack. “Your turn!”
She disappears behind the screen only to reappear a few moments later looking so breathtakingly grown-up, a gasp catches in my throat.
She’d chosen a simple silk dress, too, pale rose, fitted at the top, pencil skirt. She holds her hands in front of her mimicking holding a bouquet and walks slowly toward me.
I have to brush away a tear.
Trish holds up a hand in dismay. “No crying! Tears are murder on silk!”
Which makes us both burst into tears and scramble to find tissues before we spot our dresses, which in turn makes us burst into gales of laughter. We collapse on a bench and compose ourselves.
Then, our eyes turn to the third garment bag. I unzip it.
Mom’s suit is inside. The same pale rose as Trish’s dress, this is wool bouclé, an elegant jacket and skirt, cap-sleeved silk camisole. I skim my fingers over the fabric. “She’ll look beautiful in this.”
Trish’s expression softens, saddens. “She looks beautiful in everything.”
I sit down beside her. “How are you doing? Really?”
She looks away, her breathing shallow and quick as if swallowing back a sob.
I put my arms around her shoulders. “I’m so worried about you. I know how hard this has to be. Finally, you have a real home, grandparents who love you, and now—”
She leans her head on my shoulder. “I’m doing okay. It’s Grandfather I worry about. He and Grandmother are so close. How will he cope when she’s gone? When there’s just me?”
Her voice catches and I sense an undertone of hesitation, of concern. As if she’s afraid once Mom is gone, Dad won’t want her around anymore. I know how utterly baseless that fear is, how much my father loves her, but I also realize my saying that won’t change the way she feels.
I put an arm over Trish’s shoulders. “Go change, honey. L
et’s get some dinner.”
She disappears into the changing area and I remain on the bench, gazing at Mom’s suit. I wanted help in making my decision.
I just got it.
As soon as I can, I will talk to my mom.
* * *
MOM DOESN’T COME DOWN FOR DINNER.
Her absence casts a pall over us all. After, Dad suggests we go into town for a movie. The kids agree and spend fifteen minutes in good-natured arguing over what to see—a Pixar animated flick or a new action-adventure featuring the Justice League. The superheroes win out. Since it’s an American movie, language won’t be a problem. The film will have French subtitles.
The kids disperse to get their jackets, Dad goes upstairs to tell Mom, Frey and I are alone at the table.
“You’re not coming, are you?” Frey asks.
I shake my head.
“You’re staying to talk to your mother.”
Not a question so I feel no need to reply.
Frey sighs. But then he stands up and pulls me to my feet, too. “I love you,” he says. “I stand behind your choice. But please, Anna, be careful. I don’t want to see you hurt any more than you are.”
I put my hands around his neck and pull his face down so I can reach his lips with my own. The kiss is full of longing, gratitude. “I love you, too,” I whisper, pulling back. “I think I always have.”
Then the kids are racing back down the stairs with Dad right behind them. Frey herds them to the door. No one has to ask why I’m not accompanying them. It seems to be understood. I will stay with Mom.
It’s not without a certain irony—this choice of movie. My family has a real-life justice fighter in their midst and they don’t know it.
Well, they don’t all know it.
I start up the stairs to Mom’s room.
And after tonight, there will be one more sharing the secret.
CHAPTER 18
MOM IS SITTING UP IN BED WATCHING A FRENCH news program when I peek around the door.
She smiles when she sees me and reaches for the remote. “You didn’t go to the movie.”
I step into the room. “Would you like some company?”
She pats the bed. “I’d love some.” She clicks off the television and looks hard at me. “You look so tired, Anna. This should be such a happy time for you and I’m spoiling it.”
Her words bring a rush of anger, and the ever-present urge to scream that it’s not her, it’s the fucking cancer, and that if there were any justice at all in this fucking world, this wouldn’t be happening.
But in my head I see Frey’s gently frowning face and a shaking finger. Not the language to use with your mother, he’s reminding me, in a voice so real, I think he might be standing right behind me.
He’s right. I take my mother’s hand and squeeze it. “You haven’t spoiled anything. In fact, you made me realize how silly it is for Frey and me to wait to get married. And you know me.” I wink at her. “If you hadn’t made the suggestion, Frey and I would have dragged our feet, finding one excuse after the other to hang on to the status quo. I’m such a procrastinator. It would have had Dad climbing the walls.”
She laughs at that. “I can’t believe how silly he acted this morning. You’d think you were a child.”
“To him, I am. But I am sorry to have embarrassed him. I didn’t know—”
“That he was going to intrude on you so early in the morning? Don’t be silly. I told him to leave you alone. That you’d get up when you were ready, but he insisted. He should never have been at that bedroom door to begin with.”
We’re both laughing now, at the memory of Dad’s embarrassed reaction to having heard Frey and me behind that closed door. Still, though, I give myself a mental thump on the head. We are not at home and it could have been John-John or Trish dispatched to fetch us. Frey may be right about forgoing sex until after the service.
Realistically? How likely is that?
Our laughter fades. The silence stretches. Mom turns to me.
“What is it, Anna? What do you want to say to me?”
Her eyes search my face. My heart beats so furiously I’m sure she must hear. I turn away, suddenly afraid, suddenly unsure. What do I want to say?
“Anna?” Her soft voice with just one word pulls me back, insistent, demanding as the magnetic pull on a compass needle.
I meet her eyes.
“You know you can tell me anything.”
“Can I?”
Mom looks shocked. “Why would you ask that?” Her tone is hurt, reproachful.
I’m immediately swamped by guilt. I swallow hard, clench my hands in my lap. “Stupid thing to say. I’m sorry.”
She watches my hand wringing. Her expression morphs to alarm. “What is it, Anna? You’re scaring me.”
Great start. “I don’t mean to scare you. But I’m afraid I’m going to. It’s why this is so hard.”
“Go on.”
“I have a story to tell you. It’s not going to be easy for you to accept. All I ask is that you let me explain in my own way and wait until you’ve heard it all before you react.”
Mom’s eyes lock on mine, she nods. “Go on.”
The words pour out— The beginning. How I was attacked and raped. How my attacker turned out to be a vampire. How he turned me into one, too. What it means—to need human blood to survive. How I survive, where I go to feed, how the human hosts are protected and that it’s not painful for them. That I am the Chosen One, a leader who makes decisions that affect the entire vampire community—and as a result, the human community, too.
I edit as I go—some things I don’t want to share. I don’t tell her that their living in France was my doing, arranged for their protection. Or that Trish is not really my brother’s child. When Mom is gone, I want my father and Trish to find solace in each other. I tell her that Frey knows my true nature and accepts it. I don’t tell her that he and John-John are otherworldly, too. I speak quickly, afraid if I pause, I’ll stop altogether.
Then I explain what I can do for her. That I can make her whole again and immortal. That she can have many more years with Dad and Trish and that it will be tricky, but—I think of Chael’s offer—there are vampires in Europe who could show her how to feed safely. She wouldn’t be a monster. She would be like me.
When I run out of words, the silence is ponderous, pressing in on my heart until I want to cry out with the pain.
When at last my mother speaks, it is so quietly I have to bend near to catch the words.
“I don’t understand.” Her tone is stammering, uncertain. “A vampire? They’re not real. How can you imagine yourself such a creature?”
“I don’t imagine it, Mom. Think. When was the last time you saw me eat food? Touch my skin. It’s cold.” I look around, spy what I’m searching for on the dressing table. I hold the mirror up so she can see only her face is reflected there. “I cast no reflection. I don’t know why these things are, but it’s the way it is. For vampires.”
My mother’s shoulders slump, her face crumbles. She begins to cry, rasping sobs that wrack her body. I start to reach out but hold back.
Maybe the tears are because she’s repulsed. Maybe she would pull away from me in disgust. I couldn’t bear that. I stand up, step away from her bed, tears of my own cascading down my cheeks and spilling onto my hands.
“I’m so sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have said anything. If you want Frey and John-John and me to leave, we will. We can be gone by morning. I’ll tell Dad something’s come up. That we—”
And in the next instant, Mom has pushed herself off the bed and is hugging me so tightly my words are choked off. “How long has it been like this for you?” she whispers.
“Almost two years.”
“Oh, Anna.” Her words are muffled against my shoulder. “How can you ever forgive me?”
I have to step back, too stunned by her words to do more than hold her at arm’s length to study her face in disbelief. What is she saying? “You�
��re not afraid of me? You don’t hate me?”
She takes a step back, too, and sits on the bedside, pulling me down to sit beside her. She cradles my face in her hands. “I’m not crying because I hate you, I’m crying because of what I’ve done to you. You’ve had to face so much alone. When you needed me most, I made you afraid to come to me. Even before, when you left teaching, I was judgmental and cruel, trying to mold you into what I wanted instead of letting you find your own way.”
I raise my hands to stop her words, but she grabs them and continues on.
“And you were attacked . . . My god . . . One of the worst things that can happen to a woman and you couldn’t come to me. I made you afraid to come to me. What kind of mother does that to her daughter?”
I’m crying again now, too, and grasping her hands like a lifeline.
Mom’s voice softens. “Instead of applauding the strong woman you are, I forced you away.” She draws a sharp breath. “I’ve heard such awful things about vampires. The blood. The killing. I never believed they existed, of course, I thought it was all fiction. But I only have to look at you to know that there is nothing inherently evil in what you’ve become.”
I put my hands over hers. She doesn’t wince at the contact. “I could make you well,” I say simply. “It would be painless. There’s a period of adjustment, but I would take care of you. We could tell the family we’re going to a clinic—to try a new treatment. When you come back, you will be strong again. The cancer will be gone. You’ll have your life back. Yes, it will be different, but I’ll stay with you as long as you need me to.”
Mom is quiet for a long moment, her eyes straying to a picture on her dresser. It’s a family portrait, taken when I was a child. My mother, father, brother and I, all in our Easter best, posing with broad smiles and happy faces.
“Thank you for offering,” she says at last. “But I can’t accept.” Her hands tighten on mine. “My faith is strong and I believe in an afterlife. I know it will be hard on Dad and Trish when I’m gone, but they have you and Daniel and each other. I think it was God’s plan to bring Trish into our lives, knowing I had not long to live.”
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