by Elena Hearty
He looked at her with his brow furrowed. “Your heartbeat's a little funky again.”
"I've only taken five pills today. It's probably going to be this way for a while, but I don't think I'll have another seizure again if that's what's worrying you." She fidgeted with the tube in her arm. "How do I take care of this, by the way? I've been scared to get it wet in the shower, but I assume I need to change the tape. I don't want it to get infected."
Richard snorted. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want that. We’ve got a piss poor health plan around here, in case you haven’t noticed. Although antibiotics are easier to come by than that other shit you're taking. Change the tape every few days. I think Angela was putting some sort of cream on it.”
“Neosporin?”
“That rings a bell. Sure.”
Over the next several days, Lenore watched Richard come and go amid a haze of late night television. Every time she heard him close the front door, the three locks turned in tandem, with no break in the routine. Making matters more interesting, Paul popped in and out of the apartment with his own set of keys. Eventually, one of them would forget to lock up, but she would need to be there to take advantage of the mistake.
For the most part, Richard and Paul ignored Lenore completely. She spent the vast majority of her time sequestered in Angela's room and was satisfied to limit her interactions with the pair to the accidental pass in the hall. And while Richard would brush past her without saying a word, Paul would attempt to engage Lenore in awkward conversation before continuing on his way. Nearly every exchange focused on when Lenore’s clothes would arrive.
The clothes did eventually arrive that Friday (at least she thought it was Friday). Charles did not so much as look at Lenore as he dumped three bagfuls outside of her door.
“Where do you want me to put these?” he asked, already turning to leave.
“Right there is fine.”
“Yeah,” he said, walking off. “Don’t thank me or nothing.”
“Thanks for being an accessory to my kidnapping, asshole,” she called as his disappearing figure in the hallway.
After Charles was gone, Lenore brought the bags inside her room and enthusiastically rummaged through their contents. She was delighted to discover that nearly all of the items would fit and that none were damaged past the occasional stain or ripped hemline. There were jeans, dresses, tee shirts, and even a pair of pajamas.
Looking up from the pile of clothes, she spotted Paul grinning at her through the doorway. “So what do you think?” he asked.
Did he expect her to thank him as well? “They'll do.”
"I'm really glad. We went to a lot of trouble to pick them out for you. I wasn‘t sure if you‘d like them." Somehow, when Paul said ‘we', she did not take it to include Charles, whose contribution to the effort probably took the form of scowling somewhere in the back of the store.
“The PJ's were a nice touch.” She waited for him to leave.
Instead, he walked into her room and shoved his hands in his pockets, as if unsure how to proceed. “How would you like to get out of here for a little while?” he asked. “I talked to Rich and he said it’s okay as long as I keep an eye on you.”
Lenore never expected to see the outside of the apartment again. “Are you—do you mean it?”
“I mean it. If you aren't too tired, that is. I know you probably sleep at night.”
Lenore wasn't too tired; her biorhythms had started tapping to Richard’s nocturnal beat. But why would Paul want to take her anywhere? Why would he risk her escape? She eyed him skeptically. “Where would we be going?”
“I was going to take you to a place a couple blocks down. Get you something to eat. Are you game?”
She thought about it for a few seconds and nodded. If Paul were going to kill her, why take her out of the apartment at all?
“Great,” he said, stepping back out of her room. “Get dressed and I’ll meet you up front. Actually, I’m going to drop Charles off and I’ll come back for you. It shouldn’t take me over twenty minutes or so.”
Lenore closed the door behind him and then searched through her new wardrobe for a change of clothes. She settled on a dress with long sleeves (to hide the catheter in her arm) and slipped it on over her body, enjoying the feel of something besides Angela’s oversized tees. Checking herself out in the bathroom mirror, she decided on a whim to blow dry her hair and apply some of the makeup that atrophied at the bottom of her purse. None of this was intended to impress Paul, but Lenore did not know if or when she would leave the apartment again and was determined to make the most of it.
She glimpsed Richard in the library on her way to the front hall, who sat hovering over his laptop at the epicenter of four separate piles of documents. He looked up as she walked by and gave a one hand wave, suggesting hollowly that she "have a good time". He mumbled "agoraphobic my ass" before returning to his papers. Fleetingly, it occurred to Lenore that she and Richard had not engaged in their bloodletting ritual since that Tuesday, and that he was due.
As she waited in the foyer, Lenore contemplated plans of escape. Once outside the apartment, she would tell Paul that she needed to use the bathroom and would find a phone instead. Or perhaps she would just scream once they got up to the street. Or perhaps she would flag down a passing car. The possibilities beyond the front door seemed endless.
Nearly ten minutes passed before the bolts turned and Paul stepped through the entrance.
“You ready to hit the town?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Lenore replied, rising from where she sat.
He ran his hand through his hair. “Before we do, and I don’t want this to come out as a threat, but you know I can catch you, right?”
She stared at him, perplexed.
“I‘m going to show you something,” he said. “I’m not doing this to freak you out, okay? Stay right where you are.”
Lenore watched with suspicion as Paul walked to the far end of the room. "Get ready, now, and keep your eyes on me." She obliged and shrieked when an instant later felt him behind her, his arms clasped tightly around her waist. It was as if he had teleported across the floor. "Do you see?" he whispered in her ear. "I can move very fast when I want to. If you try to run, I'll catch you. I want to make sure you understand that, or this little outing is going to go badly for both of us. Well, mainly for you."
Paul released Lenore’s trembling figure, but slowly, allowing her to regain balance.
“Don't do that again,” she said, her voice faltering. “Don't ever touch me again.”
He took two steps back. “Jeez. Relax. I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t want to have to hurt you, though, and I would if you tried to run away. Oh wow, you're mad at me. Do you still want to go out?"
She closed her eyes and nodded, but escape seemed like a cruel joke now. Paul would catch her if she found a phone. He'd catch her if she started screaming. He'd catch her if she ran to a car. He'd catch her. And he'd drag her back.
“You know,” he said casually, rocking on his heels, “you clench your teeth when you’re upset. Look at you. You’re all tense. Smile. Please smile. Or at least say something. I feel like a jerk right now.”
Reconciliation was not Lenore‘s forte. "I'm over it, okay? But I would have taken your word for it. You didn't need to pounce on me like that. I mean… God… Don‘t you think I know where I stand these days?"
“I know you do, and I apologize,” Paul said, looking at the floor. “I really think it’ll do you some good to get out of here for a while, though.”
He led her to the front door and turned the handle. When he swung it open, a cool evening breeze wafted into the foyer, fanning Lenore’s dress against her legs. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before stepping over the threshold into the night air.
“Wait here,” Paul said, turning the bolts behind him.
When he finished, Lenore followed him through the dank entryway, stepping past a homeless man who had created somewhat of a
nest for himself within the basement hall. Paul reached into his pocket and handed the old man a twenty dollar bill, saying, “Stay warm tonight, sir,” to which he received a toothless grin and hoarse God Bless You. The walkway ended with a half flight of stairs leading up to the street. Lenore remembered descending them nearly two weeks prior, thinking she might as well have wandered into a glue trap.
Climbing the final step, she asked, “Does that kind of thing happen a lot? I mean where a homeless person moves into the basement like that?”
Paul grinned, hopping onto the street. “It happens all the time, but I don't think Rich minds so much.”
“So where are we going?”
“I was going to take you to a diner that’s about two blocks down. If that’s okay with you, that is. Frankly, it’s the only place I know in the area that’s open all night.”
"Yeah, that's fine with me. I don't know this part of the city very well."
“Alright awesome. I hear this place has pretty decent food. It’s probably been a while since you had anything besides cereal. According to Rich, that’s all you eat. Oh and Toaster Pastries. He said you love Toaster Pastries.”
The two AM streets were barren, except for the occasional passing car, but far from silent. The hum of neon lights sang in the background, along with the collage of sounds from residents of the nearby apartment buildings, many of whom were up talking, crying, fighting, or just watching TV. A siren rang out in the distance, and a dog began howling in harmony.
Paul looked over at Lenore. “Aren’t you cold? I should have told you to take a jacket. I don‘t think it‘s getting out of the forties tonight.”
“I’m a little cold, but I’m just kinda enjoying being outside,” Lenore said, trudging along with her arms folded. “It's refreshing.”
Paul only wore a white t-shirt and jeans himself, but seemed quite comfortable in the night air. He was a man in his element and, like the elongated shadow he cast in the light of the street lamp, appeared larger and more powerful in the darkness. “Well, we’re not too far off. You see that light over there? To the right? That’s where we‘re headed.”
He led her to a small diner, which was unobtrusively tucked into the corner of an old brownstone. Although the sign on the door said "OPEN 24 HRS", they were the only customers and sat themselves at a booth near the back before attracting the notice of the only waitress on staff. She threw two menus down on the table before retreating to the back to do whatever it is that night shift waitresses do.
Lenore flipped through the menu for a minute or two before closing it and placing it back down on the table. Paul never opened his but stared at the artwork on the cover as if it were on the verge of speech. When the waitress returned, Lenore ordered coffee for herself—leave the pot—and steak and eggs with pancakes on the side.
“How are you holding up?” Paul asked, watching Lenore pour five packets of sugar into her coffee.
“I’m not sure how to answer that question,” she said honestly.
He frowned at her, folding his hands. “I know this situation sucks for you.”
“I guess it’s better than being dead,” she replied, desperately thinking of ways to change the subject.
“I’m not so sure about that. I think Rich put you in an extremely difficult position. If it were me, I would’ve just killed you and gotten it over with.”
Lenore looked around the restaurant, wondering if anyone in the back could hear their conversation, before meeting Paul’s eyes again. “Rich offered to do that, like he‘d be doing me a favor.”
"Well, that's just my point," he said, leaning back in his seat. "It's an unfair position to put someone in. Who's going to be like ‘yeah just kill me'? I sure as hell wouldn't. But in the long run, it's fucking horrible. Poor Angela was stuck in that apartment for fifteen months.” Lenore winced, to which he raised his hand apologetically. “Hey. I’m not trying to upset you or anything.”
“No, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but I can‘t cry about it anymore. And I‘ve done a lot of that this past week. Rich mentioned there have been others, though. How long did they last?”
"Oh, no one in recent memory has lasted as long as Angela. That shit was a marathon. I guess a few months or so, maybe? He‘ll have someone, and then he‘ll get tired of them—or hungry, or whatever—and then decide that it‘s a bad idea altogether for a while, but he always goes back to keeping a live body on retainer. I think he gets nervous if he doesn‘t have a backup plan. This isn't one of Rich's habits that I'm a big fan of, by the way. I don't have a problem with him eating, but I don't like that he drags it out like this. It's almost cruel. You know what's interesting about your situation, though? To me, anyway?"
Lenore was still trying to digest her new life expectancy. “What’s that?” she asked absently.
“It's that Rich hasn’t promised you anything. I think he’s actually been pretty honest with you—from what he‘s told me, anyway. See, everyone else so far has wanted to be turned, like they’d signed up for an internship. Not you, though. You‘ve walked into this with your eyes open, at least; even though I personally think it was a bad decision”
Lenore sipped her coffee. “Have you ever heard of Quantum Immortality?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. Is that a band?”
"No, not at all. I'm probably not going to explain this very well, but it's this idea that the universe splits every time there's a decision. So if you were playing Russian roulette with half the rounds loaded, fifty percent of the time you'd die, but the other half of the time, you'd make it. The universe splits for every outcome. Anyway, if you kept playing, the universe would keep splitting, and your likelihood of surviving would become infinitesimal, but there would have to be one scenario, one perfect universe, in which you wouldn't die—where you‘d play forever."
“Okay. I think I get it.”
“Well, my point is that there has to be a universe where I get out of this. If I chose to die upfront, I’d be giving up on that. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Hah, that’s an interesting idea. I’ll give you that. Very Pollyannaish. All this over some old records, huh?”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” She sighed.
"Are you a die-hard music fan?"
Lenore shook her head. “No not at all, but I’m really into mechanical things. I got myself an old phonograph and I thought it would be fun to have some records for it.”
Paul frowned. “Mechanical things?”
“Yeah, specifically windup devices. They fascinate me. I think it’s cheating if something has to have electricity to run. If something needs electricity, it essentially has to have batteries or an outlet at all times. Otherwise, it’s broken. But that’s not the case with a gramophone, for instance. You can take it anywhere, and it works when you wind it up. It‘s perfect. I collect perfect things.”
Paul was still frowning. “You’re kinda weird,” he said.
Lenore looked down at the table and blew her hair out of her eyes. “I know. I’m not trying to bore you.”
“Quite the contrary. So what did you do before…all this?”
“I worked from home. I was a software engineer for a small consulting agency. It was pretty cool because I got to set my own schedule and no one bothered me until something was due.”
Paul brought his hands together and grinned. “Hah. I knew it. I knew you worked with computers. I could just tell that about you. Family?”
Lenore slouched in her seat. “My mother passed away about four years ago.”
“No father?”
“He left my mother when I was eleven. We don‘t really keep in touch.”
“Jesus. What happened to your mother? Do you mind me asking?”
"Breast cancer," said Lenore, who closed her eyes as she spoke the words as if they caused her great pain.
Paul knit his eyebrows sympathetically. “How long was she sick?”
“For about three years. I fought with her a lot towa
rd the end because she stopped taking her medicine. She might still be alive if she'd kept fighting.”
His lips formed into a half smile. “In her perfect universe?”
Lenore nodded, swallowing a gulp of coffee. “Exactly.”
“Is that when you started taking Xanax?”
“That’s a completely separate issue,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve got absolutely no excuse for how many pills I was taking, but I am agoraphobic.”
“Oh yeah? What caused that?”
“You mean the agoraphobia? Nothing really causes it. I think I had my first episode was when I was around fourteen, maybe? My mother took me to see a Broadway show. We’re sitting in the audience, and I get this thought in my head—more of a fear—that all of a sudden, for no reason, I’m going to jump onto the stage and start singing with the rest of the cast.”
Paul started laughing.
She smiled in spite of herself. “I know it sounds NUTS, but I was paralyzed. I made her take me out of there immediately, and that was the start of a long trip downhill.”
“So does Xanax completely cure your condition?”
“Oh no. Not at all. But it takes the edge off. Most of the time when I go out, everything’s fine, but the times when I have panicked have been so traumatic, that it’s like I’m frightened of the panic attack instead. I’m frightened of being frightened. And I get into this cycle where I’ll be out and wonder if I’m going to panic, and that causes me to panic. Xanax breaks the cycle because I don't worry about panicking so much to begin with. I know this makes no sense."
“You know, I think there’s a strange logic to it. No one‘s ever explained it to me before. I just thought it had to do with germs.”
Lenore poured herself another cup of coffee and looked up at Paul, who fidgeted contemplatively with the fork in front of him. “Can I ask you a ton of vampire questions now? I don’t want to be rude, but I’m dying to.”
Paul shot back his trademark grin. "Ask away. I hate the term vampire, though. I don‘t even know what it means. It sounds like ‘I vant to suck your bloood.’ So stupid.”