The Thirst Within

by Johi Jenkins

  Or is it?

  My thoughts fall. That’s actually not a whole lot. That’ll barely cover my college tuition and other college expenses for little over a year, if I’m lucky. Great. I’ll still have to take student loans.

  But that’s okay, I tell myself. I guess. So I have to pay a little bit. Whatever. At least I have something. A lot of students have nothing.

  I don’t want to ask my aunt how much the house sold for. I feel greedy.

  She probably can guess that I’m thinking about money, though. “What about your mother’s side?” She asks me. “Hmm? Your Harris grandparents had a lot of money.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” I say. I know so little about that set of grandparents, and I don’t ever bother to ask my uncle.

  “Did you receive your mother’s share of the inheritance when Mom was alive?” Aunt Marie asks, curious. “Or are you going to get it when you turn eighteen?”

  “No. I don’t think there was any. I would’ve received it or heard about it by now. They passed away a long time ago.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m sure there was. I remember when Matt proposed to Lisa he always joked about how the Harris had all that money. They paid for that fancy wedding! Do you remember their wedding pictures? I wonder where they are now….”

  None of this rings a bell. What is she saying? What does it matter if my grandparents were rich? They’re dead. My mom’s dead.

  Oh—I see.

  I should have received my dead mother’s share of their inheritance, and it should have been a large amount.

  Well, this is all news to me. Nana Fran and Grandpa John were not the biggest fans of old man Harris, like they liked to call my grandpa Sal. So they never talked about him. And me, I don’t know anything about him or my grandma Rose. I hardly saw them after my parents died, and before that, when my mom was alive and might have actually taken me to see them, I barely remember. So I can’t say I have any recollection of them, where they lived, or whether they had money.

  “Maybe they spent it all before they both passed away,” I say, defending the living Harrises.

  “Or maybe that uncle of yours took his parents’ money while they still lived, so that there was nothing remaining to split when they died,” she says, spiteful all of a sudden.

  I think about that, and it hurts. Not only because it means that I could have had money now, but more because someone would do that to me. “That would be awful if he did that. What did my other grandparents do for a living, do you know?”

  “I never really knew. I think your grandfather Harris was in some sort of insurance business, and your grandmother was a housewife. I only met them at Matt’s wedding. Your parents’ wedding, I mean. Oh, Tori, it was so extravagant. That was the first time I’d been to New Orleans, you know. And that house was just…. Well, amazing. How is it maintained these days?”

  “What house?”

  “Their house. The house where you live.”

  “Oh! Uncle Roland—we—we live in his parents’ house?”

  “Well, yes, that house is probably worth a lot of money. Your uncle can’t make that much money,” she says, matter-of-factly.

  Holy fucking shit.

  If what she says is true, I live in my own house. Well, a house that’s half mine, and I have the tiniest bedroom and a hand-me-down bed? What the hell? Is this for real?

  I know that my parents owned a house in Chicago. They had purchased it shortly after they got married, and when they died the estate went to me; I was four, so my dad’s parents, who became my legal guardians and property custodians, gave up the house. Whatever small amount of equity they had was used to pay the mortgage. Then the bank repossessed it. My grandparents couldn’t afford it, and anyway no one lived in Chicago at the time. I guess my mom’s parents, who were alive then, didn’t care for a house in the north…. Especially since they already had the one. That fancy house where I live.

  “Unless Uncle Roland bought the house from my other grandparents before they died,” I say now, thinking of a new possibility.

  “Maybe. I wouldn’t put it past him to do something like that. But you said you never received a penny from the inheritance; and they had to have something. It’s strange that no one ever contacted you. At least, none that you or I know. Your uncle probably covered that up somehow. Say that he took the house and the bank account while they lived. You would’ve still been contacted about it. My guess is he never did anything, and it’s all half yours, and he’s kept quiet all these years.”

  ***

  Because it’s been a few months since Aunt Marie’s psycho husband died, she’s moved on. Maybe she finally realized how much better off she is without him. I wouldn’t know, but the guy was a creep. Maybe he was a creep with her, too.

  But anyway, now she’s lonely and I think she wants me back. She suddenly loves me so much that it bothers me a little that she’s so clingy. The day after I arrive we even go to church together. That’s a strange experience, but I welcome it, because it reminds me of my childhood, even though this church is obviously not the same one I used to go to. It’s the going to church part. I haven’t been in a while, since Grandpa John was alive and well. My grandparents and I used to go together every Sunday.

  And it’s also weird in a way because last time I went, I didn’t date a vampire that kills people. The whole time I’m there, I’m hoping that the pastor is wrong and God is not watching.

  After church Aunt Marie insists we go out to a restaurant for lunch, which turns out to be an all-you-can-eat buffet place, which I hate, because they’re always full of old, sad, obese people. Nothing wrong with being old or sad or obese. But when you get all three in one package, it creeps me out. And this place is full of such people. It depresses me. And the food isn’t that good anyway.

  Aunt Marie loves it here, though, so I can’t say no. Plus, I saw her cry in church, so I feel guilty about not being able to genuinely want to stay with her.

  It’s not her. I do like her. She’s as close to a mother as I can get—in fact, she’s the closest motherly figure I’ve had since Nana Fran passed away. I find myself doing little things to please her. Agreeing with whatever she wants to do. Sure, Aunt Marie, we can watch that movie on Lifetime TV together. And No problem, we’ll drive half an hour to Dubuque, just to eat at the Olive Garden. I don’t mind. It makes me oddly happy to see her happy.

  But I suspect she wants me to move here. Forever.

  It’s too late—I’ve got Thierry embedded in my skin. I’m not going to move to BFE to be with her. I’ll take June and her evil step-aunt makeup if it means being close to Thierry.

  My week is uneventful and it finally comes to an end. On Friday morning we leave the house early. Aunt Marie drives me to the shuttle pick up location. I’m catching the same little van back to the airport; it leaves at 6:00 AM.

  “Thank you for the visit, Tori,” my aunt says once my bag is inside the van. We stand awkwardly between the van and her car. Of course I feel I’m pressured to say what I say next.

  “No problem, Aunt Marie. We’ll do it again! It was fun.”

  “Please, think about the summer.”

  “I will, Aunt Marie,” I say honestly. She just wouldn’t like my thoughts.

  “I love you, Tori,” she says, full of emotion.

  “Me too, Aunt Marie,” and I think I mean it.

  She kisses me, gives me a bone-crushing hug, and steps back so that I can climb in the van. I take the very last row of the shuttle, and as she waves at me I see she’s bawling, tears running down her cheeks. I smile sadly and blow a kiss at her as we take off.

  I sigh. I can’t even enjoy my freedom. I thought I’d be happy to leave Galena, but my aunt crying is messing with my bliss thing.

  I’m so tired, though, I can’t even be sad for my aunt. I pass out in the van, lying horizontally across the bench since I have one all to myself. Today there are only two other passengers in the van.

  I sleep almost the entire t
rip to Chicago. I wake up as we drive by the city, because the van’s speed changes frequently as we travel the busy interstate. I fish my glasses out of my pocket and look at the skyline outside the window. It looks freaking scary; the sky is a bleak gray, covered in ominous-looking clouds, and the city beneath is a distant clutter of concrete and steel. But I welcome the sight. It signifies a step closer to Thierry.

  Since I’m up, might as well catch up with my email.

  Before I got this phone, I used to check my email so infrequently that people didn’t even bother to send me anything. My old friends from Iowa never even sent me a chain email. Or a puppy video. Yet now I have mail, text and phone calls all in one, but the only person that I email or text is Kerin. I mostly communicate with Thierry by phone calls when I don’t see him.

  I have an email from Kerin. She forwarded me news about a snow storm and wrote, “Hope you miss it! See you Saturday.”

  A snow storm in April! I look up weather information.

  Oh, man. There’s a snow storm coming to the Midwest, and it’s starting later today. I’m glad I’m leaving today. I’m ready to get rid of this jacket.

  The shuttle drops me off at Chicago’s O’Hare airport and after I’ve passed through security and found my gate, I have ten hours to spare until my flight at 8:00 PM. FML.

  I call Thierry after I’ve settled in at the gate to tell him about my woes.

  He sounds half asleep. “Hey, Tor.”

  “Oh Thierry! I’m sorry. I forgot you’re nocturnal.”

  “That’s alright. What’s up? Why are you up so early? I thought your flight was at night, at eight.”

  “It is, but I had to take the little shuttle early…. I’m already at the airport. I’ll call you later. Everything’s okay; I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “Ten hours?” He’s half asleep but he can do math. And he’s appalled. I explain to him the twice-per-day trip to the airport that BFE Shuttle Services offers. Once in the morning, once in the evening.

  “Tori, you should’ve told me. I could’ve sent a taxi to take you there at a more appropriate time.”

  “To BFE? They’d charge an eye off the face.”

  “What’s BFE?”

  “Galena,” I say innocently.

  “What’s BFE?” He repeats in the exact same tone.

  “Bum Fuck Egypt,” I say in low volume.

  “What? Tori,” he pretends to chastise me, laughing, and it sounds so cute because his voice is all groggy. “Anyway. Too late now for a taxi. You’re there. So okay, see if you can catch an earlier flight. That way I can see you sooner, and you escape the storm.”

  “Do you think that’s going to be a problem?”

  “It’s O’Hare. It’s always going to be a problem.”

  “What do you mean, it’s O’Hare?”

  “When it snows, they always have delays. But you’ll be fine, if you catch an earlier flight.”

  “Mmm… okay. I’ll let you go back to sleep. I’ll check out earlier flights.”

  “Please call me when you reschedule, or if you need anything, Tor.”

  “Okay, will do,” I promise. “Hey Thierry?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for talking to me.”

  He laughs sleepily. “Thanks for talking to me.”

  We hang up and I devote the next half hour to trying to switch my flight, but apparently the flights were full as it is, maybe because it’s Spring Break, and everyone had the same idea I had to catch an early flight and escape the snow storm. Now this is making me nervous.

  So I have nothing. I don’t call Thierry to tell him the bad news. I don’t really believe that the flights are going to get cancelled. I have to believe that I’ll get out of here. Even if my flight gets delayed a few hours.

  I buy a book and find an outlet for my phone. I read at the gate waiting the long hours away.

  Sometime in the afternoon the heavy winds of the storm start to blow in, and I really start to get nervous. I didn’t put myself on a waiting list for an earlier flight because the airline wouldn’t do it for free, and I don’t want to spend the money.

  And finally they announce it. My flight gets delayed and then cancelled.

  I’m stuck in Chicago, I’ve been stuck here for five hours already, and I’m not sure what to do. I realize I’m shaking.

  When in doubt, call Thierry.

  “Why didn’t you call me earlier?” He chides me, after I finish explaining the situation.

  “I was reading a book,” I offer as an explanation. I didn’t tell him that there might have been some flights I could catch, but I had no money to pay the premium, because he’ll give me a hard time about not asking him for money.

  “It’s going to be impossible to get you back here now. You’ll be snowed in. And apparently we’re going to get some bad weather too; and if we get so much as sleet, the whole parish will shut down.”

  “I don’t know what to do.” I really don’t.

  He makes an exasperated sound. “Ugh! Stay put. I’ll call Corben.”

  The Vamp That Shall Not Be Mentioned? No! “Don’t worry. The van returns in a few hours for the night trip back to Galena. I’ll call the guy and tell him to pick me up….”

  “No, Tori—stay put. Don’t go back to Galena! You’ll be stuck there even worse. Corben will pick you up, and bring you to me.”

  19. Hopelessly

  My flight is cancelled and I’m snowed in. I’m stuck with nowhere to go. But the other vampire… Corben… will pick me up. Or so Thierry says. I’m still waiting to hear back from Thierry. I’m half hopeful, half afraid, that Corben will say he can’t pick me up. Hopeful because the guy clearly dislikes me and I don’t want to see him; but afraid because that’ll confirm that not only does he dislike me, he also isn’t willing to help me in my time of need. That, and I’ll be stuck here alone.

  So I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now. My heart beats faster when I think of Corben coming to pick me up, but I haven’t figured out why. I tell my idiot heart to can it; that I’m only interested in seeing Corben because I want to win his affection—I don’t want Thierry’s brother to hate me.

  But first things first. I call home and try to explain my situation.

  “Your flight was cancelled?” My Uncle Roland sounds surprised. He probably didn’t even know anything about a storm that could have possibly left his niece stranded in Illinois. Actually, I wonder if he’d forgotten I was coming back tonight, and that’s why he sounds surprised. “Um… what are you going to do?”

  See, a real parental figure would have said Don’t worry—I’ll figure out what to do and fix this somehow. But he’s asking me. Luckily for him, I’m seeing a guy (behind his back) and this guy happens to have everything under control. Or at least a solid Plan A.

  “I’m going to stay at the airport Hilton,” I lie easily, because that’s what I’ve heard some of my fellow passengers say.

  “Oh, good. Do you need any money?”

  I catch myself about to say no, thanks, when I remember that he and his wife may have gypped me out of my inheritance. So I don’t hesitate and answer, “Yes… please.”

  “I’ll send you another transfer.” He kept good to his word of sending me money to cover my week off. But after my conversation with Aunt Marie, I see his charities in a whole different light.

  Still, I’m grateful. “Thanks, Uncle.”

  “No problem. Let me know when you have a flight rescheduled.”

  “Will do.”

  I hang up and feel terrible that I want to hate him but I can’t. Ugh! My phone vibrates and I jump. Oh. It’s Thierry.

  “Hey, Thierry.”

  “Tori. I talked to Corben. He says he’ll send a limo driver over to pick you up.”

  “A limo?!” I ask, horrified.

  “No, no. It’s a black town car, one of those pick up services. They just call themselves limo drivers.”

  “Ah.” That doesn’t sound so bad. But I’m terrifi
ed. I wonder if brainwaves travel through wireless calls and he can read my mind, despite the many times that he’s said he can’t. And that therefore he’ll know how afraid I am of being alone with Corben, for various reasons, some of which I refuse to admit to myself. “So how am I getting to New Orleans?”

  “The same way you were supposed to, but probably tomorrow, or Sunday at the latest. The flights are delayed by about a day, usually. Or maybe he’ll bring you by private jet over here, I don’t know.”

  “Tomorrow’s not bad,” I say.

  “You’ll be okay, Tor. He’s just a weird vampire. But you know, not all of us are.”

  “True.”

  “I warned him to behave. Just remember he looks young but he’s an old soul.”

  “Like really old? How much older than you?”

  “He’s—you know, why don’t you ask him that question? I’m sure he’ll answer you honestly.”

  “I’m sure he would.” But like hell I’m going to ask him.

  “Kay, Tor. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll call you again tonight.”

  “Thanks, Thierry.”

  Fifteen minutes later an unknown number calls me, interrupting the millionth thought I was having about Corben. My phone recognizes a Chicago number. My first thought is that it’s the limo service. But then, I’m expecting them to take an hour to come pick me up.

  “Hello?” I answer. I don’t introduce myself or tell them who’s talking.

  “Tori,” a voice says, and my stomach drops a foot.

  Corben.

  I don’t reply to him because I’m shocked, but he doesn’t ask me to speak up, for which I’m a grateful. Or rather, I would be grateful. If I could only have feelings right now.

  “I’m right outside,” he says.

  What!

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll come out now.” I hang up without saying anything else. That was probably a little impolite of me, but I’m so nervous I don’t know what I’m doing.

  Aaahhh. How does he even know where I am? The arrivals area in this airport is long, three terminals long, and each terminal has about four or five different exits marked A, B, C, etcetera. I was waiting for the limo guys to call me and tell me something like, “Go to 3D, we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”