“My lawyer is already working on purchasing a burial plot.”
Sigrid nodded, her eyes beginning to tear again.
“I’d like to see her now,” Yelena said and again Sigrid nodded.
*
Yelena shut the door after she entered my room. She touched my face, starting with my eyelids, then my jaw and neck. Sigrid had stayed with me for a long time, and so it was to Yelena’s relief that my body had not yet begun to stiffen. She removed her overcoat and placed it on the chair. As she did, she reached into the coat’s inner pocket and removed the syringe she had hidden there before leaving her house for the hospital. She rolled up her sleeve before removing the cap from the needle. She inserted the needle into a vein at the bend in her elbow and pulled the plunger back, the syringe filling with her immortal blood, which had been mixed with my own. She removed the needle and the wound vanished before a single drop of blood could surface on her skin.
She pulled the blanket back and rolled up the pant leg of my pajamas. She inserted the needle into my femoral artery and pressed the plunger, pushing all the vampiric blood she had drawn into my body. She removed the needle and pulled my pant leg down and replaced the blanket over me. She knew my wound would also disappear before an autopsy could be performed, if there was to be an autopsy.
“Please, Orly,” she said. She was asking me to come back to her. Ordinarily when one is turned, it is the vampiric blood that first kills the beloved so that they may reawaken nights later. But I was already dead when she gave me her blood. Would that change things? Would I ever reawaken? She had to believe I would. She couldn’t leave my side if she allowed herself to believe I wouldn’t.
She placed the cap back on the needle and again put it in the inner pocket of her overcoat. She rested her hand on my bald scalp, running her fingers through locks of hair that weren’t there. “Sleep now,” she whispered. “When you wake, you shall be my daughter until the end of time.” She kissed me on the lips and then left me there, dead. She opened the door, exited, and headed home, hoping the plot Berthold would purchase for me would be someplace beautiful.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Yelena returned the next night to see me. Though she had never visited the morgue in my hospital she was able to walk to it directly, simply by following the scent of her own blood that had not yet begun to pump through my veins. Her blood still slept inside me.
Doctors, nurses, staff, visitors, and patients all failed to notice her as she glided resolutely through the halls. The morgue was empty when she arrived. I was in a bottom drawer and Yelena knew which one immediately. She sat on the spotless linoleum floor with her back up against the door of my cold chamber. I was to be buried the following day. Leukemia was recorded as the cause of my death.
Yelena turned her head and rested her cheek on the metal door that was chilled from the inside. She spoke softly, as if in a prayer, but she was speaking to me through my death. “Be strong, little one. Don’t fear the dark. Don’t fear the casket. Don’t fear interment. You will lie alone, but not for long. I shall come for you when you wake.”
*
At my burial, Berthold attended as a representative of Yelena. Sigrid was there as well as two nurses from the hospital, and one of the counselors from my former group home who had really liked me. After a minister I didn’t know spoke over my casket, very little was said by anyone else, other than goodbyes. A few flowers were tossed on my casket before I was lowered slowly and evenly into the earth by a mechanical device. Workmen then proceeded to fill my grave with earth. Only Berthold and Sigrid stayed until my burial was complete.
*
Over the next five nights, Yelena rose from her coffin and sat in her home waiting for me to wake rather than going out to feed. That wasn’t because she was out of scribbles; though she felt hunger, her anxiety prevented her from having any appetite. As each night waned she became increasingly uneasy with the possibility of me never stirring in my casket and only moldering and satiating the appetites of eyeless worms. By Friday, her anxiety was so severe that she tripled her Klonopin dose and had Berthold drive her to see Dr. Sloane for her weekly appointment. The pills made her calm enough to hold a conversation with her psychiatrist, but he still noticed she was on edge. He mentioned this but Yelena responded that she didn’t want to talk about it. She also didn’t mention I had died. She still hoped I would wake as her natural inclination toward denial swelled inside her.
“Is there anything you would like to talk about, then?” Dr. Sloane asked.
“Once you told me that cliché that says you have to love yourself before you can love someone else.”
“I guess that is, indeed, a cliché, but I do believe it’s true.”
“Do you believe then that I don’t love myself?”
“What matters is what you believe.”
“I know you believe I’m full of sadness. And I am. But you’re wrong to think I can’t love myself because of it. I love my sadness just as I love my skin or my teeth or the thoughts in my brain. They’re all part of me. I admit I don’t love the feeling sadness brings me, but I cherish it as my own. Maybe someday I will heal my sadness. But trying to talk myself into walking away from it right now would only be amputating that part of me instead of curing it.”
Dr. Sloane didn’t respond quickly enough so Yelena continued.
“Do you doubt I love Marcel?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, I do love him. So if the cliché is true, I must already love myself.”
“Yelena, I’m going to say something that might upset you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Your love for Marcel is not a healthy love.”
“It’s not. But in what way did you mean?”
“It’s one-sided. What isn’t part of the cliché is that to love yourself sometimes you must let go of your love for someone else. Marcel is gone, Yelena. He may come back or he may not. Your happiness cannot depend on his behavior.”
“I know all of that. And in my heart of hearts, I know he’s not coming back.”
“I’m glad that you can admit that to yourself.”
“The ability comes and goes.” She forced a small laugh.
“That’s part of the healing process.”
“If you say so. But let me ask you something else. Do you consider dying a behavior?”
“I don’t follow you.”
Yelena paused, thinking. Of course he didn’t follow her. Finally, she spoke again, “Orly will die.”
“You’ve mentioned she isn’t responding to treatment.”
“So can my happiness be dependent on her behavior?” Yelena asked, knowing it was a pointless question.
*
Sunday night, Yelena and Berthold sat across from each other at the dining room table, drinking Scotch. Yelena was still wearing the silk pajamas she slept in during the day. Hisato had called after sunset and asked to come over as he hadn’t seen his best friend since they murdered the family of four from Beverly Hills. Yelena declined. She couldn’t cope with someone so animated with me still lying dead in my casket. It was better to sit with her lawyer who was disciplined enough to remain silent when needed.
The bottle of Scotch was unopened when they sat down, but three hours later it was empty, most of it drunk by Yelena. When she finished her last glass, she rose from the table, and as she exited the kitchen she instructed Berthold to follow. He stood and his balance was less sure than hers. Yelena entered her bedroom and crawled under the covers of the bed she had not slept in since Andre was still alive and part of her life.
With her back to Berthold, who stood just inside the doorway, she whispered a command, “Lie with me.”
She had never invited him into her bed before. There was desire on his part, but also trepidation. Above all, however, was obedience, and with this in mind he disrobed. He slipped off his shoes with some difficulty resulting from his intoxication. He removed his necktie, but was unsure of how far he shoul
d undress. He unbuttoned his dress shirt but left it on. He unfastened his belt and unbuttoned and unzipped his slacks and let them fall to the floor. He stepped out of them and moved toward the bed. Yelena reached behind her and lifted the covers, inviting him in. Berthold slipped into the bed with her, moving close to Yelena but not touching her. Yelena reached back again and took his arm and pulled it until it was draped over her, holding her. Berthold was happy to be welcomed into this intimate state with her and he nuzzled closer, holding her more firmly and spooning her. As he felt her cold body beside him, Yelena noticed his warmth. A blood tear slipped from Yelena’s eye and stained her pillowcase. They lay still for some time and, with his arm still around her, Berthold began to snore softly. Yelena closed her eyes, but didn’t fall asleep.
Hours passed before Yelena reopened her eyes to watch the window coverings lower sleepily over her windows. When the coverings were fully shut, Yelena slipped from under Berthold’s arm and rose from the bed, waking him.
“You should go,” she told him before opening her closet door and disappearing down to her coffin. Berthold sat up in bed and noticed the bloodstain on her pillow. He rose from the bed and dressed himself but only hung his necktie around his neck. He sat back on the bed to put on his shoes.
He slid Yelena’s dresses back in place in front of her secret door and shut the closet. He replaced the bedding with clean sheets and pillowcases and made her bed.
*
Yelena’s eyes opened when I screamed. My panic woke her inside her coffin.
Moments before, I myself woke inside a darkness I had never known. The space I was in was tight. I tried to sit up but hit my head. At first, I thought I was in bed restraints, but then I noticed I was lying on something that felt like satin, not stiff hospital sheets. I was confused. I hoped I was dreaming, but my sense of touch, as I kicked and pounded, felt too real. I realized I was inside a box. And then it made sense. I knew it was a casket.
That was when I screamed, waking Yelena. I screamed over and over, thrashing in the darkness, feeling more and more confined, fearing I would suffocate. They had made a mistake. They thought I died in the hospital and buried me alive. I continued shrieking and beating the inside of the casket. My fingernails tore at the satin fabric below me. I felt hot tears slipping from my eyes.
But that’s when I heard Yelena’s voice. She was saying my name over and over again. “Orly…Orly…Orly…”
I stopped thrashing and screaming and tried to listen. I still heard her but realized I was not hearing her through my ears. I heard her in my mind.
“Listen to me. Everything is alright, little one. You’re going to be fine. I promise. You have to trust me.”
I remembered the casket. “Am I dead?” I said aloud.
“You’re immortal,” Yelena answered inside my head. “You cannot die.”
I had not known Yelena had bled me and given me her blood. I was a vampire. I didn’t know how to feel about that. I felt a lot of things, but I wasn’t sure which were my actual thoughts versus things I felt like I should feel. But ultimately, I knew I was happy that I was going to be alive again, once I got out of this casket that had been buried in the ground.
Yelena felt she had little strength and thereby knew it was still daylight out. It was just after three o’clock in the afternoon.
“Lie still, little one. Sleep,” she said. “The sun is still out. I will come and get you out after nightfall.”
I nodded my head, but then wasn’t sure she could see me doing that so I said, “Okay, Mommy. Just hurry.”
Yelena liked that I called her mommy. I learned later that it was very rare for a new vampire to wake for the first time during the hours of daylight. Because it was so rare, it was considered good luck. The first good luck I had in my life happened after I had died.
Even though she told me to sleep, I couldn’t. I felt weak, but I was accustomed to feeling weak on account of my leukemia, which I wasn’t sure I had anymore. I noticed they had buried me with the diamond key necklace around my neck. Yelena had taken it from me at the hospital the night I died, believing someone might steal it if she didn’t. She had the chain repaired. It had slipped up to my chin with all my thrashing and I pulled it back in place and clutched it tightly. The wait for nightfall while confined and in absolute darkness felt endless.
*
But nightfall did eventually come. I hadn’t heard Yelena in my head for what felt like days. Once she had calmed me, she resumed her daytime slumber. When I heard her again, her voice in my head was less faint and more lively.
“I’m coming for you, my child,” she said.
I was relieved to hear those words in my head. It felt like only a couple minutes passed before I heard noises from above me. The ground was being disturbed. The sounds became louder and louder and soon I could feel vibrations on the casket walls. Berthold must be standing on top of my casket now, I thought. Kind-hearted Berthold. His footsteps moved softly over my casket.
The hinged cover of my casket was lifted. I guess my casket had a split cover. The part that opened only revealed the upper part of my body and my face. It was dark out. I knew it was night. But I could see perfectly well even though the cemetery was barely lit and the moon was only a thin crescent behind Yelena’s face. It wasn’t Berthold at all. Her hands were dirty. She had done the digging. She smiled, her pointed teeth showing gloriously.
“Look how pretty,” she said, staring into my face, which was smeared with my blood tears that had dried. “Smile for me,” she said, and I forced a smile and saw Yelena smile wider. I felt the sharpness and length of my incisors with my tongue. I really had become a vampire.
She reached into my casket and placed her hands under my arms and lifted me out and floated with me in her arms, out of the grave. Her boot kicked the casket cover shut. She placed me down on the grass beside my plot and released me, but I wasn’t ready to let go yet, so I rushed forward and hugged her as tightly as I could. She held me and then I felt something I had not felt in a long time. She was running her fingers through my hair and I could feel the slight pulling of hairs from my own scalp. I wasn’t wearing a wig. This was my hair before I became sick.
She held me at arm’s length and looked at me. “I should have brought a mirror,” she said. “But you’ll see one soon enough. We have much to do. Much to talk about. But first, we must fill in this hole.”
“What about my coffin? Don’t I need it to sleep in?”
“We’ll get you a new one. A prettier one. If we take this one the ground will sink and they might exhume your body.”
“What does ‘exhume mean?’” I asked.
“They would dig you up and then realize your body was gone.”
“They’ll think you took it,” I ruminated.
“I’d certainly be on the list of suspects. And it would also be true. Besides, I imagine you tore the inside of that one to shreds.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We all do,” Yelena answered. “It’s frightful, the first time you wake in a grave.”
Yelena knelt on the ground and began to push the unearthed soil back over the casket I had just vacated. It was quite a sight to see how quickly she could work. And then I realized I was seeing her without my glasses. I had been buried without them. My vision seemed sharper and more focused than ever. I decided to help fill in the hole, and to my amazement, I moved faster than I ever had, even when I was well. As we moved the earth, I saw how badly Yelena’s manicured nails appeared.
“How come you didn’t have Berthold dig me up?”
“Tradition. Some night I will dig him up and some night after that, he’ll dig another immortal up. It’s the way of things.”
“Will I ever dig someone up?”
“Most likely,” she said, but I noted a tone of sadness in her voice.
The grave was filled in. A plot of dirt surrounded by well-trimmed grass, a sign that the grave was fresh. Perhaps it appeared too fresh with how long it took me to
wake up. But Yelena already thought of that and had brought bunches of large bouquets of flowers with her. She undid them and then we scattered the flowers over my burial plot, until the freshly turned earth was hardly noticeable.
“Shall we go?” she asked.
I looked for her Mercedes. It was strange to see so clearly in the dark, but I didn’t see her car anywhere.
“I didn’t drive,” she said. “It would have taken too long, and I would have had to deal with the cemetery gates.” She outstretched her arms to me. “Come,” she said.
“Can’t I fly myself?”
She shook her head. “Those things come with time. Lots of time. You’re still a fledgling.”
I stepped into her and she embraced me and up into the night sky we went. She wasn’t wearing her cloak this time, but I didn’t feel chilled in the least, despite how high we went.
She licked the blood tears from my cheeks and then said, “Someday you’ll realize it takes a very patient person to live forever. There are many powers and strengths I am still waiting for.”
“Like what?” I asked.
She shook her head. I guess she didn’t want me to know. “You’ll have plenty of time to learn of the possibilities before you. But right now, can you feel the hunger?”
I did feel something. A craving. But it wasn’t the kind of rumbling stomach craving you get when you haven’t eaten food in a long time. It was more of a thirst and it felt more like a sickness than starvation to be without sustenance.
We descended swiftly onto her terrace. I imagine it was too swift for any neighboring eyes to notice.
Yelena released me and said, “We’ll get cleaned up and then we’ll feed you.”
“But I don’t have any scribbles,” I replied.
“I know. But I know your hunger is great. You must feed. The first human we happen upon will just be unlucky tonight.”
That answer surprised me. It lacked the level of guilt I knew she carried in her. But perhaps feeding me, her child, assuaged the guilt that she would have felt when feeding herself. It felt reminiscent of being in that restaurant together—vegan Yelena not minding that I ate meatballs.
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