Hunger

by Karen E. Taylor

  I took off the rest of my clothes, went into the bedroom, and slipped on Mitch’s robe. I picked up my cloak and sweater, examined the holes in both garments, and tossed them into the wastebasket with disgust. I jumped at the sharp twinge the movement caused me. Using my arm was painful, and I had no idea what sort of limitations the injury might impose on me. The bullet would have to come out, that much was certain.

  On my way through the living room I picked up the Yellow Pages, then went to the kitchen, opened the second bottle of wine, and poured myself a large glass. Sitting at the table, I leafed through the pages of doctors’ numbers. Only a very few made house calls, and I knew none of them. The only doctor I knew at all was Sam, and he could be of no help. I looked up his number anyway, and sat for a while, drinking and staring at the sky through the window. Dawn was still hours away, but I needed to take care of the situation soon.

  “What the hell.” I got up and went to the phone. “He owes me for the story I told him the other night.” I dialed the number and a surprisingly alert voice answered on the second ring.

  “Sam, this is Deirdre Griffin. I am sorry to call so early; did I wake you?”

  “No, I’m on early shift this morning. But what are you doing up already? I thought you were a night owl.”

  I laughed nervously. “Actually, I haven’t been to bed yet.”

  “Oh.” There was a slight pause. “Is something wrong?”

  “Well, yes. I was wondering if you could recommend a doctor for me. I have a bit of a problem here.”

  “Deirdre, if it’s an emergency, you should call for an ambulance right away. Better still, I’ll call one for you.”

  “No!” I interrupted. “No ambulance. And it’s not really an emergency. But I need to find someone who makes house calls, someone who can be trusted, someone who can get here soon.”

  “Sure sounds like an emergency to me. I’ll be right over.”

  “But it’s not a mental problem, it’s physical.”

  “I’m a psychiatrist.” He paused, then continued when I didn’t reply. “That means that I’m a physician too. And although I don’t usually make house calls, I’ve got to admit that you’ve got me intrigued. I can be there in twenty minutes; can you hold on till then?”

  “Yes,” I said, wondering how I would answer the questions I knew he would ask. “Thank you, Sam. I really appreciate it.”

  “Don’t mention it. Now, explain the situation, please, just so I know what I need to bring with me.”

  I thought for a moment; if I told him what was involved, he would never come. He would insist on an ambulance and a trip to the hospital. And that could be deadly for me. “We’ll improvise; trust me, it’ll all be fine.”

  “Okay.” I could hear his reluctance. “But I’ll bring my bag anyway. See you in a bit.”

  I hung up the phone, went back to the kitchen, and poured another glass of wine. I had no idea whether any type of anesthetic would work on me, and I could not allow him to put me to sleep in any event. We would have to do it without any sort of painkiller. I drained the glass, refilled it, and began to make a pot of coffee. Sam would probably need it.

  I did not bother to dress, and when the bell rang, answered the door in my robe. Sam smiled, hesitated in the doorway, then entered, quietly closing the door behind him.

  “Coffee?” I suggested timidly.

  He gave me a curious look. “I thought you had a problem. Let’s get to work first.”

  “Fine.” Appreciating his no-nonsense approach, I reached up and dropped the shoulder of the robe. “I have a bullet lodged in here somewhere”—I indicated the bruise—“and it’s in a bad position, so that I can’t remove it myself.”

  He dropped his coat on the floor and looked at me in amazement. “Remove it yourself? Are you crazy? Besides, it can’t be anything recent. May I?” I nodded my permission and he reached over and touched my shoulder, examining the front and back. “I can see that you were shot, but from the healing I would say that it was at least a month ago.” He pulled me over closer to the light. His hands were warm and firm against my flesh. “The blood is recent though. Were you doing something to reopen it? And why wasn’t the bullet removed when it happened? Jesus, Deirdre, this is even stranger than I expected. I can’t just cut you open here in this apartment; you need to go to the hospital.”

  “Absolutely not, Sam. I will not go to a hospital. If you can’t help me, then I will find a way to do it myself.” I pulled the robe back up and tightened the sash. “Thank you, I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

  Sam laughed, but sobered immediately when he saw my serious expression. “You’re not joking about this, are you?”

  “No.” I managed a small smile. “I am not joking. I was shot this evening”—I looked at the clock—“oh, just about an hour ago. I can show you my clothes for proof if you like.”

  I walked into the bedroom and retrieved my sweater and cloak. “It would not have been a problem had the bullet exited, but”—I came back into the living room and handed him the garments, wincing at the pain—“unfortunately it has not. It must be removed.”

  Sam poked his finger through the bullet holes in my clothes, smelled them, then looked up at me in confusion. “I guess it did just happen,” he admitted reluctantly. He set the clothes down on the couch. “And as far as removal of the bullet, well, I can’t argue the fact that it should come out. But I’m not really a surgeon and I’m hardly equipped for an operation. I have nothing but novocaine, and that won’t do much good. And even if I had something stronger, I couldn’t do anything here. What if there were complications?”

  “There will be none. I can promise you that. I heal very quickly.” I pitched my voice at its most persuasive level.

  “But”—he gave me a doubtful look—“Deirdre, I can’t. It’s unthinkable.”

  “If something goes wrong, you may call an ambulance and have me put into the hospital. That should prove to you how certain I am that we can handle it here.”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “Sam.” I looked into his face and caught his eyes. “I could find a way to convince you. But I would much rather have you uncontrolled and free of any suggestions, willing to do this because I have asked you as a friend.”

  “And if I don’t do it?”

  “As I said before, I will do it myself. Look, I am sorry; it was a mistake to call you, I realize that now, but I knew no one else to call. Now that I think it over, I see that it is better that you not get involved in my life any further. Just forget about it. It is of no importance.” I held out my hands to him, trying but failing to hide the grimace of pain caused by the movement of my arm.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” he said abruptly.

  “You will?” I was surprised. I had expected him to question me further, but did not really expect him ever to agree.

  “Yeah, I will. I think I know you well enough by now, to believe you when you say you’ll do it yourself. At least this way, you have a better chance. And when the complications arise, I’ll check you into a hospital, where you belong. But”—he gave me a sly smile—“if everything goes the way you say it will, you owe me a complete explanation of all of it. I listened to that tape again and I know there are things you wouldn’t tell me.”

  I eyed him suspiciously.

  “Come on, Deirdre, if you want me to do surgery here, you’ll have to trust me completely. Anything you say will be kept in strictest confidence.”

  I still hesitated, then finally nodded. “Where shall we do it?”

  Sam glanced around the apartment. “If you’re sure about no hospital”—he looked at me for confirmation and I nodded again—“then the kitchen table is probably the best place.”

  I picked up my ruined clothes from the couch, and when we went into the kitchen, put them into the trash can there. Sam cleared the few things on the table, set his bag on the counter, and opened it. He wiped the tabletop with a piece of gauze and an antiseptic solution. When he fi
nished, I climbed on the table and lay on my stomach, my head pillowed on my folded arms.

  Sam moved my arms to my sides and pulled the robe off my shoulders, tucking it in around my waist. Probing the wound again, he gave an acknowledging grunt, turned to the sink, and washed his hands. I tilted my head so that I could watch his preparations. He wiped the counter with the same antiseptic solution and laid out his instruments. When everything was removed from the bag, he put on a pair of rubber gloves and picked up a syringe. “This will probably sting a bit, but I think I can give you enough to dull the pain. Hold on.”

  He swabbed my shoulder with alcohol, and I felt the needle slide into my skin, felt the warmth of the novocaine spread through the area. He gave me several shots, and when he was done, he wiped the area again. I gripped the edge of the table tightly and he gave me a small pat on the shoulder blades. “Relax,” he said with assurance, “it will all be over soon.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.” I rested my head on the table and my voice was muffled slightly.

  “It’s still not too late to get you to a hospital.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then, here we go.”

  “There is one thing you should know before you start, Sam.”

  “Great, now you tell me. What is it?”

  “You’ll have to be quick. Make your cut as deep as possible, so that you can get to the bullet in time.”

  “In time for what?”

  “Well, before I start healing again.”

  Sam laughed humorlessly. “Oh, sure, don’t worry about it. Now, this will probably hurt a little. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  The novocaine had not worked, but I had expected that. His incision was sharp, clean, and painful. I held my breath and bit my lip as I felt the probe deep inside my shoulder, a cold metal intrusion. I stifled a shiver as he worked his way to the bullet; I felt his breath warm on my neck, felt the twist of the instrument as he searched.

  “Ah,” he finally said with satisfaction, “I’ve got it.” He dropped the probe and the bullet into the sink. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” I replied, my voice wavering only slightly. “That feels much better already.”

  “Sure it does.” I heard the skepticism in his voice. He applied pressure to my shoulder with one hand, and reached into his bag with the other. “Now, we’ll probably need a few sutures here.” He lifted the wad of gauze he had been pressing onto me and peered under it. “Well, maybe only a little tape.” There was a long pause, and I heard him draw in an astonished gasp. “Jesus,” he said, “I don’t believe it.”

  “What, Sam?”

  “Jesus,” he said again, and pulled away from me.

  I wiggled the robe back onto my shoulders and sat up on the table, fastening the sash, licking the blood from my bitten lips. “What’s wrong, Sam?”

  His face was ashen, his expression fearful. He backed away and I slid off the table and grabbed his shoulders. “Thank you, Sam. That was very well done.” I smiled at him, but he simply stared at me in shock.

  “Jesus.” His eyes touched me briefly, then lowered, and he pushed away from me, his hands, covered still with the gloves, now coated with my blood, held extended to keep me away. “What the hell are you? You . . . you’re not normal, not natural, your shoulder—”

  Calmly, I interrupted him in the hope of staving off his growing panic. “I told you I healed quickly.”

  The tone of my voice seemed to help. He still kept his distance, but relaxed his arms. “Heal quickly, my ass. It’s almost as if nothing ever happened to you, certainly no one could tell that you’d just been operated on. Hell, I’m not even sure you were, although I was the one who did the cutting.” He gave me an appraising glance, calculating, I thought, what could have caused this extraordinary healing. It was almost as if I could hear the possibilities being listed, then being denied in his mind.

  I stood quietly, not moving, waiting for his next response, knowing that nothing in his background or training could ever have prepared him for this moment. When he did speak, his voice was soft and full of doubt.

  “Maybe I should take another look at that shoulder. I mean, the light’s not so good in here; I could’ve been mistaken.” Sam approached me slowly and still I did not move. He pulled the robe back cautiously, then whistled slightly through his teeth. I could feel his hands trembling as he examined me thoroughly, prodding at what was only minutes ago a fairly deep incision. “Does this hurt?”

  “No, not at all. You did a wonderful job. Much better than I could ever have done. It was quick and clean, but”—I gave him a glance out of the corner of my eye—“the novocaine was a waste of time.”

  “You felt everything?” He stripped off his gloves and dropped them into the sink with disgust. His voice was strained, almost angry. “If I’d thought that you could feel it all, I’d never have done it. I’m sorry, it must have been awful.”

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now, Sam. It’s over.”

  “Jesus, Deirdre.” He swore again and slumped down into one of the kitchen chairs.

  “Coffee?” I suggested again. “Or perhaps you would like something stronger?”

  “I doubt that you have anything here actually strong enough to handle all this. Besides, I have to get to work soon. Coffee will be fine.” Some of his natural humor had returned to his voice, and he managed to give me a weak smile as I handed him a full mug.

  “I hope you like it black,” I said as I turned away and poured a cup for myself. “I don’t have any cream or milk.”

  “I know,” he said smugly, “I remember from the other night that you have no food here at all. I must admit that I’m surprised you even have coffee.”

  “I like coffee.”

  “Oh.” He took a sip and watched me over the rim of his cup. “Well?”

  “Well what, Sam?” I tensed, anticipating his question.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me? You owe me that, don’t you think?”

  “I am very grateful for your assistance, Sam, but what would you like me to say?”

  He gave a bitter grunt. “ ‘What would you like me to say?’ ” he mimicked my question. “What the hell do you think I want to hear, the goddamned weather report?” He shook his head and took another drink of his coffee, staring into the darkness of the cup. “You’re not human, are you?”

  “I suspect that would depend on your definition of human, Sam,” I said gently. “I personally like to think that I am as human as any other person.”

  His head shot up. “Don’t bullshit me, Deirdre. I get that every day from sick people who feel the desperate need to deny their inner selves. I don’t know who you are, or even what you are, but I’d be willing to bet everything I have on the fact that you’re not crazy and not human.”

  “Yes,” I said with a sigh, sitting down across from him, “you are right, Sam, I am not crazy.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m not human.”

  The silence was filled by the ticking of the clock. I glanced up at it and so did he.

  “Alien.” The word came out so quietly that he cleared his throat and said it again. “You’re an alien, aren’t you?”

  “An alien?” I repeated, laughing in disbelief.

  “Yeah, you know what I mean, an alien, outer space and all that. So where do you come from?”

  “I do know what you mean, Sam.” My tone of voice was light and teasing. “I just wasn’t expecting that particular question. Actually, I come from Kansas.”

  “Kansas?” He seemed even more confused.

  “Yes, you know, Kansas—the Midwest, farms and fields, Dorothy and Toto.”

  “But if you’re not an alien, what are you?”

  I tilted my head at him encouragingly. “What do you think? I should imagine you know enough about this situation by now to figure it out on your own.”

  He took a long drink of his coffee, and as he swallowed I saw the blood drain from his face
. He was quick to put the facts together and come up with the proper conclusion, however unlikely and unsavory it was. He jumped up from the table and knocked his half-empty mug on the floor. “Jesus.” The fear returned to his voice, and the easiness we had managed to reestablish dissolved instantly. “You’re a goddamned vampire.”

  Chapter 17

  “Actually,” I said to Sam while I wiped the spilled coffee from the floor, “I am not entirely sure about the damnation, but you are correct about the other.” He had retreated, but no farther than the kitchen doorway, when I had risen to get the towel. The expression on his face indicated his own internal war; part of him wanted to run, and the other wanted answers. When he spoke, I was relieved to discover that the second impulse won.

  “But how could it be possible?”

  I got up from the floor and threw the coffee-soaked towel into the sink along with his blood-covered gloves. “I am afraid that I have no answer for that, Sam. I am what you said; that is a fact. But as for its possibility? I don’t know any better than you.”

  “But a vampire is a mythological creature, a folktale no more real than the bogeyman, or unicorns, or fairies.”

  I gave him a serious look. “Is it so much harder to believe than the other fact that you so readily wanted to accept?”

  He paused a moment and thought. “But alien visitations are fairly well documented and have been reported by so many different types of people. It seems more real somehow, more measurable by scientific methods.”

  “And you accept scientific methods, of course.” My quiet voice took on a scornful tone. “But have you ever stopped to consider that folktales might have a basis in truth, might be the same kind of documented accounts from hundreds of years ago?”

  He gave me a sheepish look. “No, not really, I can’t honestly say that I ever gave it a second thought. Some things fit into reality, and others do not.”

  “And even now you don’t believe me, because I don’t fit into your idea of reality.”