Destined For a Vampire

by M. Leighton

  “Anyway,” Summer said pointedly. “Who’s in? Who’s not afraid of their shadow?”

  Several people snickered and almost everyone agreed to Summer’s plan.

  What it sounded like to me was that they were agreeing to jump off of whatever cliff Summer chose. The whole thing made me sick to my stomach. It made the loss of my lunchtime compadres even harder to swallow than usual, and that was pretty hard.

  I pushed my way through the meal, dreading cheerleading practice more and more as the day wore on. It was becoming increasingly difficult to pretend that my life was here with these people, people that I nearly detested sometimes, because it wasn’t. My life was with a guy that I hadn’t truly seen, not with my eyes, in weeks.

  My heart ached with thoughts of Bo. I missed him more than I ever thought I could miss another human being. Well, quasi-human being. I would’ve gladly given up…well everything to see him just one more time.

  Since that night, when his visit had ended up turning steamy, Bo had kept a safe distance. I knew he still checked in on me; I could smell him. Sometimes I even thought he might be watching me from not too far away during the day.

  Sometimes I suspected he was somewhere fairly close watching me during practice.

  It was like a tugging deep in my belly, like my body wanted to go to him, wherever he was. I never did see him, though, not even his shimmer. He was careful to remain undetected. Though I found it incredibly frustrating, it was, at the same time, an amazing comfort just to know that he was still with me.

  I’d long since discovered that the best thing I could do was keep busy. An effort to do exactly that (keep busy) is what prompted me to change my course on the way home from practice. At the last minute, I decided to pay Savannah a visit.

  Though I’d gone to see her in the hospital during her recovery, I had never been to Savannah’s house before. Luckily, it was easy to find and not too far from Bo’s old house.

  I thought back to the first time I saw her after the accident, when she was still in the hospital. That first encounter was strange, what with Savannah still coming to terms with her new infirmity and all.

  “Aren’t you going to ask about all the scratches on my face?”

  Savannah had been sitting up in the hospital bed, her coppery hair flipped to one side, hiding the shaved places of her scalp. She was smiling cheerfully.

  “Alright, what happened to your face?”

  “Give me a break! I’m a blind girl learning to eat with a fork. What did you expect?”

  Shaking my head, I had rolled my eyes. I was discovering that Savannah’s primary coping skill was humor, humor that I suspected was a clever cloaking device for denial. Of course, I didn’t think any of the jokes she had told on that day were funny. They were all blind jokes that made me incredibly uneasy.

  “How am I ever going to find a boyfriend like this, Ridley?”

  At that I had looked up, my heart going out to her .

  “Savannah, I—”

  “A blind date, dummy,” she’d cackled .

  By that point, I had become downright uncomfortable with her “coping” and that joke in particular struck a nerve.

  Savannah’s jovial expression had straightened after a minute and her smile had died. Though her chocolate eyes stared blankly past me, I could see a deep sadness filling their luminous depths. Without her having to say a word, I knew what she was thinking. I had been thinking the same thing.

  She had cast her eyes down as if she was staring at her covers, where her fingers picked anxiously at the material of her bleached white sheets. “Still no word about him?”

  She had been referring to Devon. He and Savannah had just begun their relationship when Trinity had attacked them. No one had seen or heard from him since. The trail was ice cold and the police had no leads. I alone could’ve pointed them in the right direction, but they would’ve carted me off to the loony bin within five minutes of arriving at the station.

  I suppose I could’ve told Savannah what I suspected might have happened to Devon, but somehow I thought that might only further traumatize her, knowing that her boyfriend had most likely died a terrible death at the hands of a vengeful vampire.

  “No, but they’re still looking. No one’s giving up.”

  Dejected, Savannah had simply nodded . “I’ll never give up hope.”

  “None of us will.”

  Savannah cleared her throat before moving on to a subject slightly less painful for her, though at that time, it had been one infinitely more agonizing for me.

  “No word about Bo either?”

  Now, as I cut the engine in Savannah’s driveway, I almost felt guilty about what had happened since that conversation. No longer did I have to torture myself with worst-case scenarios about what had become of Bo, nor did I have to look ahead to a future without him. I knew he was alright. For the time being anyway.

  Shaking off that thought, I got out and walked up to the red front door of the little gray house that was Savannah’s. I knocked and waited.

  When no one answered right away, I began having misgivings about showing up unannounced. I was turning to step off the front porch, intending to just go on home instead, when I heard the pop of the front door unlocking.

  An older man stood behind the screen. He had black hair with sprinkles of gray at the temples and piercing chocolate eyes, eyes that I recognized. They were the exact shade of Savannah’s. He was handsome, but I could tell that, other than the eyes, Savannah must’ve gotten her looks from her mother.

  “Can I help you?” he asked pleasantly.

  “My name is Ridley. I’m a friend of Savannah’s. I thought I’d stop by and see her, but I can see I should’ve called first…” I trailed off, feeling ashamed of my inconsiderate behavior.

  Savannah’s life had been turned upside down even more than mine had. I’d lost a sister. Savannah had lost her mother, her boyfriend and now her sight. She totally got the prize for worst luck ever.

  “Don’t be silly. Savannah would love to have a visitor. I’m Jeremy. It’s nice to meet you, Ridley,” he said, opening the screen door and holding it wide.

  “Come on in.”

  With an answering smile, I accepted his invitation. On the surface, it appeared that Jeremy, or Mr. Grant as I would always think of him, was dealing with the loss of his wife and Savannah’s sight in a much more healthful way than my family had dealt with the death of my older sister, Izzy.

  “She’s back in her room,” he explained, leading me through the living room.

  “Vanna!”

  From somewhere toward the back of the house, I heard Savannah respond.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ve got company.”

  “Be right there.”

  Mr. Grant led me into a cozy den that sat just off the kitchen. It was a bright room with sliding patio doors that dominated one wall. The other wall was bricked from floor to ceiling. A wood-burning stove was set into it and above that hung a big flatscreen.

  “Have a seat. As you heard, she’ll be right out.”

  With a wink, Mr. Grant turned toward the kitchen and resumed what I imagined were supper preparations. He had peeled a mountain of potatoes that sat on the counter beside the sink.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner, Ridley? I’m making my famous loaded baked potato soup.”

  “Thank you, but my parents are expecting me.”

  Though that wasn’t entirely true, it was what came to mind first, so I went with it. I hated to impose on them any more than what I already had.

  “His soup is hardly famous anyway, right Dad?”

  Savannah appeared at the mouth of the hallway. She walked slowly, but without any assistance other than the fingertips that she trailed along the wall to her right.

  “But it will be, o ye of little faith.” Again, Mr. Grant winked at me. I liked him already. I imagined that their household was one of love and laughter and, for that, I envied Savannah.

  “Yea
h, yeah,” Savannah said, making her way to the couch where I sat.

  “What’s up, chickie?” she asked, her smile as bright as ever.

  “I’m thinking of ditching school and eavesdropping on you and your tutor until graduation. What do you think?”

  Savannah laughed, the same easy tinkle of delight I’d come to expect from her. “That bad, huh?”

  “Eh, could be better,” I answered. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s nowhere near as bad as when Trinity was there, but I get the feeling it won’t be long until we’re right back to square one.”

  “Why? Who’s the evil dominatrix now?”

  “I’ll give you one guess.”

  “Aisha.”

  I thought about her answer. For many reasons, Aisha would’ve been the logical choice. She had the attitude for it. “Actually, it’s Summer.”

  “Summer? She’s a mindless freak.”

  “Savannah!” her Dad chimed in warningly from the kitchen.

  “Fine, she’s a mindless follower. I never would’ve expected her to have the spine for Trinity’s spot.”

  “It is weird, isn’t it?” And it was. The more I thought about it, the more I had to admit that it was very surprising.

  “I’m so glad you stopped by,” Savannah said suddenly, throwing her arms around my neck with startling accuracy.

  My guilt disappeared as if it had never been, replaced by happiness that I hadn’t turned around and gone home.

  “Come on,” she said, standing and grabbing my hand. “Let’s go back to my room where nobody will be listening.” She added that last a little louder, directing the words over her shoulder toward her father.

  I looked back at Mr. Grant where he stood in the kitchen. He was smiling, shaking his head. Tolerance and affection were virtually dripping off of him. It was plain to see that he loved his daughter very much.

  Down the hall, I followed Savannah through the second door on the left. She stopped just inside the doorway to say, “Out, Kitty.”

  A second later, a knee-high, ball-of-fur white dog bolted past me.

  “Was that a dog?”

  I marveled at the stupidity of my question. Of course it was a dog, but…

  “Yep. He’s four and he’s a pest.”

  “But, it’s a dog.”

  The intellectual quotient of the conversation seemed to be going downhill at an alarming rate.

  “Right.”

  “Did you just call him ‘Kitty’?”

  “Yeah. I got him as the subject of an experiment on psychological warfare between mammalian species.”

  My mouth dropped open. She’d named the dog “Kitty” as a psych experiment on mammals?

  Savannah walked on into her bedroom before stopping in the center of the floor and turning back to me. Then she started giggling.

  “Nah, I’m just kidding. I thought it’d be funny to name a dog ‘Kitty’.”

  I had to laugh. What else could I do?

  Savannah’s room was everything I might’ve expected from someone with her effervescent personality. Her white-framed bed was covered in a black satin comforter that had bright yellow pillows all over it. There was a huge sunflower stenciled on the wall above the bed and in its center was a collage of pictures. Her curtains boasted wide black and yellow stripes, just like a bumble bee, and in the corner there was a desk. It was painted fire engine-red and surrounded on both sides by concert and movie posters.

  Looking around, I felt like I would need a sedative if I stayed in there too long. But then I spotted a tranquil island in the midst of the storm that was her room.

  It was in the form of an armoire.

  Painted plain white, its doors were ajar and inside were dozens of framed pictures, arranged haphazardly on the shelves. The silver, gold and pewter frames gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the windows and drew me like a soothing mirage.

  I walked to the cabinet and looked through the images. There were pictures of Savannah throughout her childhood doing various things, things like holding trophies, swimming in a lake, sitting on a horse and shooting a basketball from the free-throw line. There were pictures of people I assumed were friends and family, people dear to Savannah’s heart. Among the lot, there was even a picture of me and Bo, sitting beneath the big tree at school where we ate lunch sometimes. That one made me ache, made my heart hurt. I missed him so much.

  But among the hodge-podge of prints were several images of a woman. She was a recurring theme in many of the pictures. She was quite beautiful, with long wavy red hair and skin like porcelain. Her smile was bright and happy just like Savannah’s. There was no mistaking that she was Savannah’s mother, though she could easily have passed for an older sister now.

  My heart went out to Savannah. I recognized this kind of pain, recognized the signs of it, of wanting to hang on to every little piece of someone who was never coming back. In my mind, in my heart, our house looked like Savannah’s room—

  memories and pictures of Izzy everywhere. The reality of it, however, was a whole different story.

  My family acknowledged neither the one-time presence of Izzy nor the loss of her. Her bedroom, which Mom kept exactly as Izzy had left it, was the only outward indication or reminder that she’d ever been a member of our family. Other than that, there was no evidence that Izzy had ever existed. No random pictures or scattered memorabilia. But inside, deep down in the places that hurt the worst, the places that missed her the most, there was no escaping the pain of it. That’s something that would never go away, no matter how much we tried to hide it.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  At Savannah’s question, I turned to look at her. She was perched on the end of her bed, her legs drawn up beneath her, staring blankly at the wall in front of her.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it. Why?”

  Savannah hesitated for only a second before she answered. “Since the accident, I’ve seen her.”

  “Seen who?”

  “My mother.”

  I looked back at the pictures. There were several things I wanted to say, but how to say them delicately was beyond me.

  Clearing my throat, I said, “Your mother, um, passed away, right?”

  “Yeah. She drowned a little over four years ago.”

  I nodded. That’s what I thought. “And you’ve been seeing her?”

  Savannah nodded. “I know. It’s crazy, right?”

  I said nothing, but I was thinking that it pretty much was.

  “It’s her, though. I know it. It even smells like her, like roses.”

  “Do- do you think you might be imagining it?”

  “No,” she replied emphatically. “I can see her perfectly, like crystal clear. I can see her just like I could if I had my sight back. That clearly.”

  “Does she ever, uh, speak or anything?”

  Savannah’s expression fell a bit. “No. Not yet. When she comes back, I’m going to talk to her, see if she’ll tell me what she’s doing here.”

  “What does she look like? I mean, can you tell that she’s…”

  “That she drowned?” Savannah supplied. “No. She looks just like she always did. She hasn’t changed one bit.” Her tone was almost wistful and I felt sorry for her.

  During those days when I thought Bo was gone, I imagined that I smelled him everywhere. The mind can play cruel tricks on you when you want something so badly.

  I looked back to the shelves of pictures. Not knowing what else to say and becoming more and more uncomfortable with the silence, I picked an image to ask about.

  “So, did you actually win this talent contest?”

  “Which one?”

  “The ‘Tweens That Rock’ one.”

  Savannah smiled, her easy smile, the one that said we were moving on from the subject of her ghostly mother. “Of course I did. How could you question my ability to rock a stadium, even at age nine?”

  I laughed and purposefully steered the conversation into happier,
less creepy waters.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When I got to the house, Mom was home, which was truly bizarre.

  Trepidation tickled my spine. The last time she’d been home when I’d gotten there was when Lars had exchanged blood with her and made her a totally different person for a day or two. Not that she was a bad person during that time. In fact, I wouldn’t have minded having that woman around more often, just not like that, not under those circumstances.

  In some ways, Mom was very predictable. Monday through Thursday, she went straight to O’Mally’s after work and didn’t usually get in until after 10:00.

  Sometimes it would be really late, like midnight or so. Apparently it was a time consuming process, getting your drink on; that’s why she got a jump on it at, like, 5:15.

  For dealing with life after the death of a child, memory eradication via vodka was Mom’s coping skill of choice. I would’ve liked to stage an intervention long ago, but I couldn’t do that by myself and Dad was no help. Since Izzy’s death, he’d never disembarked the denial train. I doubted he even admitted to himself that Mom was a drunk. He just avoided it, like he did most things in life. He traveled all week long and we played at being the perfect family on the weekends. End of story.

  The front door was unlocked and I walked in cautiously. From the kitchen, I could hear the clank of spoon against pot and I was immediately suspicious. Mom didn’t cook unless Dad was home and she was in her pretender mode.

  “Ridley? Is that you?”

  “Yeah, Mom.”

  “Come in here. I’ve got some good news for you.”

  Uh-oh, I thought.

  Setting my duffel in the floor, I walked into the kitchen, bracing myself for what I might find. Turns out, it wasn’t all that bad. Well, maybe I should say it wasn’t all that unusual. Mom was stirring a sauce pan. She was making herself an enormous hot toddy. She liked them when she felt a cold coming on.

  “Are you sick?”

  On cue, Mom sniffled. “I think I’m getting a cold. I have a tickle in the back of my throat and my nose has run all day. I thought I’d nip it in the bud.”