Parasite Life

by Victoria Dalpe

  “Wow,” she mumbled, checking me up and down. “You should wear makeup more often.”

  I blushed, embarrassed at the attention. After pacing the length of room, I finally sat on the edge of the sofa. We watched a dance competition show, Sabrina chuckling and mocking the contestants. I tried to engage but it all seemed so pointless, and my eyes kept going to the door, to the clock. Hugh had never given a time, he’d just said dinner. Sabrina could sense my nervousness, periodically quirking her eyebrow at me during commercials.

  “Calm down,” she said, flipping channels.

  “I don’t know why I’m nervous. I don’t even think I like the guy. It’s pathetic that I’d be anxious to see him, right?”

  “Not really. He’s your dad. Most people spend their lives looking for or trying to connect with their parents, even when they don’t like the choices they’ve made.”

  “Wow, that was a very profound piece of advice.”

  Sabrina gave me a lopsided grin. “My mom watches a lot of self-help talk shows. They’re mostly about mommy and daddy issues.” She scooted along the sofa, snuggling her body against mine. She reminded me of my cat. I hoped Tommy was okay and had enough food and water, which inevitably made me worry for my mother. I’d somehow not thought about her for almost a whole day.

  Please take care of each other, I silently prayed. Please don’t make me regret coming down here. Stop it, I scolded myself. Stop worrying yourself to death. I relished Sabrina’s closeness instead and wrapped my arms around her, breathing out the stress. I tried to ignore my father’s assurance that I’d kill her. No. I won’t let it happen. I let the defense repeat in my head over and over. That’s him. Not me. I fed off her in the park today and stopped myself. It’s just a learning curve, but I’ll get it. Sabrina practically purred with contentment. I was so relaxed that I actually began to doze. Time moved, snow fell beyond the windows, and I tuned out the banal conversations on the television.

  When the buzzer sounded, I jumped. Sabrina rubbed at her eye with a fist, smearing makeup. I spun anxiously back to her, adjusting my clothes and hair.

  “You look fine. Should I stay in here or go in the bedroom?” she asked.

  I didn’t have a chance to answer. The door was being unlocked, and Hugh then stepped in. Tall, intimidating, vaguely Mediterranean features, not traditionally handsome. He wore a black wool topcoat, the shoulders dusted with rapidly melting snow. His wet hair twinkled with it in the kitchen light. He looked me up and down and then shot a glance to Sabrina, still as a statue, standing near the sofa.

  “This is my friend, Sabrina. This is Hugh McGarrett. My, uh, father.”

  He didn’t make any move to draw nearer, or even look directly at her, before turning back to me.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  I fetched my coat, the old moth-eaten wool looking dingy next to his. I wrapped my scarf around me and waved farewell to Sabrina. She hadn’t budged an inch and looked hurt at his total rebuff of her. Hugh was already out the door and in the hall. I felt a pang of embarrassment but sadly little surprise that he hadn’t formally introduced himself, or acknowledged Sabrina with even a nod. This was Hugh: he saw people as food, and little else.

  He stood expectantly at the top of the stairs waiting for me, his leather-gloved hand creaking as he squeezed the metal banister. The look he gave me stole my nerve to confront him for being rude. He went down the stairs at a fast pace. I had to hurry to fall into step behind him.

  Once outside, I saw there was a cab waiting at the curb, idling. I looked up to see Sabrina standing at the fourth floor window as I got into the car. The air was thick with synthetic air freshener, the oppressive scent coating my mouth. My father slid in after me, folding his height into the back seat.

  We set off and went over the bridge. Ahead, the city was golden and luminous, the sky a vibrant purple. I finally found my voice and turned to Hugh. His face was in profile, eyes watching the cityscape.

  “Where are we going?”

  He turned to me slowly, as if waking from a dream. It seemed like a moment more before he even recognized me.

  “Dinner.” Not much of an answer, but I didn’t push further.

  On the other side of the bridge, we instantly fell into bright and boisterous Chinatown. The fantastical neighborhood unfolded before us and I eagerly drank it in. The flashing lights, the unfamiliar language on all the signs and the droves of people, bundled tightly to protect them from the cold. Watching them reminded me again how small my own world was.

  I pictured my mother walking these streets, coppery hair trailing down her back, paint-smudged hands, and a confident grin. I could envision her hailing a cab on any of these corners in her wild cheetah-print coat. She’d loved this city and her life here. But the city doomed her just the same. As soon as her path crossed Hugh’s, she was marked, that art show was a deal with the devil.

  I scrubbed my eyes and forced my thoughts away from the past, turning to look at Hugh again, his face multicolored as the city lights reflected off him. He was stoic, so indifferent to me beside him that I might not been there at all. I supposed if I wanted to get to know him, I’d have to ask him something, anything. Harder question was if I wanted to know Hugh McGarrett any more than I already did. After all, it might be the equivalent of peeling an onion: too many layers and bound to end in tears.

  Blocks rolled by and my courage shriveled. I dreaded a repeat of our conversation from the night before. The driver slowed and stopped in front of a darkened building, dimly lit from inside by what looked to be red lanterns. It conjured images of a fortune teller, or a brothel seen on TV. He paid the driver who barely acknowledged either of us, and we stepped out into the cold.

  My feet crunched along as I followed Hugh to the curb, weaving between trash cans and toward a dark, signless entrance. He opened the door and parted a heavy velvet curtain, vanishing inside. I followed. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust—the space was smoky with incense. The walls were painted a vibrant red, even the carpets were red. The tables were black lacquer, and centered on each was a small red bowl with a candle in it. There were some patrons scattered around, nestled into the various nooks and crannies.

  Strange music played softly, discreetly masking the conversations around us. It felt as if we’d stepped into a church—the quiet voices, the candlelight. Everywhere I looked I saw religious objects mounted on walls, or tucked in corners. A life-sized Christ near a small stone Buddha, a Shiva on the other side. A small arrangement of crude figurines of Catholic saints with painted black faces. They were arranged on an altar. Also on the altar, I saw chicken feet, and red powder. Voodoo? I stared at this shrine a long time. A small mirror with a feather on it reflected back a male figurine, the Christ of the group, his face painted red. I was tempted to reach out and touch the arrangement, but didn’t want to get in trouble or embarrass Hugh.

  From out of nowhere a small dark-skinned woman appeared, her hair cut asymmetrically and dyed an unnatural auburn. She had a long silver earring that dangled to her collarbone. Her lips were painted a dark reddish brown, her eyelids made up heavily with black. Her dress was ankle-length, deep red, and tight-fitting. I imagined if she stepped back against the wall she would just vanish. She surveyed us both for a moment, and I noticed with surprise her reaction was not one of fear but of interest. I turned to my father, and he smiled. Without a word, the hostess led us to a booth that seemed to be carved out of the walls and the shadows. I slid along the wooden bench, settling on a plush burgundy silk pillow. My father did the same on the other side. The woman brought us a sweating carafe of water and two glasses and then disappeared. I tried to check out some of the other patrons.

  Unlike the hostess, who matched the space as if hatched from it, the rest of the diners seemed ordinary. A variety of ages and ethnicities, all talking in hushed voices. The loudest noise in the room was the gentle tinkling of forks on plates and the clink of glasses. Hugh was watching me intently as I stared
around. I felt out of place, undoubtedly looking like the bumpkin I was. I eased farther into the booth and met his eyes.

  “What is this place?”

  His eyes twinkled with mischief as he replied, “A restaurant.”

  “It seems more like a temple or a church than a place to eat,” I replied, looking around some more.

  “The owner is a unique character. He’s an artist as well as a restaurateur. He makes religious art—or as he calls it blasphemous art. This restaurant is his salon, a meeting place for creatives and patrons of the art.”

  I didn’t respond. Frankly, I didn’t really understand what he was talking about. I had been raised faithless. My mother had never really mentioned God, one way or the other. I guess she’d done me a favor not raising me to think I was damned. I had enough issues without believing there would be more suffering on the other side once I died. In Hell, forever . . . no thanks.

  “The hostess . . .” I clammed up when another woman in a long body-skimming dress with a high collar came to the table holding two black suede menus. She was tall, whip-thin, and lovely in an otherworldly elfin way. Her silver-blonde hair was swept up in a complicated twist, her long bangs obscuring half her face. Her lipstick was as red as the walls and a high contrast to her pale skin. She handed me a menu politely, and as she turned to my father, she gave him a flirtatious smile along with his menu. Strangely, I was finding it off-putting to encounter so many people who weren’t scared of us. I’d grown used to being practically invisible. I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence—this restaurant was probably owned by another vampire.

  “My name is Renee,” the waitress said, “and I will be your server this evening. We have a few specials tonight, but first, can I interest you in some drinks?”

  My father ordered a bottle of wine and two glasses. Renee complimented his choice and walked away, a distinct sashay to her hips.

  I stared after her, imagining her body below me, her throat pulled taut, the smell of her skin, the taste of it before I bit in. I flushed and looked away nervously. The thoughts felt like they belonged to someone else. It was knowing that she was like Sabrina, knowing I could possibly have her if I wanted her, that made her more attractive to me. As if reading my mind, Hugh met my eyes and raised an eyebrow. I busied myself with my menu.

  The waitress was already heading back to our table, silver tray balanced perfectly with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She placed them on the table with precision, her eyes fixed on my father the entire time. Her desire plain on her face as she spoke of the vintage and deftly worked the corkscrew. I waited in anticipation for her to comment on my youth, ask to see an ID, or have Hugh say it was all right because I was his daughter. But it never came. Instead Hugh took a sip from his glass and nodded, pleased, and her painted mouth smiled wide, teeth glinting in the candlelight. Her eyes were glazed, spellbound by my father’s nearness. After a few moments of this, with me looking back and forth between them, she finally brushed away the fog.

  Renee recited the dinner specials as if programmed. Everything she described sounded foreign and fantastical. Quail with cranberry glaze atop a mint couscous. Duck liver pate on ciabatta with truffle oil and shaved fennel. I tried to look blasé, to emulate Hugh’s cool demeanor as he leaned back in the booth sipping his wine and watching the woman with the cold eyes of a predator.

  Once she had completed her recitation, Hugh dismissed her, saying that we’d need a moment.

  “Anything sound good to you?” he asked, skimming the menu.

  “Honestly, I don’t really know. We’re a tuna and hot dog kind of house.”

  “I can order for you, if you trust me.” I didn’t see the harm.

  “Why did you bring me here of all places?” I asked, after Renee had returned and Hugh had ordered for the two of us.

  When she was gone, he leaned forward conspiratorially. I mirrored him, elbows on the table.

  “The food is quite good. Though I don’t much care for the over-the-top Gothic style. A bit too dark and red for me. Too obvious. But surely you’ve noticed the staff have something in common?”

  I nodded, eyeing the hostess and the other patrons. A few met my eyes and gave me a nod. It wasn’t just the waitress and the hostess. They were all like us, or those who liked us. I belonged here—I wasn’t an outcast or a freak. I was ordinary in a way. I was tempted to ask Hugh if this was normal, if there were vampire hangouts, if he had friends.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. “That’s odd, right? A restaurant full of our kind of people?”

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I have it on good authority that the owner here is one of us. Coming here, it must be what it’s like for . . .”

  “Regular people,” I blurted, a hard-to-name emotion blossoming, knowing that we’d been thinking the same exact thing. He nodded.

  We went on in silence. Hugh didn’t feel the need to fill the quiet like Sabrina did. But I couldn’t help myself.

  “I’ve never been to a nice restaurant like this. Hell, I’ve never even had a friend until Sabrina. It’s like I’ve been asleep my whole life.” I reached for my wine glass and took a deep drink, more for something to do than thirst. Coughing, eyes watering, I felt like a clumsy kid. Hugh was clearly amused and my cheeks felt hot.

  “How’d you find out about this place?” I asked, to change subject from my hacking.

  “As I said last night, us muses run in similar circles, often with artists and we occasionally overlap. And word of mouth travels in a small community. Since we’re all circling the same museums and galleries. It’s nice a place like this exists.”

  “Are there a lot of . . . muses in the city? That you know?” Hugh shrugged, eyes scanning the room. “Not a lot, no. There aren’t many of us anywhere, that’s why we’re special. Rare.”

  “Are they your friends? Do you like other . . . muses?”

  “It’s complicated. You recall the feeling when you first saw me last night, right? It wasn’t pleasant. We’re like big lone cats: territorial. We can be friendly, sure, but I’ve never found it to amount to much.” He sipped his drink, thoughtful. “You’re in a better mood than last night. Considering how we left things. I thought we were going to jump right in for round two.”

  I leaned back. “Please, I had a nice day with my friend, that’s all.”

  “That’s good—it’s a wonderful city. And have you thought more about my offer to stay here?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a lot to take in. I guess I thought I’d show up and you’d . . . I don’t know . . . fix everything. Fix me.” I was embarrassed to confess this.

  Hugh leaned in, face careful. It was clear he wasn’t a man who dealt with emotions much and he was unsure what to do with me. He opened his mouth then closed it.

  “You know, it’s funny . . . I hated my mother, but she gave me something really special,” I said.

  “And what was that, Jane?” Hugh studied me.

  “Ignorance. It was easier when we were just sick and lonely in our old house.” I ran a finger along water drops on the table.

  Hugh chuckled humorlessly. “I’m sorry I can’t fix you or give you better answers. Ours is a harsh world and it seems a disservice to downplay that to you. You’ve been lied to enough.”

  I tried to imagine a Hugh as a child, with his dying mother and bloodsucking father, off in some sprawling English manor house.

  “My father sat me down one morning on his knee and pointed to my mother sitting outside in the sun and said, ‘Mummy is going to die soon, because you take her blood.’ I began to cry, and he told me not to be sad. That it was natural, and that it was life.”

  “That’s so terrible,” I said, hand going to my chest.

  Hugh’s face was devoid of any emotion; he just pressed on. “After she died, we always had nurses and tutors and my father’s wives around to take care of our needs. But I knew I’d killed my mother and it’s impossible to go back after that, Jane. You have to harden your heart.”

>   I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, eyes on the sculptures. “What’s your father—my grandfather, I guess—like?”

  “He’s a mean old bastard. And a survivor. My father always stressed a certain . . . detachment, with donors. He doesn’t like anyone to get too close. I like to think he was trying to protect me by raising me the way he did. He’s pragmatic at his core. Then I went to university in America, and haven’t talked to him much since.”

  “You think he would want to know about me? That he has a granddaughter?”

  “I don’t think he would care much, honestly, but I will let him know in a letter. He’s not much for phones and he likes to pretend email was never invented.”

  I swallowed, wanting to ask him something, but fearing the answer. I steeled myself and met his eyes, so similar to my own. “Why are you doing this for me? I know I was an accident. I know I’m an inconvenience to you. I just need to understand your . . . intentions.”

  Hugh laughed out loud, long teeth on display. “Here I thought you wanted to get to know your father.”

  My heart trilled at his use of the word father, and I hated myself for it. He was a user, a killer, a manipulator. But I couldn’t deny the power of someone like that being kind, treating you as better or more worthwhile than everyone else. “I do. I just don’t want to get hurt.” He put his hands together on the table.

  “This isn’t a trap, Jane. Did I want a kid? No. I’ve got a nice life here. And if we are being frank, I’m a selfish bastard. We all are. We have to be. But that’s irrelevant. You’re here. The milk has long been spilled. Do you want to hear more about my life?”