Forever 51 Page 8

  Veronica plopped down on the edge of the gurney and stared at the floor as if the answers were hidden in the swirly green linoleum. “Okay, so what does that mean? Exactly?”

  “What it means is that from this moment forward, I will age, I can eat whatever I want, I can sleep, I can go to the bathroom, and one day—and the beauty of it is that I don’t know when—I will die. Just like everyone else.” Ingrid’s voice reached such a fevered pitch that Veronica worried someone might be pressing their ear to the outside of the door.

  “And you’re excited about that? Why would you pick a boring ass life over being a vampire?” Jenny lifted her phone. “You know, I think this is a moment you’re going to want to remember. Can I get a picture of you two?”

  Excited by the possibility of a finite life filled with bacon, Ingrid rushed next to her mother. “Say cheese!” she squealed in the direction of Jenny’s phone.

  “Brie,” Veronica retorted with a face as pale and immovable as a marble statue. As Jenny snapped another photo, she tried to recount the number of souls she had taken over the years. Fortunately, the people she’d killed didn’t count in that calculation. For those unfortunates, she was just a bitch who had stopped their beating hearts in an act of self-preservation or menopausal madness—it all depended on the day.

  On the rare occasion that she had turned someone, there was a little more consideration, kind of like picking a spouse without the till death do you part escape clause in the contract. Knud Jorgensen had been the first. JA the last. The others were still blurry.

  “So, let me get this straight. You apologized to me and now you’re mortal? That’s it? That’s all you have to do?” Veronica threw her arms up in the air as Ingrid nodded like the giddy teenager she was. “Say you’re sorry, huh? That’s so simple.”

  “Well, you have to mean it. You can’t just say the words.”

  “It’s not easy to say you’re sorry, especially if you’re not.” Jenny scrolled through the pictures on her phone. “These photos are horrible. You need to work on that resting bitch face if you’re going to start posting selfies.”

  “Aww, she’s just mad that she can’t eat a bacon double cheeseburger with us.” Ingrid smiled smugly.

  “Actually, I’m not mad, I’m thinking.” She was thinking that she needed to head to North Dakota to get Knud Jorgenson out of her gut. “What changes with me, other than reflection?”

  “You’ll see. Come on, let’s get out of here. Des is waiting.”

  13

  Desmond Bodkin. Veronica despised the name almost as much as she despised the man.

  When he first entered their lives, he was twenty-seven and fresh off the boat with a devilishly handsome face, alabaster skin and jet-black hair. But it was his handshake that first gave Veronica pause. His fingers were extraordinarily long, his nails free of dirt and his skin as soft as a rabbit’s coat. Unheard of for a man in North Dakota in the 1800s, a land of brutish, leather-skinned farmhands who smelled of manure and sweat.

  Desmond was so new and different, with his sophisticated manner and dress, that Veronica trusted him to give Ingrid piano lessons in the evenings after dinner. With six kids and a long-dead husband, she had little time and even less inclination to tickle the dust-dappled ivories of the old box grand.

  Leaving Desmond alone with her boy-crazy, hormonal daughter would be Veronica’s first fatal mistake.

  While Veronica fixated on the waiter’s physique beneath his faded jeans, Desmond slid into the booth beside Ingrid. Without a hint of recognition directed towards his heavily cologned presence, Veronica sipped slowly and carefully from her travel mug.

  “Are you all ready to order?”

  Veronica kept her eyes on the waiter’s tattooed biceps and tried to squelch her feelings. “I’m on one of those weird cleanses so I’m good, but I think these girls are ready. Desmond?” Veronica did not smile, worried that Jenny’s still-warm blood might be clinging to her teeth.

  “I’ll have the Philly cheesesteak with rings instead of fries,” blurted Jenny, who then proceeded to gulp down half of her Coke. “And a refill when you get a chance.”

  “And for you, young lady?”

  “I’ll take the Grubstake with fries, please.”

  “For you?”

  “I’m just here to enjoy the company, thank you.” Desmond smiled wearily at Veronica.

  She averted her gaze to the waiter’s ass as he waded through a sea of empty chairs towards the kitchen. “Too bad he’s not on the menu,” she said to no one in particular.

  “I had a feeling this was going to be awkward,” Desmond exhaled, “so why don’t I just get things started? Hello, Veronica. It’s wonderful to see you. You’re looking well, as always.” He reached forward.

  “Don’t,” she sneered, and dropped her arm from the table.

  “Are you one of them?” Jenny burped.

  “Yes, I’m one of them. I’m Ingrid’s,” he smiled, revealing crooked teeth.

  “Boyfriend? Husband? Brother? What?” Jenny pulled the straw from her drink and rolled it around her finger.

  “I think the more apropos question, my dear, is who are you?” Desmond replied with a hint of flirtation.

  “Jenny. I’m just an innocent bystander to all this crazy shit. Y’all should get a TV show. ‘Keeping Up with the Creeps’ or something.”

  “Hmm. That would prove problematic for some. Isn’t that right, dear?” Desmond grasped Ingrid’s tiny hand and kissed it. “I’m Ingrid’s maker.”

  “Maker, huh? I don’t know what kind of pervy shit you’re talking about, Edward, but I get the feeling that she’s done making. Like vegan-bitch-eating-bacon done. I saw it happen.”

  Veronica tried to suppress a giggle, but it came out as a guffaw, splattering Desmond in Jenny’s spectacularly tasty blood.

  Desmond dabbed at the droplets on his face with a paper napkin. “Nice, Veronica. Classy.”

  “Oh, get over yourself, you pompous, arrogant…” Veronica’s face contorted into pure hatred as she scrambled to find the words.

  “Douchebag?” offered Jenny.

  “Why are you even here? I came to visit my daughter. Not you.” Veronica rose from the booth.

  Ingrid bolted upright. “He needs your help!”

  “Help? Him? And what exactly do you need me to help you with, Desmond? Erection difficulties?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “I need you to kill me.”

  14

  After secluding herself in the Grubstake’s single-stall bathroom, Veronica tried both Paula and Frank. Both calls went straight to voicemail, leaving her with nothing to do but stare at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was both exciting and strangely calming to finally see her face, like reconnecting with a long-forgotten friend. For far too many years she had been living in the abstract, her sense of self comprising words and actions only. She knew she had a nose, she just couldn’t see it.

  As it turned out, she was surprisingly well-preserved. Even before becoming a vampire, she had never exposed her Scandinavian skin to the sun. On the rare summer day when the temperature had soared above ninety, she wore a wide-brimmed hat and tarped/draped herself in an unflattering piece of dark fabric masquerading as a dress. If there was anything that aged her, it was the sprinkling of white strands near the crown of her long curly hair.

  To ground herself before returning to the table, she tried to think of something to be grateful for. Even though the most obvious thing was staring back at her in the mirror, she decided that today she would be grateful for the invention of stretchy pants.

  Placing her hand on the door handle, she could hear Jenny’s voice in the hall outside the bathroom. She paused.

  “I only got twenty. Come on man. I’m totally good for it.”

  Veronica pressed her ear against the door.

  “Come back here at three and we can work something out. Do me a solid and take a shower.”

  That greasy, conniving junkie. Veronica felt like bustin
g through the door and pummeling them, but this transaction was none of her business. If Jenny was hell-bent on damaging the few brain cells that remained in her angry little head, that was her choice. In the years she’d spent sitting in the universally uncomfortable chairs of twelve-step programs, Veronica had learned that life was a lot less chaotic when she focused on herself. Paula’s words echoed in her head. Keep your mouth shut. As a vampire, keeping her lips sealed had helped her in more ways than one.

  Feeling calmer, Veronica shuffled back to the chrome sink, splashed cold water on her face and tried to convince herself that all these hot flashes were God’s way of reminding her of her own humanity.

  When she returned to the table, Jenny was disemboweling her backpack on the table while Ingrid and Desmond sat in stoic silence.

  “Can I borrow some cash?” Jenny asked without looking in Veronica’s direction.

  Veronica forced herself to play it cool. “That depends on what you need it for.”

  “Cab fare to the airport.” Jenny placed a stuffed Pikachu that had seen better days onto the table. All eyes were now focused on the odd paraphernalia of Jenny Pearson’s life. “What?” She met their gaze. “He’s my traveling companion.”

  “You don’t need to get a cab; we’ll take you.” Veronica glanced at Ingrid to confirm they were on the same page. “You two have a car, right?”

  “We sure do, and we’d be happy to take you, Jenny. What time’s your flight?” asked Ingrid.

  Jenny stared at the dirty table top. “I don’t know. Something like six or seven. I can’t remember.”

  “She’s on her way to a rehab facility in Santa Barbara.” Veronica scooted Jenny’s hair-filled brush towards her.

  “Good for you. Treatment is a wonderful first step towards a happier, more serene life.” Desmond patted her on the hand. “I remember—”

  “Dude, you want to kill yourself. Save the rainbows and unicorn speech for someone else.” Jenny dug deep into her backpack with both hands and let out a sigh. “So, are you going to kill him?” She nudged Veronica with her elbow like a tween teasing a friend about her latest crush.

  After an awkward pause interrupted by the delivery of their meal, Veronica gulped down what was left of her drink. “I worry about you, Jenny. To be honest, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Do I have to procure a wooden stake? Holy water? A silver bullet? What?”

  “No. None of that. Arm and leg restraints and a very sharp knife should do it.” Desmond leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table and intertwined his fingers as if in prayer.

  “Is she gonna have to cut off your head?” Jenny took a bite of the cheesesteak and wiped the grease from her mouth.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt this oh so pleasant conversation, but this is my first real meal in almost a hundred and fifty years. Do you mind?” Ingrid brought the bacon cheeseburger to her lips. “Oh. My. God. This smells divine. Would you take a picture of me, Jenny?”

  “Gladly,” Jenny said as Ingrid posed with her cheeseburger.

  “You have to remove my heart and dispose of it as far away from my body as you can.” Desmond pantomimed grabbing his own heart with his long slender fingers and tossed it out into the empty restaurant. “And when I say, ‘dispose of,’ what I really mean is ‘destroy.’”

  “Kind of like in Dumb and Dumber when Jim Carrey rips that guy’s heart out and puts it in a doggy bag?” Jenny squeezed a flatulent ketchup bottle over her onion rings. “Like that?”

  “Yes, but don’t feed my heart to a dog. A crematorium would be ideal for disposal because of the incineration. I know someone who will accommodate you.”

  Jenny nodded with enthusiasm as if this was the most normal conversation she had ever engaged in. Ingrid ignored them and wolfed down half of her burger in three successive bites.

  “Slow down. You’re going to choke,” Veronica scolded with a bitter mix of motherly concern and jealousy. Her last meal had been roast rabbit with potatoes, something she did not feel a sentimental fondness for. Food used to sustain life. These days, it was its own addiction—one Veronica resented being denied.

  “I can’t help it. It’s so good. I think I want dessert too.”

  “Whatever you’d like, dear.” Desmond stroked her hair and turned to face Veronica. Tears welled in his eyes. “I realize you want nothing to do with me, Veronica, and you have every right to feel that way, but I would very much appreciate your help in this matter.”

  “I don’t understand. Why now? Don’t you want to be mortal with Ingrid?”

  “I would, but that’s not a possibility. I’ve taken too many souls. Some of the physical bodies are dead, which leaves them stuck inside me to fester like a cancer.” He wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve and returned his gaze to meet hers. “I’m ready to die. And I want you to be the one to do it.”

  Veronica had ushered many people to their deaths, but this felt vastly different. Unlike most of her patients at Heartwood, this was personal—and she wanted him dead. “I head back to Texas in five days. When exactly do you envision this happening?”

  “Today.”

  “This is so cool! Can I be there?” Jenny bounced in her seat like an excited toddler.

  Veronica rubbed her face and dabbed at the perspiration forming on her upper lip with a balled-up napkin. Desmond and Ingrid remained silently hopeful, as if speaking another word might change her mind. Her phone vibrated, and she looked to see a text from an unknown number.

  It’s Frank. The cops are looking for you. Don’t come home.

  15

  In Veronica’s experience, vampires were not an especially helpful or caring group of people. It absolutely sickened her that the few blood suckers she had encountered over the years had kept insightful tips and debunked myths solely to themselves—including her own daughter.

  Veronica rationalized that this stinginess of spirit was common in the undead, since most of them self-isolated, including herself. It was hard enough to score even a semi-ethical blood supply without some just-turned plasma addict breathing down her neck, trying to edge their way in. Veronica imagined it would be like Jenny trailing Keith Richards in the hopes that he would show her the ins and outs of scoring medical-grade heroin. It wasn’t going to happen. Vampires, like most addicts, were selfish and self-centered, especially when it came to their stash.

  And right now, the closest thing Veronica had to a stash was the greasy runaway squished up next to her in the painfully small back seat of Ingrid’s Mini Cooper. Like a true caregiving codependent, she refused to drop Jenny off at the airport. They both knew she had no intention of getting on a plane and Veronica wanted her around, if only for the fact that her bi-weekly blood draws could sustain her until she returned to Texas, whenever that was. She didn’t know when to spring this half-baked idea on Jenny, or if she even needed to. So far, it appeared to all concerned that Jenny had no intention of going anywhere. She was just happy to be wherever there was a remote chance of scoring drugs.

  “We’re here,” Desmond said and pulled into the small parking lot of a brick building with tinted windows, whose yellowed sign proclaimed it Cook’s Funeral Home.

  “Aren’t we going to your house? Why are we at a funeral home?” Veronica stared at the sign.

  Ingrid turned to face her mother in the back seat. “This is where it’s going to happen. It’ll make the cleanup and disposal much easier.”

  Disposal? Veronica was bothered by Ingrid’s matter-of-factness. Planning a loved one’s death should require a little more tact, not to mention gravitas when discussing the details. While Ingrid and Desmond had probably orchestrated this crazy plan for the last few weeks, it was new to Veronica, and she felt that they should behave accordingly. If the love of her daughter’s life was truly going to die today, she should at least act like it bothered her.

  “This is where I work.” Desmond exited the car in one graceful, fluid motion. “I’m one of their embalmers. Ready?” He waved her forward like a paren
t coaxing a reluctant child.

  “Are you kidding me? I think the more pertinent question right now is, are you ready?” Veronica opened the door and struggled to exit the tiny vehicle with her dignity intact. Jenny darted after her like a puppy.

  “I’ve been ready for decades.” Desmond grasped Ingrid’s hand on their way in, Veronica and Jenny trailing behind.

  A piped-in hymn greeted them at the door. Veronica couldn’t place it, but she hadn’t been in a church in over fifty years.

  “Follow me.” Desmond descended the stairs to the lower level of the funeral home. Unlike the ground floor with all its “avoid the pink elephant” accoutrements, there were no quaint couches, tissue boxes or comforting music here. There was nothing but a long, chilly hallway, stained concrete floors and three doors marked “Employees Only.” Veronica shivered.

  As Desmond led them through the middle door, Veronica glanced at the clipboard medical chart hung beside it. Eye donation, Lori Grant, 35.

  Veronica peered inside the fluorescently lit room. “Is anyone here?”

  “I am.” A middle-aged man dressed in khakis and a rumpled denim shirt stepped forward. “Maynard Dirks. Veronica, I take it. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He extended his hand.

  She didn’t know what she expected when she agreed to remove Desmond’s heart, but it didn’t involve limply shaking hands with a disheveled librarian-type in the middle of a torture chamber. Splayed out in the middle of the room was a black bench with leather-strapped appendages sticking out in the form of an x, and a tray full of surgical tools. Some Veronica had seen before, while others looked grimly archaic.

  “And may I ask who this is?” Maynard eyed Jenny with a disapproving glare.

  “I’m your worst fucking nightmare, Maynard.” Jenny shook his hand with the confidence of someone with a drug score in her near future. “What kind of name is that anyway? May-Nard.”