chapter Twelve
Ava
True to her word, Mom lets me stay home the next day, dealing with Dad so I don't even have to see him in the morning. I wake to the smell of baking. This is a good sign. I roll over and find Peter immersed in another historical fiction. This time it's a continuation of Pride and Prejudice. I hadn't gotten a chance to read it yet, but he seemed engrossed.
“Hey, baby.” I didn't get much sleep, and I know he noticed. I'm also trying to be nicer after trying to guilt trip him last night. I wasn't very nice to him sometimes. He never seemed to mind, though.
“Baby?” He blinks once, asking.
“I don't know. I just thought I'd try it out. Doesn't really work.” Nicknames for Peter? Not so much.
“You slept badly.”
“Yeah, I'm aware. Thanks for letting me know.”
“I am concerned.”
“Aw, thanks Peter. That's so helpful.”
“You are more sarcastic when you do not get much sleep.” And now I want to punch him. Then I see his face and he's all beautiful in the morning sun that peeks its head through my curtains and falls across his face as if it was painted there. And then I want to kiss him. So much. But I can't.
I forgo the kiss because he smells so clean and crisp and I know I've got morning breath so I roll myself out of bed and somehow get my feet under me.
The baking smell calls to me, but my toothbrush screams louder. By the time I get my scary sleep-deprived face to look a little less sleep-deprived, Peter's finished the book and Mom's calling up the stairs for me.
I wave goodbye to Peter and he goes back to his book. Sighing, I tromp down the stairs and am instantly enveloped in the smell of cinnamon rolls. Pure heaven.
“How you feeling?”
“Meh.” She's looking a hell of a lot better. Her skirt is pressed and her blouse is ironed and her blonde wig is on straight. I'm wearing holey sweatpants, a t-shirt from eighth-grade ballet camp (yes, there is a such thing as ballet camp) that was once white, and my hair is so tangled it might be mistaken for dreadlocks.
“Well, anything is an improvement on yesterday.” The oven dings as I crash myself onto one of the stools at the counter.
“True. What's with the Betty Crocker?”
“I haven't made them in so long, and I just felt like it.” At the exact moment my feet cross the last step, she brings out the tray of the most gorgeous cinnamon rolls I've ever seen. Seriously, those things could give Peter a run for his money on the deliciousness scale. They might go so far as to be earth-shattering.
“So,” she says, taking off her oven mitts with authority. “How are you really? You scared me.” I try to swallow, but my throat won't work properly.
“I'm sorry.” I ruin everything. Way to start my morning off with a bang. With the thing I feared more than anything else. More than losing Peter or wanting to save him and become a noctalis.
Hurting my mother. The worst crime I could ever commit.
“Love rules without rules.” If I didn't feel like such a horrible person, I might have rolled my eyes.
“That doesn't make it right.”
“True love conquers all,” she says.
I fill a glass with water, hoping I can swallow my guilt. “And now you're quoting Disney.”
“A dream is a wish your heart makes,” she sings, drizzling glaze over the cinnamon rolls. My face forms a smile. I can't help it. She always brings me up when I'm down. What was I going to do without her?
Before my morbid thoughts can swirl into a freak out, she dabs glaze on my nose.
“Come on, ma fleur. Yesterday is over. Move on. Today hasn't even started. Why ruin it now?” I wipe the frosting off and lick it off my finger.
She's right. I have to learn how to bring myself out of the dark place without her. Peter's pretty good at it, but I can't rely on other people to save me. I have to save myself. No time like the present.
I smear some glaze across her cheek in return. Instead of laughing, she yanks me to her side, crushing me in a hug.
“That's right, baby.”
With my new resolve to live in the moment, I spend the morning and afternoon on the couch with a fluffy novel. Of course I also consume not one, but three cinnamon rolls. My stomach was so wrecked from the previous day that I felt instantly better with some calories in me.
Mom asks where Peter is and I tell her he's hanging out in the woods. It sounds better than waiting in my bedroom.
“I'm not even going to ask,” she says and starts washing the cinnamon roll pan.
****
“Baby, can you go out and get me some milk and eggs? Oh and some tissues?” The keys to her Jetta land next to me on the couch with a jingle. I wouldn't be caught dead at school in the outfit I'm wearing, but going to the local market didn't bother me. My outfit would be considered fancy, because it was clean. Sort of. Compared to the other people at the store, I'd be wearing Coco Chanel. But that's how Maine is.
“Be right back.” I sling my hair up in a clip and grab my purse. Peter's waiting in the passenger seat of the car for me. I want to continue our discussion (fight) from last night, but I've promised myself not to do things like that. I'm taking a page out of Mom's book. So instead I hop in the car and give him a smile.
“Hey, baby.” He makes a smile that pulls up just one side of his face. Oh. My. God. If I wasn't sitting down, I would have collapsed. I have no words for the desire and want and just, oh, that course through me. How the hell does he do that?
“How was that?” The smile drops away and his face goes back to normal. Composed. Calm. Like the smooth surface of an undisturbed pond. I'd sputter and say something if I could get air into my body to even make words with. “I will not call you that. I was trying to be human. I need more practice.” A sound that is akin to “ungh” comes from my mouth. Breathe, Ava. It's easy. You've been doing it for 17 years.
“Shall we go?”
I close my eyes for a moment. It's like a hurricane of pure want and need and Peter crashes over me. And I can't take it anymore. I throw myself over the middle console, jamming the shifter into my hip. I'll feel the pain later, but now I can only think of my destination. His lips.
They are my only concern as I smash mine into his. I open my mouth and try to drink him in. Savor him and his smell and how he feels. His mouth moves against mine, and I hear sounds coming from me that sound kind of like a kitten, but I can't stop them and I can'tstopcan'tstopcan'tstop. I'm in his lap and wrapped around him and I want to sear this moment on my brain like a brand so it can never be taken away.
And then reality crushes me in its claws and I leap back into my seat. Or at least I try. Peter has hold of my waist. Somehow his hands are against the bare skin of my back and my shirt's ridden up. I don't really remember that happening. Instantly, I start to babble.
“I'm sorry, that was stupid. It was the smiling. And calling me baby. You can't call me that ever again. Apparently I have no self control when you say it like that. So don't do it again.”
I'm still panting, trying to fill my body with oxygen again. His unblinking eyes watch me. I hope he's as unsettled as I am. It's hard being the only one.
“I will not promise. But I will try.”
“Why won't you promise?” As much as I loved, loved, loved hearing him call me baby, I loved having him my life more.
“I thoroughly enjoyed your reaction.” Oh that makes me want to smile and kiss him more.
“But it's dangerous. I shouldn't be kissing you. Not that just kissing you is going to lead to, well, you know, but I should stop doing things that. I mean, I'm not really at my best right now anyway.” I point to the sweats. Not exactly sexy-making.
“You can do whatever you want. I desire you, as well.”
“You want me? Even when I look like this?” I squeak. Also not sexy-making.
“I will always want you.” It's so easy for him to say things like that.
“Well, wanting can lead to other things like that pesky word we're trying to avoid, so I'll stop doing things that make you feel that way.” I don't know what these things could be. If he could love me with my hair in a clip and wearing sweats, what's it going to require? Not bathing or brushing my teeth? Uh, skunk perfume?
“I will always feel that way. I desire everything you do.” Okay, that's not true because there are plenty of unsexy human things I do. But there he is, being all sweet and making me feel hot and gushy inside like a molten chocolate cake.
“We should get to the store, Mom's probably wondering why we're still sitting in the driveway.”
“She saw us kissing.” Of course, this does not concern him in the slightest.
“Oh no,” I say, dropping my face to the steering wheel. “How do you know that?”
“I saw her for a moment. The rest of the time I saw nothing but you.” I should give him a round of applause. Even when saying nothing he manages to slip in something that makes me want him. Is he trying to get me to tackle-kiss him again?
“We should go.” His voice brings me back. Right. Store. Items I need to buy.
“What do I need to get?” I can't even remember how to turn the car on, let alone the items. Luckily, Peter is often my brain when my own fails.
“Milk, eggs, tissues.”
“Thanks.” What would I do without him? I'd have no one to kiss and I'd forget everything I went to the store to get.
The trip is uneventful, apart from the fact that Peter stands behind me the whole time, reminding me of his presence. There's also the pervasive scent of blood that leaks out of anywhere humans are contained.
I'm so distracted by it that, Peter has to hand me the items and steer me toward the front of the store. It's just a gas station, really. The shelves are made of plywood and the floor is so eroded you have to watch where you step. It's dusty and most of the candy has been there so long it's probably expired. But it's the only game in town.
I pay with a few crumpled dollar bills and drop a few quarters I find in the bottom of my wallet into the jar for the local animal shelter. The woman manning the counter is missing a few teeth and her hair has been dyed so much that it looks like it's trying to escape from her head in revolt. Or maybe she sprayed it that way.
She hands me my change and I thank her, trying to hold my breath. As the door slams, I picture turning around, leaping across the counter and using the pizza cutter on the counter behind her to slice her neck open. I inhale as deep as I can when I get outside to dispel the image. It fades away, but not before it's burned on my memory.
“Stop thinking about it.”
“Thinking about what?” Oh no, don't tell me...
“Killing her.” Nononono.
Peter
The bag of groceries drops from Ava's arms, but I reach to catch it before it smashes on the ground. No one is around to see.
“How did you know about that?” I have not told her that every now and then, I receive mental images from her. Mostly when she is upset or angry. Or she has a desire. Whether that be to kiss or kill.
It had only happened a few times, and I saw no need to concern her with it. But the image I had just gotten was so vivid, that I could not let it go.
I tell her and she holds onto the car for support. She closes her eyes and shakes her head, as if she doesn't want hear the words. Her lips form the word 'no' over and over. She repeats it as if it will help her keep a hold on reality. I set the bag down and reach out to her.
“Ava-Claire, look at me.” At the sound of her name, she meets my eyes. Hers are blurred with tears. I use my thumbs to wipe them away before slipping them into my mouth. Her sorrow is salty and sweet at the same time.
“What's happening to me? I didn't want to tell you. But I feel it all the time and I don't know what to do. I'm scared.” Her voice is soft, like the brush of a feather.
“You do not need to be scared. You would never hurt anyone.”
She pushes her fists into my chest, trying to push me away. “But I want to.”
“Wanting is not doing.” She tries to shake her head but I hold it in place. Trying something I've seen her mother do, I kiss her forehead. Her breath shudders out of her mouth and I have to pull away so I don't kiss her lips.
“I'm scared,” she says again. I sense there is more she is not telling me.
“Get in the car. I can drive.” I take the keys from her hand and usher her to the passenger seat. She sits and lets me buckle her seatbelt.
“Ava.” I say her name to make sure she is still there. That she has not left me for the place humans call shock. Her eyes meet mine and I see that she is still with me. I get in the driver's seat and go to the first place that comes to mind. The cemetery.
Neither of us had been back in a while. I knew she missed it. The calm quiet of it. A representation of mortality. The stones all in a row. The names lost to time.
I park the car and turn it off. Ava says nothing. Wiping her eyes, she turns in her seat to face me.
“I don't know what to do. Why is this happening to me?” She holds her hands out, asking me for answers. I only have one to give her.
“The Claiming.”
“Obviously, but what can we do about it?” This conversation will not rest. She is determined to end her life. But there is something she has not thought of.
“Ava-Claire, if you became a noctalis, it would be like that all the time. And you would need it. You would not be able to stop yourself from going over the counter and killing her. It would take years to gain the control you would need to simply go into a store. I do not want that for you. I want you to grow and learn and make mistakes and have children and do all the human things you should. I want so much more for you than this.”
Sobs shake her body. I did not want her to cry again, but it cannot be avoided. I envy her tears. I envy the emotions that wash over and through me like dark, disturbed water.
She dives forward, throwing her arms at me. I let her. I see the want and desire and need in her mind. It is a bright red thing, pulsing and spreading. But what she wants is not what she should have.
We always want what we cannot have. Her reaching out to me reminds me of when I would stand outside of my parent's house in New York and press my hands against the window. Knowing I could break through the glass and be a part of the scene within, but not being able to. I understand more than she can ever know.
“This is not a real existence.”
She grips my arms and tries to shake me.
“I'm prepared to do that if it means I get to have you. That's all I want. You. The other stuff doesn't matter.” But it does. It always will. There will always be a sheet of glass between us. We can feel each other through it, but neither of us can cross. I cannot become human, she cannot become a noctalis. This was not a problem when she did not love me, and I did not adore her.
“We are not going to agree.” I pull her arms from mine with little effort and place them in her lap. I cannot watch her run into that clear wall anymore today. The want and desire and anger from her is too much. It spurs my own want and anger, and I worry I might hurt her. The smell of her blood floods the car and it is all I can do not to bite her.
“No, we're not.” A brief laugh bubbles out of her mouth. I am relieved. If she can laugh, even a little, that is progress. The fiery feelings of just a moment ago cool, and I am able to pull away.
“We should probably go home.” It doesn't escape my attention that she had called it home and not her home. But ours. It was true. She is my home. I had nowhere else I would ever need or want to go. Even if I want to kill her most of the time.
“I can drive now.” I get out of the car to give her the seat. Before she gets in, she reaches out and embraces me. She wipes her face on my shirt, drying her tears, leaving damp patches.