Chapter 24
During the three weeks Mitch spent in the hospital, I completed my plans for departure. The transfer of Griffin Designs went smoothly. Other aspects took longer: the transfer of my funds to Swiss accounts, travel arrangements and living arrangements at my new destination. But by sundown, New Year’s Eve, I was packed and ready to go. Most of my effects had been sent on ahead so all I had was a small travel case, plane tickets and a passport with the picture and name of a stranger. The name I could get used to, I had before; but I looked with doubt at the picture and its image in the mirror. I had cut my hair short and dyed it a deep brown, almost black. It was very chic, very modern and I hated it. But I looked sufficiently unlike Deirdre Griffin to proceed with a new life. That, I told myself again, was all that mattered.
I called the lobby and asked Frank to get a taxi for me in about half an hour. My flight would not leave for almost three hours, but I saw no need to linger. The rooms had already acquired an impersonal feeling; it was strange to consider that soon someone else would be living here. I made a final tour to make sure that I had left nothing behind. I was in the bathroom, when there was a tentative knock on the door.
“Come in, Frank,” I called for I assumed he was here to get my bag. “The door is open.”
“Deirdre?” The voice was not Frank’s; my heart rose then fell when I realized the confrontation I had tried so hard to avoid had come.
“Mitch?” My voice was tremulous, betraying emotion best kept under control. I walked out of the bathroom and into the hall. Mitch stood, glancing around the room, taking in its emptiness and the packed bag at the door. As I entered he looked at me in shock.
“What on earth did you do to yourself?” he questioned sharply.
Nervously, I ran my hand through my too short hair. “Don’t you like it?”
“No.”
“To tell you the truth,” I said with a wan smile, “I don’t like it much either. But it keeps the publicity hounds at bay. How are you?”
“Fine.” He looked anything but fine. His right arm was in a cast as was his left leg. His face was unusually pale, from the loss of blood, I assumed, but his eyes were as blue and intense as ever. And at this moment they were angry and defiant. I found I could not answer his gaze; I looked away.
“Would you like to sit down?” He grunted an agreement and hobbled across the room on a cane. After he was seated, I walked over and sat facing him.
“You’re leaving.” It was not a question and I could not lie.
“Yes,” I said simply. “It seems best that I do.”
“Oh.” The single word held such anger, such reproach that I choked back any words of explanation I might have made. Instead, I rose from my chair and went to look out the window. A heavy silence descended on the room. When I finally turned around he was still staring at me, but some of his anger had been replaced with resignation and sadness. I would have preferred the anger.
He began to speak hesitantly. “I thought you might like to know the outcome of the other night. I just stopped by to let you know that you’ll not be questioned or held accountable in any way for Max’s death.”
“Thank you. I was wondering what happened after I left.” My voice softened on the last word.
“I know why you left, Deirdre. And I don’t blame you.” He glanced over at me, and gave the nuance of a smile. “At least not too much. I spent three weeks flat on my back rationalizing the situation, knowing that you wouldn’t have left me without good reasons, knowing what those reasons were.”
“Mitch, I . . .”
“And still you won’t let me finish. I took the blame for Max’s death, self–defense in the line of duty. Actually,” and he gave me a cold–blooded grin, “I prefer to think of it as credit, rather than blame.”
“But you were so weakened, so beat up. How could they believe you had done it?”
He shrugged. “The files are full of cases of people performing under duress. It won’t be investigated fully, anyway. I heard his confession. There’s no family or friends to press any charges and the precinct is happy to have the case successfully solved at last.”
“I am glad, Mitch, that it turned out well for you.”
“There is one thing that bothers me, though.” His voice softened and he looked up at me from his seat at the couch. “Why didn’t you come to see me in the hospital? I thought you would do at least that for me.”
“But I did come, Mitch. The first few times they wouldn’t let me in. After that I bypassed the nurses’ station and came in after hours.” I thought back to those dark nights when I sat by his bed, holding his hand as he tossed and turned in delirium. “You were asleep, but I was there.”
He gave me a smile, genuine now. “I knew it. I knew you’d been there, it couldn’t have been a dream. But when I asked the nurses they didn’t know who you were and swore there had been no visitors. How’d you manage it?”
I gave a little laugh. “You shouldn’t have to ask that, Mitch. I managed, that’s all.”
My confession relieved the tension somewhat. “You could have come when I was awake, you know. They do have visiting hours at night.”
“I know, but I wasn’t sure what sort of welcome I might get. After all, you were there, in part, because of what I did to you. I was afraid you might not want to see me.”
“Deirdre,” he stared at me with his blue eyes, “you’re a fool. If you don’t realize how I feel by now . . .” He broke off as he again considered my suitcase by the door. “But I guess you don’t, since you planned on leaving without a word to me. I guess I’ve just been wasting my time.” He sounded bitter and my heart felt torn.
“I am a fool, Mitch,” I said and knelt on the floor in front of him. Reaching up, I took his left hand in mine and held it to my face. “I had no right to get involved with you, and certainly no right to fall in love with you. But I do love you and nothing can change that now. Not my leaving, not your anger.”
“Then don’t leave,” he urged. “Stay here, Deirdre. Marry me. How can I convince you that I don’t care who or what you are.” He gave me a long, appraising stare then chuckled and reached over and tousled my hair. “I don’t even care what you’ve done to yourself.” He grew serious again. “All I care about is being with you. I love you. I don’t doubt that you’d like to get away from here. That’s fine, we could go together, start a new life for the two of us. Marry me, Deirdre,” he repeated urgently. “Say yes.”
I sighed and shifted my position slightly so that I could rest my head on his uninjured leg. I gave no answer, no sign of the wavering I felt. Instead, I rubbed my cheek on his knee, considering his words. We could leave together. Another plane ticket could be purchased, another passport obtained. My new home could accommodate two quite easily. I allowed myself to envision a future with Mitch, our lives shared and our loneliness abated. It was a gentle dream and I sighed with the sweetness of it.
“Deirdre,” he asked, his voice low and intense, “will you?”
The phone rang and I got up to answer it without a word.
“No, Frank,” I said, still gazing at Mitch. “I’m not ready now. Ask him if he’ll wait a while; if not, you can call another.” I gently put the phone down.
“My cab is here,” I said nervously and dropped my eyes. “I don’t know what to say, Mitch.”
“That’s an easy call,” he said, smiling uncertainly. “Just say yes.”
I tried to return his smile but began to cry instead. “I can’t. It wouldn’t work.” I saw him through a glaze of tears. “You and I both know that it wouldn’t. The first few decades would be wonderful, but after that . . .” I brushed away the tears and continued. “How could I bear to see you grow older every year, knowing that I never would? How could I bear to see you sicken and die and know that I could never join you after death? And how could you endure what I need to do to survive? Your love cannot change what I am: a creature of night, doomed to prowl and hunt for my sustenance.” I shook my head and repeated, “It wouldn’t work.”
“But there’s another way,” he insisted. “You say that you can’t change, but I can. You could change me, turn me into a vampire. Maybe, after the other night, you already have.” I read fear in his eyes when he said this, but there was also a trace of hope. “Then the decision would have been reached; it would be out of our hands. You’d marry me then, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, but you must know that’s not the case, Mitch.” I saw the hope fall from his eyes. “You would need to have my blood to make the change and I won’t give it.” I crossed the room to him and took his hand again. “You’re asking me to give you something that I have always considered a curse. For so many years I searched for the phantom that caused my life; I hunted him as surely as I hunt my prey. And yet now that he is gone,” my voice quavered and I groped for the right words, “I thought I might go back to what I was before, when he died. But the change in me was too deep, too long-term; I will always be what I am. Max’s death has freed me from many things, and one of these is the hope for a normal life. I have accepted that fact, I can live in that knowledge now. I can even accept the fact that I will meet my final death in the same manner. But I do not want that death to be at your hands.”
“Deirdre,” he protested, “I would never do that, I love you.”
“And I loved Max,” I replied. “Not the way I love you, it’s true. But for many years he was my only friend, my only contact with what I thought was the human world. And yet I hated him,” I blazed into anger. “Hated him enough to kill him. He changed me, in more ways than one; discovering that I was capable of murder, no matter what the circumstances, was terrifying. I can live with that, I have to, but I will not lead you, or anyone else, down the same dark paths I have had to follow.” I could read pain in his eyes and the anger suddenly drained out of me. “Mitch,” I pleaded with him, hoping he would understand. “I couldn’t bear for you to hate me someday like that. Leaving, as hard as it is, and never seeing you again, is easier to bear.”
He started to protest again, but I put my hand gently over his mouth. “Do you really want a life like mine? Never to walk in the sun, to exist in the night only. Is that what you want, Mitch?”
He met my eyes with a fervent glance. “I want you, Deirdre. And if this is the only way . . .” He struggled to rise from the couch and when he did he put his arm around me and held me close to him. “Deirdre,” he breathed into my hair. “Damn it, I don’t know.” There was uncertainty in his voice. “I haven’t really thought it through, I guess. But the thoughts of losing you have made me half-crazy. I don’t know what to do.” He moved back to study my face. “Look, promise me you won’t say no right now. So much has happened to both of us. Would it hurt to postpone the decision? That would give us both some time to think about it. Could you do that?”
I considered his words, his proposal. Over thirty years ago I would not have hesitated; he was the answer to my dreams at that time. Even with my new-found resolve, the prospect was beguiling. To share my endless years with him. . . . I sighed and he relentlessly pressed his case.
“Give it—oh, let’s say—six months,” he urged, “or a year at the most. This would be different than what occurred with you and Max. I would do it willingly, and you could teach me, help me. We would have each other.”
“No, Mitch,” I began, shaking my head, but his eyes met mine, searching, pleading. I smiled at him finally, reluctantly, and gave in. “Oh hell, Mitch, I have all the time in the world. Six months or sixty, it all means nothing to me. But I will not encourage you in this. The decision will be yours and yours alone. Do you understand?” His eyes lit again with hope; I looked away. “Now I have a plane to catch.”
He pulled me to him again in a fierce embrace that made him wince in pain. “Oh, Deirdre,” he said, “will you still leave? How can I let you go?”
“With love, Mitch.” I kissed him a final time. He stroked my hair and cheek, then slowly began to walk away. “Mitch,” I called to him and he turned. “I left something for you. It will be delivered to your apartment tomorrow.” I thought of the parcel I had instructed my attorney to give him after my departure. He would appreciate its significance. He looked at me questioningly. “It’s the Van Gogh,” I explained. “The only sunshine you and I will ever share.”
He gave me a quiet smile and I found that I had nothing left to say to him. Instead, I opened the door and watched as he limped down the hall to the elevators. The bell rang, and he got in. As the doors began to close, he stopped them with his hand and stepped out slightly for one last glance. He gave me one of his boyish, exuberant grins. “See you in six months,” he said confidently. Then the doors shut and he was gone.
Smiling weakly, I covered my hair with a thick scarf, picked up my bag and turned out the lights. Taking one last look at the rooms, I closed the door. “I hope not, Mitch,” I said to the empty hall. “I hope not.”