Chapter 11
My dreams bring me once more to the cemetery. This time I am spared the trip through the dirt of his grave; he is waiting for me, lounging indolently against his tombstone, smiling at me, the tips of extended canines and white skin gleaming in the moonlight.
Wordlessly, I hand him the rose I carry, and with a courtly bow he takes it from me, delicately inserting it into his breast pocket.
Although I know it for a dream, I also sense that it is real; he is real and he is solid flesh once more. I find my voice and speak.
“What is it to be this evening, Max? More blood? More death, and torture, and guilt?”
He holds out his hand and I reach for it, touch it. He draws me to him. Our hearts beat to the same rhythm. Enfolding me in the black silken wings of his dark soul, he whispers to me.
“Nothing so simple, my love. You have more painful lessons to learn than that. Tonight I will show you youth, my youth and my lost innocence.”
The world spins around us, a giddy, sickening whirl. A heavy, tangible mist swirls around us, and we are engulfed in that mist, then disembodied, thinned and carried by the cold night wind.
Candles are burning and a large hearth glows with the dying embers of a fire. Above the hearth hangs a tapestry coat of arms. At first I think the room empty, but my eyes are directed to a young man, dressed in fine dark velvet, who sits hunched over a piano.
No, an inner voice supplies, a clavichord; the piano does not yet exist.
The music the boy plays is sweet and pure, and something about the way he holds his head is familiar. Then, still playing, he turns his head briefly to glance at a woman entering the room. A smile curves his lips as he returns to the music, finishing it with a feverish intensity. When the last chords fade from hearing, he shakes back his long black hair and rises from the bench;
I gasp at my recognition of him, and although I have no body, no physical presence in this place, his eyes come to rest where I would be standing, as if I called his name. His face is still flushed with the fervor of playing, the eyes light and shining with an eagerness that even after years of looking on those same eyes, I have never seen before. His finely sculptured face is the work of a master, Bernini perhaps, or Michelangelo, but immature, or incomplete, as if the artist had neglected the last few chisel strokes that would imprint the true character.
Intently I study the young man, no more than fifteen or sixteen years of age, and the incongruity becomes clear. It is Max before the many centuries heaped upon his flawless features the blemishes of pride and arrogance, murder and blood—Max before the inheritance of the curse of vampirism.
“No,” I cry, voiceless in this ancient place. “No.” That so fine a creature could be so absolutely corrupted is an evil almost beyond comprehension.
“You see,” he replies, an irony in his voice, unheard in the young one’s, as he talks quietly with the other person in the room. “I was once your equal. I walked proudly in unity with my fellow men and humbly before my God.” And the irony is replaced by sadness as I feel him direct our eyes to the woman. “My mother”—his tears are hot on my face—“an angel among women.”
I look at her; through my vision she is a normal, middle-aged woman, her hair graying. Her thin frame seems fragile, and although weighed down with the volume of her clothing, she holds herself erect with pride and effort. Her face is creased with worry, sorrow, and laughter, and her light eyes are circled beneath with heavy shadows. But in Max’s view she is beautiful, and his memories of her become mine. I remember her calm voice, her clarity of thought, her many loving acts, as if she were my mother. And I feel his pain when she coughs quietly, yet persistently, into a small silk handkerchief.
“She is dying.” Max’s voice confirms my thoughts. “In two years she will be gone.” He turns on me in bitterness. “You are not the only one to have lost your loved ones over the centuries. But listen now, you must learn who I was to learn who I became.”
Suddenly we are no longer observers to the past. We are merged with the youthful Max, buried deep within him.
“Madre.” I grasp her hands within mine. “You were to rest. Go back to your bed; I will come up to say good night later.”
“No, my son.” She smiles, and the knowledge of her impending death saddens me. “This will be your last night under this roof as my son. When next you return you will no longer be my Maximilian, my dearest boy.” She wipes her eyes. “But do not think that I am unhappy with your choice. You will do well in your vocation. You must remember to make me proud, and to celebrate your first Mass for me.”
“Mother, I will.”
She reaches up and gently touches my cheek. “Now play for me.”
I obey and sit down at the instrument again. It is strange to look down upon hands that are not mine, playing from memory music I do not know. And yet it feels right. Max’s young fingers move across the keys; the music comes from deep within me, flows through me, filling and purifying my corrupted soul with unexpected joy.
The scene begins to blur before my eyes and the mist engulfs us, pulling us away.
“Please, just a few minutes more,” I cry. I do not want to leave the music or the room, filled with so much love; it could be a home for me; it is my home. “I want to go back.”
There is no one to answer my plea, for suddenly I am in the cemetery, alone, in my own body once more, pressed against the cold earth of his grave.
When I woke, I could not remember where I was, much less who I was. “Max?” I whispered, trying to sense his presence within me. There was no response. I shrugged off the covers and walked down the hall to the bathroom. As I stooped over the sink, splashing water on my face to alleviate the confusion and grogginess caused by the dream, my stomach tightened in panic. What if I looked into the mirror and saw, not my face, but his? And would I know the difference?
Trembling, I reached behind me for a towel dried myself, and slowly dropped it, revealing to my relief the familiar features of Deirdre Griffin.
“Jesus, what a dream.” Tensely I laughed at my fears. “You are you,” I assured my mirror image. “Who else would you be? And Max, a priest? Deirdre, you have had some strange dreams in your life, but I believe that one will take first place.” The sound of my voice provided some comfort, but my eyes quickly darted around the room, looking for the familiar ghost.
I jumped when the doorbell rang and without thinking went to answer it. Checking through the peephole, I saw Chris standing there and realized that I was naked.
“Chris,” I called through the door, “I’m unlocking the door, but give me a minute before you come in.”
“No problem.”
I undid the latch and ran back to the bedroom, closing the door behind me. In the closet was Mitch’s green terry-cloth robe and I put it on, tightening the sash. As I heard the door open, I quickly ran a brush through my unruly hair, and pinched my cheeks to give them a little color.
“Deirdre,” Chris called, “are you decent?”
“No.” I came out of the bedroom and smiled at him. “But I am dressed.”
“Very funny.” He acknowledged my attempt at humor with a weak smile, but I noticed he was furtively surveying the apartment.
“Are you looking for something, Chris?”
“No.” Then he met my eyes and blushed. “Well, yeah, I guess I am. Didn’t you have a guest here last night?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Is he still here?”
“No, he is not. How did you know someone was here?”
He blushed again. “I stopped by last night, you know, to celebrate with you about Dad’s recovery. But before I could ring the doorbell, I heard voices. I guess you decided to have your own private party.” His voice sounded harsh and strained, but any anger I felt at him dissolved when I saw his sad, disappointed face.
“You should have come in, Chris. It was only Dr. Samuels, and what we talked about concerned you also. I assure you it was not what you call a private party.” I mimicked his tone, and to my surprise, he laughed.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t really know what to think. You know, with you being what you are and all, well, I jumped to the most obvious conclusion.”
His implied judgment of the way I lived was beginning to anger me. “Chris,” I said sternly, “first I am going to make us some coffee. Then it is time you and I sit down and have a little talk about what I am.”
He gave me an evasive look. “Coffee’d be great, but Dad is waiting for us.”
“This will not take long, and I promise you that Mitch will understand. There are things you should know, things he cannot or will not tell you.”
He shrugged, but followed me to the kitchen, taking two mugs from inside a cabinet and leaning back against the counter. “I didn’t imagine that you’d drink coffee,” he said with a glance that betrayed a fearful curiosity.
“Fine, we will start with that. I can drink almost any substance. I do not gain nourishment from it, but my system can accommodate it. Solid food is another matter, however. Rare meat is about the only food I can digest. Even that is not easy, but I can do it if I have to.”
“Why would you have to? What possible difference could it make to you?” He sounded genuinely confused.
“That brings us to the next of the unpleasant facts of my life, Chris. Every day, every night, I am forced to deceive the rest of the world, carefully disguising my instincts into a façade of human behavior. So if socially I am called upon to attend a dinner, I must eat. Not every time, true, but often enough so that I do not call attention to my differences.”
“But what are you afraid of? What can hurt you?”
I gave him a sharp glance, but his face was innocent and open, showing nothing more threatening than simple concern.
“Not everything you read in the books is true, of course. A stake through the heart worked well for Max.” I shuddered as I made the statement, thinking that it really did not seem to work that well. He was still haunting me. “Prolonged exposure to sunlight would probably also do the trick. But I am not repelled by crosses or crucifixes.”
“Garlic?”
I laughed. “It is true that I have a great aversion to garlic, but it was something I felt when I was still human. So for me, yes, garlic is an effective deterrent. For others like me, I cannot say.”
“Still human?” He gulped on the words. “Exactly how long ago was that?”
“One hundred and twenty years ago, give or take a few. Apparently based on the information I gleaned from Max before he died, I am quite young for one of my kind.”
He shivered and turned away from me.
I went to the coffeemaker and filled the two mugs, pushing one into his hand. “Here. Now, shall we go sit down?”
He nodded and we went to the living room. I sat in the armchair and he chose the couch, studiously avoiding my eyes. “Chris.” I said his name to get his attention and he jumped slightly. “What I have to tell you now is the worst of it. I must ingest at least one pint of human blood each week to feed myself. This is not something I can do without. If I allow the hunger to build, the instincts will take complete control over me, forcing me to feed whether I want to or not. There is no substitute for human blood; its taking is a necessity, and cannot be overruled. This is the first and foremost commandment in my life, one you must never forget. Rest assured, however, that my feeding does no permanent harm to my victims.”
He sat silent for a while, drinking his coffee, staring off into space. When he asked his next question his voice was weak, hesitant. “But doesn’t everyone you bite become a vampire when they die?”
I looked at him in shock. “Good heavens, Chris, no. Where on earth did you get that idea?” My honest laughter calmed him, and his voice grew stronger.
“You know, I read it in books.”
“Can you imagine what would have happened by now if that fact were true? There would be no humans on the earth—everyone would be like me. The escalation on that would surely rival the current inflation rate.”
“Yeah.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “I guess I just wasn’t thinking.”
The levity of our exchange was a welcome relief to the tension, but there was more I had to say even though I knew he would not like it.
“Chris, you must listen to me, this is very important. I love your father as much as possible given the incredible circumstances surrounding us. I will try to do nothing to hurt him while I am here. but I must feed, I have no choice. I do promise you that I will not do it here in his apartment.” I looked up from my coffee cup and met his eyes, holding contact with him as firmly as possible. “You must not be jealous for him; you must not ask questions about how I take my sustenance and you must not tell anyone what I am.”
“I promise.”
“And you must not come back here until I have fed again.” I counted back to the last night I spent overseas. “It has been five nights now, and I want you to stay safe. Tonight will be fine, I will be in total control and we can go to the hospital together. But tomorrow I will go out and do what I need to do. It does not concern you, and”—my voice grew harsh—“it does not concern your father.”
“But”—Chris sounded petulant—“he’s doing so well. What’ll I tell him?”
“You need tell him nothing. He knows what I must do.”
He nodded, drained his coffee, and looked over at me. “Thank you for talking to me. I can see how hard it is for you to talk about it, and I appreciate your honesty. Plus, I’d never have had the guts to ask you those questions if you hadn’t brought up the subject first.”
“You must not be afraid of asking, Chris. I will answer if I can.” Setting my empty cup on the table, I stood up. “Now, give me a minute or two to get dressed, and we’ll go.”
In the bedroom I checked the closet, found and put on a pair of black leggings and a red knit tunic that buttoned down the front, applied some makeup, and brushed my hair one more time. My standard high-heeled black pumps were in the living room by the door. I walked down the hall and stepped into them. Chris was still sitting where he had been when I had left, his legs stretched out and his head resting on the back of the couch.
“Chris?” The tone of my voice was tentative, almost plaintive.
“Yeah?” He picked his head up, rubbed his eyes, and glanced over at me.
“Well, tonight, as I already explained, should be a safe night. I was hoping that perhaps, after visiting hours, we could go somewhere. I don’t sleep well these days and would enjoy the company.”
“Sure, what would you like to do?”
Eager to return to the previous relationship I had enjoyed with Mitch’s son, I said the first thing that came to mind. “I thought maybe we could play some pool.”
His relaxed laugh was a relief to me. “Yeah, sure, we could do that. Just go easy on me, okay? I don’t like losing any more than Dad does.”