The Year of Disappearances (19 page)

Dashay took the carton and slid it into the back of the Jeep.

“What was wrong with the old stuff?” I asked.

“No quinine, thank goodness.” Dr. Cho’s long hair fell out of its clip and swirled like silk in the ocean breeze. “But enough antidepressant to produce serious side effects. Have you experienced loss of appetite, dizziness, decreased libido?”

From my brief exposure to the works of Sigmund Freud, I knew that the word “libido” meant sexual drive. “Yes to the first two,” I said. “I don’t know about the last one.”

“How much
libido
does a fourteen-year-old usually have?” Dashay asked.

Cho smiled. “Plenty. Remember, she’s a vampire. Granted, the formula she’s been taking has been popular for years in Sanguinist circles, where celibacy is traditional. But the new thinking about blood supplements is to manage instinctual drives, not suppress them.”

“Aren’t you a Sanguinist?”

“I’m an independent thinker,” she said. “The Sanguinists and Nebulists—those sects were fine in their time. The Colonists are nuts. I don’t see the need for any of them now.”

I didn’t turn around, but I sensed the presence of my mother in the cottage window, watching us.

Dashay stayed outside to talk to the doctor, and I went back to the house. By then my mother had left the window and was sitting next to my father’s bed. Her face looked tense, and her hands were clasped in her lap.

“I first met your father outside, on the beach not more than fifty yards from here.” She talked without looking at either of us. “Then I didn’t see him again for twenty years.”

I sat on the floor between them to listen. Near me, the IV stand held a fresh bag of red fluid, dripping slowly through the tube into his arm.

“One night I was going to a party. Or was it a restaurant? I remember I was going to meet someone.”

My father moved his head on its pillow. The edge of his face looked paler, less yellow now.

“And there was your father, sitting in a booth at the restaurant. He was alone, and he looked hungry.”

My father had told me a different version of this story, in which they met at an outdoor café. But I didn’t mention that.

“I recognized him first. I said, ‘Aren’t you that boy I met on Tybee?’”

My father exhaled—a soft sigh.

“But he didn’t remember me. Then I looked into his eyes—Ariella, have you ever seen eyes so green as his?”

“No, ma’am.” Dashay had been trying to teach me to say
ma’am
or
sir
when I spoke to elders. Almost always, I forgot.

“He looked up at me, and he said, ‘I’m sure I would have remembered meeting someone like you.’”

My father sighed again. His head moved from side to side on the pillow. Was he listening?

“For that woman to suggest I tried to kill him—” Her voice shattered. There’s no other word for it, really. It fell into shards, faintly visible as they fell and faded.

Dashay came in, her face wearing a guarded expression. “Almost ready to leave?” she asked me.

“I guess.” I had mixed feelings about going away.

My mother stretched her arms toward me, and I went to embrace her. She pressed her face against my hair. “You are my precious child,” she said, and I so wished she hadn’t, because I began to cry.

“Now there, stop that.” Dashay’s voice sounded gruff. “Ari, in six weeks your first semester will be over. And you all will be together again, and then you can cry as much as you want.”

As we separated, Mãe used her hand to wipe away tears on my cheek. Then she said, “What did the doctor want?”

“She gave Ari some new serum.” Dashay’s guard was up again. “She said she’ll stop back this afternoon to check in, and she’s going to find a nurse to keep watch over Raphael.”

“We don’t need a nurse,” Mãe said, but Dashay interrupted her.

“You need sleep,” she told Mãe. “If I didn’t have to get back to the horses and Grace, I’d stay here and
make
you sleep. The nurse is a good idea.”

It was easier to say good-bye to Mãe than to my father. I bent over his head, noticed the one unchanged part of his face—his eyelashes, long and thick and black—then quickly kissed his temple and pulled away. It was the first time I’d ever dared to kiss him.

I spent the first few days back on campus hunting down my professors and making up the assignments I’d missed. The work went fairly quickly, since my dorm room was no longer a beehive. Friends didn’t come and go at all hours. Even my roommate had deserted the room.

Bernadette had moved in with Jacey, it seemed. She didn’t tell me herself; Jacey did.

“I’m sorry, Ari,” Jacey said, playing with one long blond braid. “She says it’s too spooky in that room.”

It seemed spooky even to me, without Bernadette’s threads and shells and feathers. I spent as little time there as I could.

Whenever I saw Bernadette, in class or in the cafeteria, she looked away. The first time I went up to her and said, “How was your break?”

She drew back and turned slightly, as if to minimize her exposure to me. In a low voice, she said, “Please leave me alone.”

I hadn’t expected that.

Jacey told me a few days later, “It’s not you, Ari. She says it’s just that people around you tend to die.”

If Walker knew about Bernadette’s feelings, he never mentioned them. He turned up my first night back. I was walking alone on the path from the cafeteria to the dormitory when a white luminous sphere about a foot in diameter bobbed out of the shrubs alongside the path. The thing hovered, then moved toward me.

Was I startled? Yes, for a moment, before I spied, beneath the sphere, a black cloth suspended in the air by two black-gloved hands.

“Hello, Walker,” I said.

“I am a zombie trapped inside this ball.” Walker made his voice high, squeaky.

The word
zombie
did startle me. After a few seconds, I said, “Zombies don’t sound like that.”

He ignored the comment. “If you kiss the ball, the zombie will be freed.”

Somehow he made the sphere rise and move toward me. It was a pretty good trick. I couldn’t see any strings.

Walker made squeaky zombie sounds.

“Okay,” I said. I stepped closer to the ball. “Let’s free the zombie.” I pursed my lips.

The globe and the cloth both vanished. In the darkness, Walker’s lips touched mine.

For seconds, our mouths were disembodied entities doing a dance in midair. His lips were soft as a violet. (Yes, I had kissed more than one flower. It’s the best way to practice.)

For seconds, I heard nothing, saw nothing, felt only his lips pressed against mine. Then something inside me sprang into being, as if a small flame ignited, rose, spread through all my nerves and into my lips, and then crossed into his.

The kiss ended. It was still the same night. We stood on the same path—Walker wearing a black hood with holes for his eyes and mouth, I saw now. The sound of faraway laughter made him pull the hood off. His hair was tousled, his eyes reflecting light from the globe. He’d dropped the cloth that had concealed it.

“Amazing,” he said. “You are amazing.”

I lacked the strength, much less the desire, to contradict him.

After that, we were a couple. Walker and I held hands (clumsily, wearing gloves) between shifts at the recycling center. We walked back from the cafeteria to the dorm with our arms around each other. We studied together, in the lounge—actually studied, eyes on books, each of us savoring the tension that kept us from touching—so that when we did touch, the sensations were indescribably intense.

What I felt was wild. It went deep and made me dizzy—pleasantly so, nothing like the vertigo of before—creating a sweet laziness that bathed me in a sense of well-being, temporarily dulling the wildness. Maybe it was the new tonic I was taking. Maybe I was in love. Whatever it was, I felt charged with life, fully aware of each passing moment.

When our American Politics class met, Walker and I made efforts not to look at each other, with limited success. I caught Bernadette watching us more than once, trying to figure out what was different.

Meanwhile Professor Hogan spoke in her strident yet unconfident way about third parties. “Even though we can argue that the two-party system has become muddled at best, corrupt at worst, most interest groups realize that working within the two parties is the only real path to power?” Her voice rose at the end of sentences, making them sound like questions.

Walker yawned. His teeth were small and even, pearl-like. Bernadette caught me staring at his mouth and wondered how far things had gone between us. When I looked over at her, she turned away.

“In American politics, third parties have sometimes played a corrective role? They’ve raised issues that the traditional parties avoided because the issues couldn’t generate social capital?”

Walker and I glanced at each other. A slow shiver climbed my spine.

“Ariella? Please define social capital for us?” Her large, dark eyes looked hunted, like a deer’s.

Professor Hogan didn’t like me. Even if I hadn’t been able to hear her thoughts, I could have read her feelings in the tone of her voice and her body language. It wasn’t anything I’d done or said—what prompted her hostility was that I’d dropped Professor Evans’s physics class. She was having an affair with Evans, and they enjoyed talking about wayward students when they were in bed together. Yes, I’d listened to her thoughts.

“Ariella?”

“Social capital is a term for concerns that promote cooperation between two or more individuals.”

“Er—yes?” she said. “And can you give us an example?”

I was trying to think of an example when Walker said, “You know, social capital is just words. It’s jargon.”

Professor Hogan turned her deerlike eyes on him. “It’s language used by social scientists like me to describe a behavioral norm?”

“But it’s jargon. If you’re talking about relationships based on earned trust, why not say trust? If you mean common interests or reciprocal favors, why not say that? To me,
social capital
makes fairly simple things sound complicated.”

Virtually every student in the room agreed with Walker. Bernadette looked at him as if he were a hero. I thought so, too—not because he’d come to my rescue and deflected the professor’s attention. He’d had the courage to say what I thought, but didn’t dare express. I didn’t mind abstract terms in my philosophy class—they were appropriate there—but used to describe American politics, they seemed grandiose expressions of a kind of wishful thinking: that politics were governed by scientific principles. The little I’d read about politics suggested that science had nothing to do with it.

The class time ended before the debate could go further. But Professor Hogan had the last word.

“Next month, when we go to the Third-Parties Caucus in Savannah?” she said. “Then you’ll see social and political capital in action?”

On the weekend after spring break ended, Walker took me on the picnic he’d promised.

Over the unofficial Hillhouse uniform—jeans and a T-shirt—I threw on a cardigan made of cashmere, lavender pink. Dashay had given it to me during our short-lived Yule celebration. I’d never worn pink before, and the sweater made me self-conscious at first, but the color flattered my complexion, made me seem to blush. Vampires never blush.

We walked to the orchards adjoining campus, Walker carrying a large canvas tote bag. The peach trees were in bloom. The breeze drifted their light pink petals and wafted their faint, sweet perfume, which made the air as exotic as incense.

Watching Walker spread a blanket on the ground made me think of Mysty, carrying a blanket to her last date with Jesse. I felt goose bumps on my arms.

“What’s wrong?” He fell onto the blanket, rolled onto his back, propped himself on his elbows—all in one movement.

I rubbed my forehead and tried to clear the memory, let myself live in the moment, savor the sheen of spring in the tree blossoms, the powder-blue sky, the fragrant air. “Such a beautiful day,” I said.

“
You’re
beautiful.” His North Carolina accent made the compliment sound natural, not hokey, the way it looks as I write it down. Words take on new meanings when they’re spoken. “When I was growing up I used to dream about meeting someone like you.”

I sat cross-legged on the blanket. “What do you mean—someone like me?”

He moved closer to me and lay on his back. “Someone mysterious, and beautiful, and smart. The girls I grew up with, they were all right. Some of them were very pretty. And some were smart, too. But I kept dreaming about meeting someone special, someone
enigmatic.
” He pronounced the word slowly, as if he liked its sound.

“You must have been in love a hundred times.” I heard my own voice, and for the first time it reminded me of my mother’s Savannah drawl. I was
flirting,
I realized.