The Silver Kiss (6 page)

At the door she hesitated, afraid to go in. What does Mom look like this time? she wondered. Her father opened the door for her and she had to step inside. Zoë's throat
seemed to close up when she saw her mother, a fragile stick-figure in the bed, with arms more bruised than ever from the needles and tubes.

“Mom?” she said in a slightly cracked voice.

Eyelashes fluttered, and her mother opened her eyes. She smiled weakly and her skin, dry as old parchment, crinkled with the effort. “Zoë,” she whispered back in a voice just as cracked. “Darling.” The bed whined as she moved it to a sitting position.

Zoë's gaze flicked around the room. She was repelled once more by the institutional-green walls, barely relieved by a drab forest scene, and a calendar that marked off the days for the record keepers. Her mother's name was in a slot above the bed, so each impersonal shift would know who she was. The medicine cabinet, cupboards, drawers, and counter were all painted white, and as easy to clean of stains as the pale tile floor. An unused television was tilted toward the window.

Her father nudged her forward. She started to sit, then wasn't sure. She glanced at him and he nodded, so she lowered herself into the chair at the bedside. Her father fussed around his wife, fluffing her pillow, straightening her sheets—all smiles, all teases. Where was the silent man who had driven here? Zoë wondered. When he was satisfied the patient was comfortable, he flopped into a chair on the other side of the room, giving them space to talk. He seemed to deflate when out of her mother's line of sight. He slouched, his hands dug deep into his tweed
pockets, and glanced at Zoë with worried, unspoken questions. Zoë wished he'd ask them.

“A great view of the parking lot you've got,” she said.

“I'm glad you like it.” Zoë was shocked at how faint her mother's voice was despite the ironic tone.

Zoë reached for her hand and noticed a tightness around her eyes that she knew meant pain, as did the way her mother's other hand twisted a grasping of sheet. Zoë wanted to reach out and stop it. It hurt her to watch.

“Are you eating?” her mother asked.

“Are you?” Zoë shot back, glancing at the barely touched meal still sitting on the bedside tray.

“Touché.”

“Come home soon, Mom. I miss you.”

Zoë felt her hand squeezed gently. “I'll try, darling. I'll try.”

Zoë's eyes filled with tears. Please don't cry, she begged herself. Don't upset her. “Guess what,” she said, grabbing for anything. “The rose by the gate still has a bloom on it.”

Her mother smiled. “Silly old thing. It doesn't seem decent at this time of year, does it?”

They were silent for a while. Zoë hated the way hospitals sucked everything you wanted to say right out of your head. It's bad enough that they leave the door open so the nurses can come and go, she thought, but then Dad sits there like some kind of guardian.

“I just needed to see you,” her mother finally said.

“Okay.”

“You need to eat more, sweetheart. Wear some makeup.”

Zoë laughed gently, and sniffed. “I remember when you would have taken a washcloth to me for wearing makeup, and now you're telling me to wear it. Do I look that bad?”

“Heavens, no. But you're old enough. You should get your hair cut in one of those new styles.”

Zoë stroked a baby-fine tuft of her mother's newly grown hair. “Like you, huh?”

“Well, my punk look wasn't exactly intentional.” She smiled. “And it looks a little pretentious on an old lady like me.”

“But you're not old,” Zoé said, her voice wavering.

“I'm thirsty,” her mother said, still deft at diverting disaster. “Pour me a glass of water, please.”

As Zoé reached for the pitcher, a nurse poked her head around the door. She nodded at Mr. Sutcliff, who then stepped forward. “That's enough for now,” he said, holding Zoë's shoulders firmly, kissing the top of her head.

“Harry, no!” his wife protested, struggling to sit up in bed.

“You know what the doctor said,” he answered, unyielding.

I'm being squeezed out again, Zoë thought bitterly, but she leaned and kissed the cheek offered to her.

“They totally ignore what I want around here,” her mother said, as if apologizing.

Outside the room her father tried to give Zoë cab fare, and some extra for dinner. She wanted to ignore it, but he closed her hand firmly around the bills with his large dry grip.

“What did the doctor say?” she asked point-blank.

His gaze shifted this way and that, as if he was afraid to look at her. “He says your visits tire your mother out. He doesn't want you visiting so much or for so long.”

“Dad!” It came out as a howl.

“I'm sorry. The nurses have been alerted. Zay haf zer orders,” he joked feebly.

“Don't you have any say?” she asked.

He finally looked her in the eyes. “Zoë, I think seeing you does your mother good, but he's the doctor. Let's try it his way for a while. I want what's best for her.”

“So you're on his side—”

He cut off her protest with a gentle finger to her lips. “Get some pizza. Invite Lorraine over to keep you company,” he said. “I'll stay for a bit longer.” He stroked her cheek and left her in the hall.

What if I screamed and cried and made a fuss? she thought. What if I had a tantrum and begged them not to send me away? But she couldn't do that to them. She bit her lip and turned away.

Outside, she found one of the cabs that always lingered there. She rode home, worrying about how much to tip, so she wouldn't have to think about her mother, or another empty evening.

She paid the cabdriver in front of her house, but when she got to the front door, she couldn't bring herself to fumble the key into the lock. She shoved it back into her jacket pocket. I can't face that silence right now, she thought. It's suffocating.

She went to the park and watched the children play until they were called away to dinner. It was company of sorts, yet undemanding. A few stragglers came back to defy the dusk curfew on the playground, but as the shadows became deeper, and the lights came on, even they were called back to warm beds in houses full of parents, brothers, sisters, and blaring TV sets.

I wish I had a brother or sister, she thought. Someone to take charge. I don't want to
have
to be responsible. I hate doing laundry. I hate having to remind Dad the phone bill's due. Mom always looked after us. The old anger rose. She thumped her knee gently with her fist as if to subdue it. She thought she'd gotten over that. It's not her fault, Zoë told herself. It's stupid to think that. She's not going away on purpose. But Dad's going to be a vegetable. Who's going to look after me?

A cold breeze swept through the park, and clouds blew across the early moon. Zoë pulled her denim jacket closer around her. It was time to get the heavier coats out from the storage closet upstairs. She shivered suddenly, as if ice trickled down her spine.

“It's a beautiful night,” came a soft voice beside her.

She turned swiftly, heart pounding. A young man sat
there. The lamplight outlined him against the dark bushes behind like a ring of frost around the moon. He smiled at her as a cat smiles, with secret humor. “You scared me,” she whispered fiercely. Who was this person invading her bench?

“I'm sorry,” he said, but he didn't look it.

She recognized him then, from last night. As if he saw this he said, “We're even now. You scared me.”

“Why should you be scared?” she demanded. “It's you creeping up on people.”

“Why should you be?” he asked.

Zoë bristled defensively. “I don't like evasive conversation.”

“Do you like any conversation?”

“No. I want to be alone.”

“I think you are alone.” He reached for her hand. She snatched it away and stood up. How dare he be right, then take advantage of it? He seemed surprised for a second, but then his smile deepened, and a dreamy look was on his face. “Please stay,” he said in tones soft as a lullaby. His eyes were huge, dark, and gentle. She hesitated for a moment. He seemed so understanding. Surely she could talk to him. Then her anger surfaced again. The manipulative jerk, she thought.

“I don't know what you're after,” she said, “but you can look for it somewhere else.” She turned and walked firmly away.

“It strikes me,” he called after her in a voice now with
an edge to it, “that girls who sit alone in parks at night are the ones after something.”

She was so furious, she could have screamed. She almost turned, but no, she thought, that's what he wants. She walked on. Her anger carried her home before she knew it. Strangely, it had made her hungry. She ate better than she had in weeks.

She hesitated once between mouthfuls with a feeling of dread. Was he weird? Would he have hurt her? No. He looked like an angel in a Renaissance painting. Could beauty hurt?

4
Simon

S
imon watched the girl walk away, a cloud of anger around her. He was bemused. She had not responded correctly. He had started to moon-weave, and she had broken it. She had snapped it with anger. He was interested. He followed her.

He slipped gradually into a half state, nearer mist than form. It was easy—like dreaming, really—just let go of body and drift. His consciousness held molecules together with tendrils of thought. He blended with the shadows and became the air. She would never see. He flowed beneath trees, slid along walls, cut corners through dying autumn flowers. He always kept her in sight. She walked fast, shimmering the crisp air with her breath.

They usually came to him when his eyes softened with the moon, when he crushed his voice like velvet. They let him caress them. They tipped their heads back and drowned
in the stars, while he stroked exposed throat and wallowed in conquest. Sometimes he let them go and allowed them to think it a dream. He left before they broke the spell of his eyes, to sit blinking and head-shaking in cold predawn wind. Sometimes the dark hunger awoke too strong to hold. He clenched them tight, sank fangs deep into yielding neck, and fed on the thick, hot soup of their life. He was lost in the throbbing ecstasy song of blood pumping, life spurting, until blood, horror, and life ebbed, and he abandoned the limp remnants to seek dark sleep.

He stood at the wooden gate, watching the girl enter a forest-green door with diamond windows. He trembled with desire. Lights came on in the house. He circled it, peering in windows—a peeping Tom, ecstasy denied. He inhaled details from the golden warmth he could never have: an Oriental carpet, an antique armoire, cream kitchen tiles, and a painting of bright, crazed, laughing girls. His eyes narrowed. The girls in the painting looked right at him. Just a painting, he chided, but he felt mocked, and an anger rumbled deep in his throat. The lights downstairs dimmed. A light came on above. She goes to sleep, he thought, and begrudged her rest when he had none.

He paced her garden with slinking gait, examining basement windows and garage doors. He could not enter unless invited, but he liked to know the ways in, and out, if needed. The animal was close to the surface tonight. It
reminded him of when he first changed, when he roamed the woods like a beast for what seemed an eternity, mindless from shock. Threads of memory clung to him, though most was a blur. Images sparked bright at times; pictures frozen in the muted green light of the forest—savaged corpses of animals, or a gamekeeper crumpled and drained amid the fallen leaves, his head barely attached to his neck. Simon could not ever control it then, and his attack was fierce, made vicious by his own fear. It took a long time to regain the capacity to think. It took longer to leave the forest. But the forest had never left him. Tonight it echoed in him like owl cries, and pine needles rustling.

He marked his territory like a wolf, and urinated on the back-door steps. It helped a little. I know where you live, he thought.