The Silver Kiss Read online

  He never turned to her. He never heard her leave. Or noticed the soiled teddy bear lying abandoned on the ground. The emptiness crashed in, and he asked himself the question that he hadn’t dared to ask before. What will I do now?

  15

  Zoë

  Zoë gazed at her reflection in her mother’s dresser mirror and held a string of pearls to her throat. They glowed against the black sweatshirt she was wearing. Her sleek neck showed no blemish, as if the boy had never existed, but he was out there somewhere. Her fingers trembled as again she felt the bitter aftertaste of sickness.

  She’d come home last night and had hardly time enough to undress before she was in the bathroom throwing up. She’d huddled on the bathroom floor in her nightdress, pressing her sweating forehead against the cool porcelain, moaning with each wave of nausea. The repeated flushing finally got her father’s attention, and he came tapping gently on the bathroom door. She let him in, and he patted her back and said comforting things, until she was well enough to get up and return to her room.

  “Something I ate,” she told him.

  He laughed sympathetically. “You eat so little, it seems unfair.”

  She tried to smile. “Yes. It’s usually me disagreeing with food, not the other way around.”

  Her sleep had been restless. Once she woke with a start in a cold sweat, but she couldn’t remember what she’d been dreaming. She was afraid to fall back to sleep, fought it, in fact, but was dragged under again despite her efforts. She got up in the morning to a nervous stomach, and dark rings under her eyes.

  “Don’t go to school today, sweetheart,” her father said before he went to work. “I’ll pick you up here on my way to the hospital.”

  Zoë had no intention of going to school, but she couldn’t settle to anything else either. Eventually, she found her way into her parents’ bedroom, and to her mother’s jewelry box.

  She had always loved playing with her mother’s jewelry when she was small, and her mother had sometimes used that to her advantage when she especially wanted some quiet. Going through the little drawers brought back the peace of childhood. Here was the cheap, sparkling star she had given her mother one Christmas, and here was her grandmother’s ring. There was order in the rows of earrings under the velvet-lined lid, memories in the broken and odd assortments in their special niches.

  But the old memories couldn’t blot out her memory of the night before, and that awful, terrifying chase. She had really believed Christopher was killing Simon, and there was nothing she could do about it. I wanted to protect him, she thought. But how do you protect someone against that? The craziness was overwhelming her. And who were those boys? She shivered. Those stupid boys. She threaded the pearls back into their velvet pouch. They clicked like teeth.

  Nothing will frighten me ever again after seeing Christopher in that hole, she decided. Her stomach tightened, still not immune to the memory. She closed the lid of the box.

  Simon had killed his own brother. Surely that hurt, no matter what his brother had been? What did he feel? His whole life—if that’s what you could call it—had been spent chasing this one thing. What would he do now?

  If he leaves, could I go with him? she wondered. Could I live like that? She could live by night, she knew, but the blood? No, she couldn’t face the blood.

  Her gaze sought the self-portrait of her mother that hung over the bed. “He’s so lonely,” she said to the painting, as if begging her mother to understand.

  She curled up on her parents’ bed, stroking the familiar, nubbled bedspread, and fell asleep under the portrait, under her mother’s watchful eyes. She slept an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

  Her father found her still sleeping when he came home. She splashed some water on her face and climbed into the car, still bleary-eyed. They were almost at the hospital before she felt fully awake.

  Anne Sutcliff was sitting up in bed, wearing a pretty bed jacket she had bought on a trip to England years ago. She was very pale and thin, but she was smiling.

  “I’m going to get a soda,” Harry said. He left the room.

  Zoë sat in a chrome chair by the bedside. She felt fragile.

  “I hear you’ve been smashing up furniture.”

  Zoë started, and groped quickly for the excuse she had given her father. “Uh, yes. I put my coffee down without a coaster. You always warned me, didn’t you?”

  Zoë was relieved to see a familiar amused look on her mother’s face. “Don’t worry, no one’s going to jump on you, silly. But I’m not sure a hot cup would have done quite that much damage.”

  “Well, it certainly was a surprise.” Zoë felt herself redden.

  “Zoë, I don’t care what happened, really. You’ve a right to be angry.”

  God, she thinks I did it on purpose, Zoë thought.

  “I used to get so mad,” her mother said. “Not so much now.”

  Zoë remembered how, when her mother first got sick, she’d blow up at the tiniest thing. “ ‘Cause you were scared,” she said.

  “Yeah. That’s part of it.” Zoë’s mother smiled at her.

  “But you can’t keep it to yourself, or you burst at the seams. That’s why I suggested the, you know, the therapist to your dad. When you said he wasn’t talking.”

  “He went,” Zoë said.

  “You, too, huh? You’re going to need each other.”

  When I’m gone, Zoë thought miserably, finishing the sentence for her.

  Her mother reached for her hand and squeezed it, and her voice softened. “The world won’t shatter, Zoë.” She always seemed to know exactly how Zoë felt.

  “We’ve all got to die,” her mother whispered, and closed her eyes, as if admitting this had been a great effort.

  Zoë cringed as if she’d been slapped. Don’t talk about it, she pleaded silently. I don’t want to talk about it. No matter how many times she’d told herself her mother was dying, it was awful to hear her mother say it. She stared at her jeans, afraid to look up.

  Mom tugged at her hand. “It’s not going to go away if you ignore it. There are no spells against death, Zoë.”

  Zoë forced herself to look at her mother. Yes, there are, she wanted to say. Dark spells. I know one. But she knew she couldn’t. “You’re giving in. If you say things like that, you’re letting it happen.”

  Her mother shook her head. “I’m just not so afraid anymore. That’s not giving in. Zoë, your dad’s going to need help. You’ve got to look after him.”

  Zoë glanced at the door before she could help it. What if he heard?

  Her mother saw the worry on her face and sighed. “I’m sorry to put this on you. It’s unfair, isn’t it? You shouldn’t have to be the strong one.”

  Zoë’s fists clenched. She was right, it was unfair. The whole thing was unfair. She finally asked the question she had kept on asking herself ever since this began. “Why you, Mom?”

  Her mother took a clumsy sip of water. “It happens to people all the time, why not me? I’m not special. Hush!” She touched her lips. The gesture was an effort. “I know. To you. But not in the whole scheme of things.”

  Zoë looked at her mother with pride. She’s so much better than me, she thought. She’s brave.

  “I don’t think I could feel that way,” she finally said.

  “Well, people your age don’t believe they can ever die.”

  Mom was quiet for a while. Zoë didn’t know if she was resting or thinking. An orderly pushed a rattling cart by the door. Someone down the corridor was buzzing the nurse.

  “I suppose I’m still a little angry,” her mother finally said. “There’s things I’d still like to do. Did I ever tell you how I wanted a house in the country with a bunch of cats, and a studio with huge skylights?”

  “Lots of times.” Zoë remembered sitting with her in the kitchen after school, when she took a break from painting. While they sipped hot tea, her mother would describe her perfect studio in minute detail. She never grew tired of plannin
g it. Her mother could never live Simon’s life—all nights, no bright, glowing days, no grand plans, only survival. She would pine, shrivel, become other than what she was. “What a half-assed life,” she could imagine her mother saying, and she smiled.

  Her mother looked at her curiously. “Something funny?”

  “Cosmic humor.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t push. “Speaking of cosmic, I rather like the idea of reincarnation. I’d like to come back as a cat owned by someone like me.”

  Zoë took a deep breath. Maybe it got easier the more you talked about it. She’d try hard, for her mother’s sake.

  “The someone like you would probably be married to someone like Dad, who’s allergic.”

  Her mother’s smile faded. “I can’t comprehend being nothing. It gives me a spooky feeling inside.”

  That’s what Simon said, Zoë realized.

  Anne Sutcliff winced, squeezing her eyes shut, and Zoë’s stomach did a flip. She wasn’t going to die now? Right in front of her? But her mother composed herself.

  “I can’t go on with this pain.”

  Again Zoë thought of Simon.

  “I was afraid that seeing me like this would wipe out the good memories, Zoë. That you’d only remember me like this. Don’t let that happen. Remember when …” And she launched into one of her favorite stories of Zoë’s childhood.

  Zoë sat and nodded and smiled, and didn’t really listen. She thought about what her mother had said. If she can deal with this, I’ll try. But I don’t have to like it.

  Her father came back in and joined in with a story of his own. Then she was telling them her side of a story, and they were laughing, and she was a part of them again.

  “Don’t let it take away your life too,” Zoë’s mother whispered to her just before Zoë and her father left. “Live it for all it’s worth while you’ve got it.”

  No, her mother could never live by night, in the dark.

  “I’m glad you came,” Dad said in the car.

  There was still that thread between them. I just have to be patient, she realized. Let him grieve in his own way. Eventually he’ll come back to me.

  She let herself be mesmerized by the frosty circles around the streetlights. She felt full of happy and sad at the same time. Dad still needs me, she thought. And what about Lorraine? Just because she’s out there doesn’t mean she doesn’t care anymore. It doesn’t put her out of my life for good. She’ll come back to me, too, in a way. No matter who she meets out there, we are still too much a part of each other’s lives. I hope she calls me soon.

  Things changed, she realized. People grew, they moved, they died. Sometimes they withdrew into themselves, and sometimes they reached out after needing no one. She remembered Simon’s clinging embrace. What would it be like if nothing changed? she wondered. It would be stagnant, she supposed: frozen, decadent, terrifying. But why did it have to be so painful—all this change? Why did it mean losing people you love?

  Then they were home.

  There was a note on her bed, scribbled on a piece of paper torn from her notebook. Meet me in the park at 12. It was signed with a scrolling S.

  She folded and refolded the note as she thought about him. He’d cheated death, yes, but was forced to live a life he hated. He was always shut out, never allowed to love, and was trapped in the horror of enslavement to his need for blood. She shuddered, thinking of the people he must have killed, and felt a little sick, knowing she had allowed him to kiss her.

  But she felt different when he was there, when she could see the loneliness on his face. No matter what he’d done, he seemed innocent of it, like a wild animal. Now that he’d had his revenge, there was nothing left but the pain. He was too good to not be hurt by what he had to do to survive. He could never find happiness. A companion wouldn’t make it easier. Death would be better than living that way. Sometimes there was a time for death.

  She thought about her mother then. Perhaps there was always a good reason even if you couldn’t see it, and it was a crime against nature to deny change.

  Maybe it would be the kindest thing to kill him, she thought. No one else knew about him. Maybe it was her responsibility, for his sake, and the sake of others too.

  She felt terrified at the very thought. But if she was prepared to help kill Christopher, if she had been capable once, couldn’t she be again?

  In the garden shed she found a tumble of wood in the corner. Three thick shafts had been sharpened for some use in the yard. Their ends were darkened with soil. She held one and turned it in her hands. It would do. Her lip trembled, and her stomach twisted. Would she come from the front and see the look of betrayal on his face, or did she strike like a coward from behind? Did she even have the physical strength to force it through?

  She flung the stake from her with a sharp cry, and its clatter echoed in the earthy hut. Simon wasn’t like Christopher. She couldn’t do it.

  Zoë went to meet Simon after her father had fallen asleep on the couch. What am I to do? she thought. She passed a coarse, broken wall near a bus stop. Some semiliterate street poet had sprayed a message there: Life is an ilusion that last too little.

  He was on her bench. He sat with his head bowed, and his eyes closed, like a choirboy in church. His translucent beauty once more surprised her. She could never quite remember it exactly, so it always came as a breathless shock. Beside him on the bench was his painting, on the other side a battered brown suitcase.

  His head came up, and his eyes snapped open to meet hers. “Good evening,” he said quietly. “Come sit with me.” He put his suitcase on the ground. She went to him, and he took her hand and kissed it. “Remember your poem, Zoë? I’m going to shift into a sunbeam this time.”

  She was puzzled and suddenly afraid for him.

  “Wait with me for sunrise, Zoë.”

  Her eyes widened as realization slowly grew. “No. Don’t.” Despite her previous resolution she was struck with an overpowering desire to stop him, to offer her companionship to save him from this. She couldn’t bear to lose him too. She reached for his other hand and held both his hands tight. She didn’t have to say it. She didn’t have to offer. He knew.

  “No, Zoë. You are sweet and kind, but it would never work. It’s my decision, isn’t it?”

  She knew he was right.

  “I have stayed too long. Death is the nature of things.” He looked away from her. “I am unnatural.”

  It was as if his thoughts had paralleled hers all along and so validated them. She leaned to him and kissed him on his cheek. He moved slightly, and his lips caught hers in a fleeting, delicate touch.

  “What have I done, Zoë? Why did I exist?”

  “You stopped Christopher. You even stopped von Grab. It was all worthwhile.”

  He let out a quick, crisp laugh of pleasure. “You are so generous. You’re the only one in the world who knows or cares that I exist, and I can only bring you sorrow.”

  She let go of his hands. “Lately it seemed sometimes that you were the only one who knew I existed. Soon I won’t have anyone.”

  He looked surprised. “But you have yourself. A good, kind, strong, brave self. It was you who gave me courage.”

  He stood and put the suitcase back on the bench; then he opened it, revealing gray, dry earth. He grabbed a handful and threw it to the air. She inhaled sharply. It was his life scattering. “Help me, Zoë. I can’t turn back.”

  She hesitated. Then she stood too. Sometimes when things won’t change, you have to force them. She took a tentative scoop and dribbled it through her fingers, but every grain cried out to her.

  “No. Throw it,” he demanded.

  She scooped a large fistful and threw it as far as she could, screwing up her eyes against the sight. He’s burning his bridges, she thought. I should be happy, but I ache.

  He was flinging the earth every which way. He started to laugh, as if unburdened by a diminishing load. He threw faster and faster. She tried to keep up. Furiously, the
dirt scattered through the air, thudded on the gazebo, spatted on the path, trickled through the slats of the bench. I can’t stand it, she thought.

  Then there were just a few crumbs left. Simon picked up the suitcase and, with a final wild cry, hurled it as far as he could into the bushes. He sank exhausted to the bench. Zoë settled beside him and took his hand again.

  “Please keep the painting for me, Zoë. I want you to have it.”

  She touched the gilt frame in answer, accepting his gift, a piece of him always.

  They sat in silence for a long while. Occasionally a car roared in the distance, miles telescoped by night. A mask of chill lay across her cheeks.

  “I’m afraid,” he finally said.

  She slid her arms around him and held him tight, giving him her strength and love. This is all my mother wants, she realized.

  The night was cold, but it wasn’t the cold that trembled him in her arms. Now and then they kissed, then he would pull away and sigh. Sometimes he would stroke her neck longingly, place one kiss there, then lay his head on her breast. Once she saw he had tears in his eyes.

  Birds began to sing here and there. The sky lightened to a pearly gray. She remembered Christopher in the pit and shuddered. Could she stand to see that again? Yet she held him tight. She wouldn’t let him down.

  Then the sun was rising.

  They parted. Simon looked as if he might spring from the bench and run. She reached for him, and he almost fled from her touch, but he turned back and took her hand again.

  He held ruthlessly still.

  They didn’t dare look anywhere but at each other as the sun rose higher. He flinched. She held her breath.

  Then suddenly he was smiling. His face was lit by day for the first time in three hundred years, and also lit by joy. He did not burn.

  She wanted to laugh but dared not break the spell.

  Instead, he began to fade. She held tighter, elation turning to dismay. Her fingers slid through his as if they were mist.

  But his look of delight didn’t change. “I think I’m free,” he whispered. “All I had to do was go willingly.”