Every Other Day (20 page)

27

When I got home from hunting—
feeding
—my dad was in the kitchen. He seemed lost, like he’d forgotten where exactly the microwave was, and when I came in, he actually smiled.

“There you are.”

I so didn’t want to get into this—not now.

“I thought I might cook dinner tonight,” he said. “Today was my sexual selection lecture—the kids always love that one.”

It took me a moment to realize that he was trying to make conversation. It seemed ironic that he’d picked today, of all days, to remember my existence.

“Your school called,” he said suddenly. “They said you missed your classes.”

Why did I get the distinct feeling that my father had run an Internet search for “what to do when your child plays hooky”? Hence the homemade dinner and his best attempt at a heart-to-heart.

Considering my own mother might have ordered someone to kill me, my dad’s clumsy attempts to parent didn’t seem as bad as they otherwise might have. Then again, on any other day, I might have actually let myself believe that things were going to change.

That we were capable of it.

“I stole your car,” I said, because that seemed like as good a way as any to put an end to this father-daughter bonding session before it started.

“Oh,” my father replied, blinking rapidly. “I thought maybe I forgot where I parked it.”

That nearly startled a laugh out of me. It was comforting to know that the absentminded professor wasn’t just forgetful when it came to pesky little details like my birthday, my age, and when and where he was supposed to pick me up.

“I got you a new phone.” With an awkward little smile, my father turned back toward the counter and then handed me a new cell phone. “I remember you said you broke yours.”

“A month ago. I broke that one a month ago.” I hadn’t meant to say that out loud, and when the smile faded from his face, I wanted to kick myself. My father was what he was, but at least he was trying.

At least he wasn’t evil.

At least he’d stayed.

“I mean, thanks,” I said, taking the phone. “And sorry about the car.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Want to tell me where you were today?”

I tried to remember the last time he’d asked me a question that direct, but couldn’t. “I actually went by the university,” I said. “I saw part of your lecture.”

The expression on his face wavered, and for a second, I thought he was going to laugh, or cry, or both. Instead, he shrugged.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, Kali.”

He hesitated, ever so slightly, when he said my name, and I couldn’t help hearing her say it.

Kali, baby. Kali-Kay.

I turned toward the sink and made a show of washing my hands. I waited for my father to say something else, and I told myself that if he asked, I’d tell him.

I’d tell him everything.

This was a game I played, one I always, always lost.
If he asks me why there’s blood on my shirt, I’ll tell him. If he asks me where I’m going, I’ll tell him. If he asks why I don’t have any friends, or if I want to go out to dinner, or if I’m doing okay—I’ll tell him.

In the past few years, I’d made those bargains with myself—and with the universe—a million times. If, if, if—and it never came to anything.

He never asked.

Until now.

“What’s going on with you, Kali? You seem …” He trailed off, at a loss for words—clearly an unusual experience for a man known for giving eloquent lectures. “Are you okay?”

“No.” I hadn’t meant to say the word, but fair was fair. He’d asked. All those years, all those conditional statements, and now, he’d finally asked. “I saw my mother today.”

For a moment, he was silent. He wrinkled his forehead, like whatever language I was speaking, it wasn’t quite English. “Your mother?” he repeated finally.

“Contributor to half of my gene pool. About yea tall.” I raised my hand to demonstrate. “Looks a little bit like me, only prettier.”

“Kali, your mother—I’m sure it wasn’t her.”

If only that were true.

“This woman’s name was Rena. Rena Malik.”

I could tell by the look on his face that he knew that name, knew her.

“That was her name,” I said softly. “Wasn’t it?”

It was a funny thing not to know about your own mother, but since my father and I didn’t talk about her, I’d never actually known her name.

“Rena,” my father said, like she was standing right there in the kitchen with us, an ever-present ghost.

“Rena Malik,” I said again. “I guess she never took your last name.”

“We weren’t married,” my father said absently.

“You weren’t?”

I don’t know why that surprised me, but I guess I’d always just assumed that they were. My father wasn’t the type of guy to have a kid out of wedlock.

“Kali, your mother and I weren’t …
together
.” My father chose his words very carefully. “She moved in with me after you were born, but the two of us were never … that is to say …”

If I hadn’t wanted to hear my father give a lecture on sexual selection, I certainly didn’t want to hear a play-by-play of my own conception, via a one-night stand.

“Where did you see her?” With that question, my father seemed to gain his composure—and an intensity that I hadn’t heard anything but academia bring out in him in a very long time.

“She didn’t see me.” That wasn’t exactly what he’d asked, but it wasn’t like I could tell him that I’d seen my mother in Paul Davis’s basement lab.

“Okay,” he said. “Good.”

“Good?” I repeated.

“Your mother,” he said. “Rena—she … she’s not the motherly type, Kali.”

“And you’re the fatherly type?” I asked him. He blanched.

“Fair enough,” he said after a moment. “I know I’m not perfect, but—your mother didn’t leave, Kali.”

Of all the words he might have said, those were the last ones I was expecting.

“What?”

She didn’t want us, and she left.
That was what he’d told me for as long as I could remember.

“I left. I left her, and I took you with me.”

I tried to imagine a world in which my father would have volunteered to be a single parent. I tried to imagine what could possibly have compelled him to do a thing like that.

The tests. The secrets. The games.

It was all hovering right out of reach, my memory hazy and incomplete.

“What did she do?” I asked, my voice hoarse, my hands shaking.

My father turned, busying himself with something at the counter. “It was a long time ago, Kali.”

Can you say gun?
a voice whispered from somewhere in my memory.

“What did she do to me?” I asked, my body running cold, my muscles hardening to stone.

Sit still, Kali. Sit so still.

Time for my shot.

A possibility occurred to me, one I should have thought of much, much sooner. One that made sense of the splinters I’d seen of my own past, one that answered every question I’d ever had about why I was the way I was.

Maybe they’d made me that way.

I’d spent my entire life thinking that maybe my mother was like me, that maybe my condition was hereditary, but what if it wasn’t?

My father was a scientist.

My mother worked for Chimera.

Chimera specialized in making monsters.

Something snapped inside of me, and I walked over to the counter and opened the knife drawer. I pulled out a cutting knife, the largest of a set of five. I turned calmly back to my father. His brow wrinkled, and he realized what I was going to do a second before I did it.

He reached out to grab my hand, and I threw him off—threw him too hard, and he skidded across the floor, eyes wide. I took a step forward and brought the knife to my arm.

Slice, slice, slice.

Steel slid into my flesh. Blood welled up on the surface of my skin. I’d cut myself long and deep, and from his spot on the floor, my father made a choking, strangled sound.

I threw the knife down. With my right hand, I wiped the blood off my left. It smeared, and I turned to the sink and turned on the water. Mechanically, I washed off the cut.

I held my arm up, and my father watched in sick fascination as the skin began knitting itself back together.

“Am I even your daughter?” I asked. Maybe they’d just found me somewhere. Maybe I’d been their specimen, the way Zev was Chimera’s.

“Yes,” my father said, his voice shaking. “You’re my daughter. And Rena’s.”

There were words then, so many words, coming out of my father’s mouth. He’d been a junior professor. Rena had been a graduate student. She’d come to him with a mysterious blood sample.

“Get to the point.” I meant to sound brisk. I didn’t mean to beg. “Please.”

He stammered. “Th-th-the idea that there might be preternatural humans, as similar to us as a yeti is to a gorilla … it was incredible, Kali. But we only had that one sample, and it wasn’t enough.”

I saw where this was going, saw it as clearly as the features on his face, but I didn’t make it any easier for him. I just waited, the blood-covered knife gleaming on the counter.

“The DNA was close enough to human that Rena thought that we could splice it into the human genome, if the intervention happened early enough in development.”

“How early?” I asked, wondering if I’d ever been normal. If I’d ever even had a chance.

“Conception,” my father said, his voice hoarser even than mine.

Conception
, I thought. So that was my answer. I hadn’t ever been normal. I hadn’t ever had a chance.

From his position on the floor, my father begged me with his eyes to understand. “My DNA, your mother’s, our test subject’s … we knew it probably wouldn’t take. But it did, and suddenly, Rena was pregnant, and the two of us had to face the reality that this wasn’t just some abstract thing. It wasn’t just DNA. It was a baby.” He paused and climbed to his feet. “It was you.”

I’d spent the past five years wondering why I was the way I was, wondering what was wrong with me.

“Congratulations,” I said. “Guess your experiment worked.”

“But it didn’t!” The words burst out of my father’s mouth. “We ran the tests—ran them again and again, Kali, but they all came back human. You were human. And you were ours.”

Their
experiment
.

“Things were fine, for a while. You were such a good baby, and Rena—she adored you, Kali. The way she used to look at you … I thought that maybe it was worth it. All of the risks we’d taken, the laws we’d broken, the lines we’d crossed—because at the end of the day, we had you. But then, when you were about two, Rena got a new job, in the private sector. She started hearing rumors about an undiscovered preternatural species. And the more she heard about what they could do, the more convinced she became that you might have inherited something.”

It was all so clear in my mind now. The games. The trips to the lab. They’d taken my blood and hooked me up to machines and run every test known to man.

And when that hadn’t worked, Mommy and I had started playing games at home.

“She quit her job to stay home with you full-time. I should have known, Kali, but I didn’t. We were …
happy
. You adored her. And then one day, I came home, and you were holding a gun. You were playing with it, and she was just staring at you.” His voice started catching in his throat. “We’d been told that alt-humans—that’s what they were calling them then—that alt-humans had an affinity for weapons. But you didn’t. You were just a three-year-old kid, and that gun was loaded.”

I thought of the gun safe at Bethany’s house, of the zombies mobbing me and the way the weapons sung in my hand.

“I’m not three years old anymore,” I said. “And I’m not human.”

After all these years of keeping secrets, of dancing around even the simplest truths in our relationship, it was suddenly very easy to say.

“It started when I was twelve—right after my first period. I woke up really early one morning, and everything was different. I needed to get out of the house. To hunt.” I looked back at the knife on the counter. “That’s what we do, you know. People like me. We hunt the things that go bump in the night. We feel them like bugs crawling beneath our skin, and we hunt them down, and we keep them from killing anyone else.”

My father didn’t say a word—not a single word.

“Didn’t you ever wonder?” I asked. “Didn’t you ever see the clothes in the trash, the blood? Did you even notice when I wasn’t in my bed at night? And in the papers, they were always talking about vigilantes and poachers and whatever else they call people who hunt the monsters instead of calling Preternatural Control. God, Dad, I broke into your lab.”

“The zombies,” he said dully. “My work. That was you?”

“It was always me,” I said roughly. “Because that’s what I am. That’s what you made me—only I didn’t know that. I never knew why. I didn’t even know what.”

“But that’s impossible,” my father said, shaking his head, as if that could make what I was saying any less true. “I tested you, every year, just to be sure. You took physicals. And your blood work always came up clean.”

I shrugged. “Sometimes I’m human. Sometimes I’m not. It’s not all that difficult to miss an appointment and reschedule it for a time when I’m just a girl.”

Just an ordinary girl.

Yeah, right.

“Does your mother know?” His voice was honey-smooth and clear, like he’d recovered his composure, but his eyes were as dead as any zombie’s. “If she does, we have to leave. Now. Tonight. It won’t be easy, but I have some money set aside. We’ll be fine for a while….”

“I have no idea what that woman knows,” I said, “but I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.”

It shocked me that he wanted to, that he would pick up and leave everything behind—his career, our house, his friends….

He’s done it before
, I thought, and the reminder almost broke me all over again. The two of us had never been more than ships passing in the night. He had his life, and I had mine, and the only time the two coincided was when he needed a plus one.

“What Rena and I did was wrong, Kali. I know that. I’ve known it for a very long time, and when I look at you, when I think about what we did to you …”