Undead and Unappreciated (5 page)

“Yes, I made sure of that,” he agreed, focusing on me at once. “Antonia insisted.”

I gritted my teeth.
Bitch!
“But I didn't want to go anyway, so it all worked out fine.”

“Yes, you refused to go, so it really was all for the best.”

“And I looked like hell.”

“Yes, you looked terrible, being dead isn't agreeing with you at all, not at all, just like Antonia said it wouldn't.”

“Now go golfing and,” I added spitefully, “stroke three figures.”

“Ouch,” Jessica said as my father marched out.

“I am just not believing this,” I said, massaging my temples. “Like I don't have enough to worry about. I can't believe he let that slip.”

“You have that effect on men,” Sinclair said kindly. “They always reveal more than planned to you.”

I shrugged but was inwardly pleased. “How long has he been carrying this secret around? Why did he just happen to blurt it out while you and I were in the room? Jessica, would you climb down, for heaven's sake? I'm dying to know the rest. I mean, I might have a brother or sister running around
now
.”

“This doesn't bode well for your stress levels,” Jessica commented, letting go of Sinclair's neck and dropping to the floor.

“We will find out more. Your father has incomplete information anyway. We should go directly to the source.”

“Antonia,” Jessica and I said at the same time.

S
inclair's convertible was ridiculously crowded. He was driving, I was riding shotgun (finally, a perk to our “relationship”), and Marc, Jessica, and Tina were in the backseat.

Tina had come because…well, she always came with Sinclair when we were doing vampire stuff. The two of them went way back—in fact, she'd turned him. She was like his combination best pal/secretary/enforcer/confidant. Which was fine with me, because I sure as shit didn't want to do any of those things.

We had decided Marc should come along because we planned to drag all the gory details out of the Ant, and you never knew when a physician might come in handy.

Jessica, however, had blackmailed her way along. Sinclair had a lot of odious qualities, I'll be the first to say it (again and again); but one thing he liked to do was keep my friends out of vampire issues. And I couldn't really blame him…you just never knew when a totally normal vampire errand would end in a bloodbath with severed-limb soap.

Jessica never accepted these excuses. She put her size-nine foot down and that was the end of it. The clincher was when she told Sinclair it would be a shame if anything happened to any of his European suits while they were at the dry cleaners.

“In the old days,” he'd replied, “errand runners were actually helpful.” But that was all he'd said about it; Sinclair was always impeccably dressed, and had all his stuff tailor made. It wasn't being rich and wanting the best; his shoulders were too broad and his waist too narrow to buy off the rack. I could only imagine what his clothes cost. I had the feeling he would have let Jess ride in the passenger seat if she'd threatened his best Gucci.

So it was crowded, but almost nice. If it weren't for where we were going.

“It's just a word,” Marc was insisting. Oh, not this again. Jessica hated “African American,” but she wasn't too crazy about the
N
word, either. “It's lost all meaning. This isn't the nineteenth century. Or even the twentieth.”

“I don't think we should be talking about this,” Tina said, shifting so Marc's elbow wasn't on her eyebrow. She was teeny, but it was a tight fit back there.

“No, it's fine,” Jessica replied.

“Of course it's fine, we're all civilized ad—well, we're all adults. Tina, I swear, you're the most politically correct dead person I've ever known.”

“I just don't think this is an appropriate discussion for—for us.” Tina had been born around the time Lincoln freed the slaves, so she had perspective the rest of us didn't. She was pretty closemouthed about the whole thing.

“No, no, no,” Jessica said, and I curled my fingers around the door handle, just in case. I knew that tone. “In this day and age, there are quite a few more important things to worry about. It
is
just a word. It's totally lost its meaning.” Sinclair was looking up at her in the rearview, and Tina was edging away. Only Marc, who couldn't smell emotions, was oblivious. “Now go ahead,” she continued calmly. “You just call me that
once
.”

Silence. Followed by Marc's meek, “I didn't mean we should go around calling other people that. I just think—I mean I don't think—not that anyone should call you—or call anyone—”

“Will you stop already before one of us has to knock you unconscious?” I asked.

Jessica snickered, and that was the end of the discussion for that week.

 

We pulled upside my dad's Tudor (four thousand square feet for two people!) and piled out of the car. It was full dark, about nine o'clock at night. My dad had left town that afternoon for a business trip, and the Ant would be alone.

This information was helpfully provided by my mother, who supported my vampiric pursuits and helped me out whenever she could. Sometimes it's like that, I've noticed…one parent is almost too great, and the other one's a shit. I had my mom so high up on a pedestal, the poor thing probably got oxygen deprived.

I rapped twice, then opened the front door. Unlocked, of course…it was a pretty nice neighborhood. Very low crime. My dad didn't even lock his BMW when he left it in the driveway. As far as I knew, they'd never been robbed. Of course, if my funds ever ran low, that might change.

“Helloooooo?” I called. “Antonia? It's me, your favorite stepdaughter.”

“And by favorite,” Marc added, stepping into the foyer behind me, “she means hated.” He seemed to be bouncing back nicely from his humiliation in the car…but then, he was pretty irrepressible. Once you overlooked the whole attempted-suicide thing. Come to think of it, it was an
attempted
suicide…

“You haven't even met her,” Jessica said as we all crowded into the small hall.

“No, but I've heard the legend. Frankly, I'm skeptical. Can she live up to the hype?”

“I have to admit,” Tina said, “I'm curious, too.”

“She knows you are a vampire, but the front door was unlocked.” Sinclair sniffed. “Either she's unbelievably arrogant or unbelievably dim.”

“You can't be here!” my stepmother said by way of greeting, running down the stairs like Scarlett O'Hara with a blond wig and frown lines. “I didn't invite you in!”

“That only works on black people,” Jessica said.

Tina's eyes went wide, the way they do when she's concentrating on not laughing. “I'm afraid that's an old wives' tale, ma'am.”

“Always a pleasure, Antonia,” I said dryly. “Wow, you've gained a
ton
of weight.”

She glared blondly. Her hair was the perfect color (and possibly texture, but I wasn't planning on touching it) of a cut pineapple. She had on more blue eye makeup than a seventies disco queen, and her lipstick was a shade redder than her lip liner. Nine o'clock at night, home alone, husband out of town, and in full makeup. And black miniskirt. And white silk blouse, sans bra. Unreal.

“You get out of here and take your friends with you,” she said. She had been born and raised in Bemidji, but popped her consonants like she'd spent one too many years at an East Coast finishing school. “I told your father I don't know why he doesn't just wash his hands of you, and I'll tell you to your face. And another thing: I don't want you around the baby; I don't care if you're the big sister of the baby or not; you should have had the decency to stay dead like any normal person would stay dead.”

“She
does
live up to the hype,” Marc said, goggling at her.

“I couldn't agree with you more on that last one,” I said. “This is Marc, my gay roommate.” The Ant was, among other charming things, a homophobe. “And this is Sinclair and Tina.” What they were was obvious. “We're here to ask you a few questions.”

“Well, I'm not talking to you. I can't believe you had the nerve to even come here like a normal person when you're…you're…”

“A Republican?” I asked, possibly starting to enjoy this.

“We just have a couple of questions, and then we'll get right out of your hair,” Jessica said. I could tell she was dying to say what she was about to say. “About the baby you
already
had.”

The Ant, unfortunately, wasn't taken by surprise in the slightest, which meant my dad had warned her about his little slip. That was annoying. And surprising. My dad was pretty firmly under the Ant's manicured thumb. He lived in fear of her surgically plumped lips tightening in anger.

Instead, she took a breath and may have frowned, but she was fairly heavily Botoxed so it was hard to be sure. “You just mind your own business and get out of here, because it's nothing you need to worry about, and I can't believe you came all the way down here just to ask me about that. It's ancient history.”

“All the way down here?” Marc asked. “You live in Edina, not darkest Africa.”

“And are we going to stand in the foyer all night?” Jessica complained.

“I'm surprised we got this far,” I replied.

“No, you're not staying in here all night. In fact, you're leaving right now.” She dug around in her pocket and then whipped out a cross she had obviously made out of popsicle sticks. “The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you!”

I burst out laughing, even as Tina and Sinclair both took a big step back and looked away.

“I
told
you,” Jessica said, “that only works on black people.”

“How come you get to make those kinds of jokes?” Marc whined.

“Think about it, Marc,” she replied patiently.

“Get out of my house, you rotten undead things!”

“She did the exact same thing when the Boy Scouts came around selling Christmas wreaths,” I explained to the others, then took a step forward and snapped the cross away from her. “Where did you make this, shop class? You couldn't be bothered to go to a jewelry store and buy a nice one? I'm amazed you didn't make my dad cough up four figures for a diamond encrusted model.”

“You get out of my house,” she snapped. “You're not supposed to be able to do that.”

“Tell me about it. Listen, we're going to ask you about my dad's other baby, and we're not leaving until you tell us everything.”

“I'm not telling you rotten dead things a single detail. You're getting out and I'm going to sleep.”

“Oh,” Sinclair said, stepping forward once I'd put the popsicle sticks in my purse, “sleep will be the furthest thing from your mind in a few moments, Mrs. Taylor.”

I
came back down to the living room after a refreshing five minutes of putting the Ant's perfumes in the dryer and pushing Spin. Antonia was sitting on the far end of the couch, leaning forward, and staring raptly into Sinclair's face. Her hands were palm down in her lap, and she was compulsively scratching at the leather, but she never looked away from his eyes.

I felt kind of weird about this whole thing. Why, exactly, were we doing this? I wasn't even sure how I felt about it, but here we were anyway, digging around the Ant's substandard brain. And why was Sinclair so interested? Didn't he have king stuff to worry about? A suit fitting somewhere? Jerk training to attend, or teach? But here he was, sitting on the denim footstool, holding the Ant's man hands in his and getting everything out of her. Everything.

“…and then I tried to get him to propose, but he wouldn't do it, he was afraid Betsy would get mad at him if he left her mother, so we broke up.”

“Yes, but the baby?” Sinclair asked.

“The baby…the baby…”

“Man, she is getting freaked,” Marc muttered to me. “Look at her.”

I looked.
Scratch, scratch
went her nails against her leather miniskirt, and the corner of her mouth was sagging like she'd had a stroke.

And I could smell her anxiety. It was like burning glue.

“I don't remember…”

“Antonia, you remember,” Sinclair assured her. “You just haven't thought of it in many years. On purpose. Did the baby live?”

Her mouth hung open, and she moved her lips like she was trying to answer him, but nothing came out. Finally she groped and found Sinclair's hands, and the rest of her sordid tale just…just poured out. Like vomit.

“It wasn't me, it wasn't me! I got pregnant to get married, but it didn't work, and then the baby was here, and
it wasn't me!
” She wasn't just yelling, she was shrieking it, screaming it, and now her nails were digging into Sinclair's hands as she hung on for dear life. “It was supposed to work, and
it didn't work,
and I didn't know what happened, so I dropped her off…went to the hospital and left her in the lobby…nobody was around, but I knew someone would probably find her…so I put her down and never…never…”

“Jesus,” I said, startled.

“The last time the Ant was this upset,” Jessica whispered to me, “you came home a day early from summer camp.”

“It's all right, Antonia,” Sinclair soothed. “Of course it wasn't you. Who was it?”

“I don't know, I don't know.” She bowed her head, and a dry sob escaped. “I was pregnant and then I wasn't and the baby…the baby…”

“Antonia, what day did you find out you were pregnant?”

“Halloween. Nineteen eighty-five.”

“And what day was the next day? The day you woke up and the baby was already there?”

“August sixth, nineteen eighty-six. She was—she wasn't a newborn. I don't know how old she was, but she wasn't a newborn.”

Dead silence while we all processed this. Marc hurried to Sinclair's side and whispered a question to him.

“Antonia, we're almost finished—”

“Good,” she snapped, still looking at the floor. “I'm not telling you another thing.”

“Yes, fine, Antonia, look up at me—that's better. Antonia, is there a history of mental illness in your family?”

“We don't talk about
that
.”

“Of course not, only nasty people talk about
that
.”

She was nodding so hard her hair actually moved. “Yes, that's right, that's exactly right, only nasty people—whiners, and—and—”

“But who was sick? In your family?”

“My grandmother. And both of my aunts. Not my mother, though, not
mine
.”

“No, of course not. And you're different from them.”

“It's just my nerves,” she explained. “I just have very delicate nerves.
She
doesn't understand.”

“No, she's not really the understanding type, is she?”

“Hey,” I protested mildly.

“Anybody else would have stayed dead,” the Ant went on, sounding aggrieved. “She didn't even have the class to do that. Has to be different—and—different—and has to rise and be a vampire. A vampire! She broke her father's heart.”

“Class?” I yelped. “Oh, being undead is, what, classless now? And it's not like I had a choice, you tiny-brained, idiotic, shallow, Botoxed, gutless, chinless—”

“She lives with that rich Negro,” the Ant confided. “And they're
not
married. Get what I'm saying?”

I slapped my forehead. Negro! Who even uses that word?

“I didn't know I was gay,” Jessica commented.

Oh, Lord, let me die now again.

“Antonia, where did you leave the baby?”

“There was no baby.”

“No, of course not. Certainly not
your
problem anymore. But where did you leave her?”

“She didn't cry when I left her,” the Ant said steadily. “She was warm. I had—I had lots of towels and I could spare some. I put them in the dryer first.”

“Of course you did, you're not a monster.”

“
She's
the monster.”

“Yes, she's terrible, and where is the baby?”

“Children's.”

“Saint Paul,” Marc whispered.

“All right, Antonia. You've been most helpful.”

“Well, I try to donate to The Jimmy Fund when I go to the movies,” she said.

“Oh, that's excellent. And you won't remember anything.”

“No, I certainly will
not
.”

“You'll go upstairs and get ready for bed. And you'll sleep like a baby.”

“Yes, like a baby.”

“Like the baby you callously abandoned,” he said and abruptly let go of her hands.

 

“A sad woman,” Sinclair commented when we were all outside again.

“Very sad,” Tina agreed. She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, which was as creepy as it sounded. “Very difficult.”

“I've got privileges at Children's,” Marc said. He was well into junior Sherlock Holmes mode, I was annoyed to see. “I bet we can track this baby down. And I bet I can get a crack at the Ant's med recs, too. Or at least try. I can try.”

“Why do you want to see
her
records?” I asked. We weren't ready to get in the car yet, so we were sort of loitering outside on the front lawn.

“Because nobody blacks out for ten months unless something is
really
wrong. You heard her. One minute she was pregnant, the next she ‘woke up' with a crying baby. So…what happened during that ten months?”

“I think I know,” Tina said quietly.

“Tina,” Sinclair said.

“Eric,” she replied. She almost never used his first name.

“Tina?” I was surprised. Tina hadn't looked this nervous when Nostro threw us into the pit with the Fiends. But she was younger then. In a manner of speaking. “Hey, are you all right? Did you forget to have a snack?”

I noticed she had knotted her fingers together like kids playing “this is the church, this is the steeple” and now spoke to her knuckles, fast, without pausing. “My Queen, I always liked you personally, but now I am filled with admiration because you're not psychotic after being raised by
that woman
.”

“Awww,” I replied. I almost smirked. “That gets me right here, Tina.”

“It's true,” Sinclair said. “It's a miracle you're not
more
vain, shallow, and ignorant.”

“Thanks,” I said. Then, “What?”