Nightmare

  “And?” I wait for the 'but.'

  “And I think I'm going to need a little time to think about this. Peter, you can stay as long as you want, but I need to lie down.” She gets up, and she looks so worn out. Like a wrung out washcloth. God, what the hell was I thinking? She's so fragile and I'd put something too heavy on her shoulders. I'd piled it on top of her like twelve million bricks. Bricks dripping in blood. What a lovely image.

  “I'm so sorry,” I whisper, my voice thin as paper. Mom grabs my shoulder, her fingers digging into my skin, making me look up at her.

  “Oh, ma fleur, I don't want you to regret telling me something. Honesty is the best policy. I am grateful for your honesty. And yours, Peter. Thank you.” I didn't tell her about the whole thing with Di. I figured that was just too much.

  “I told Tex,” I say as she gets up from the table, using both hands to pull herself up.

  She smirks, and I relax a little. “I bet that went over well.”

  “Actually, it did. She won't stop asking if Peter has brothers.” I want to roll my eyes, but I'm still feeling super guilty.

  “That would not be my first inclination.” She casts a wary eye at Peter.

  “It wouldn't be anyone's but hers.” She pushes away from the table, like shoving a boat away from the shore. Her dress whispers against her skin as she walks back to her room. I can hear her uneven breathing until she closes the door.

  I slump down on the table, banging my forehead.

  “That was such a bad idea.”

  “The truth is never a bad idea.” Peter puts his hand on my arm. It feels good, even through the fabric of my shirt. It's like my skin wants to forget about the suckiness of this whole thing.

  “In this case, I think it is. What if I make her sick?” I turn my face so I can see him.

  “She is already sick.”

  “You don't have to point that out, Peter, I'm aware.” I hate lashing out at him, but I can't help it. I'm not going to go so far as to say this is his fault, because I'm just as responsible as he is. I was the one who kept going back to the cemetery. I was the one who wouldn't leave him alone. I also didn't stop him when he wanted to do the Claiming. I let it happen. And I'd let him feed from me. Twice. It really wasn't as bad as it sounded. It was kind of sexy. But I'd never, ever, tell Peter that.

  He removes his hand from my arm and I want to pout. “Would you like to continue playing cards?”

  “Not really.”

  “What would you like to do?” I don't know, maybe kick some puppies and steal lollipops from crying children.

  Honestly? “Die.”

  “Do not be dramatic. I have died. It is nothing to write home about.” I can't help but grin a little at his joke. Still, I can't stop thinking about my mother. I don't want to disturb her, but I wish I could talk to her and see if she's okay. I just have this horrible image in my head of her collapsing.

  “You are thinking negative thoughts. I can feel them.”

  “I can't help it.”

  “I know.” His fingers circle my spine. If only his touch could brush away the guilt. “Should I take you flying tonight?”

  “That would be nice.” It had been a while since I'd flown with Peter. I loved it, being so free, so high up. We'd talk or not talk and it would be just us and the wind and the stars. I wished we could do it in the daytime, but there was too much of a chance we'd be caught. Even if someone spotted us, the chances of anything coming of it were slim. Basically, Peter was a UFN. Unidentified Flying Noctalis.

  “Can we just watch something stupid on tv, and you'll let me hold your hand?” It sounds so lame, but it's what I want. Well, what I really want is to kiss him and forget everything. But I can't do that. I don't want him falling in love with me. I should be meaner to him to make sure it doesn't happen. I'd rather hold his hand, though.

  I turn on a show about pregnant teenagers and Peter sits next to me on the couch. I wait for him to take my hand. He does, and everything slips into place. I swear I can hear a clunk. And everything sorta seems like it might be okay.

  Not quite. Something nags at me, and I get restless after a few minutes. “I'm going to check on my mom, okay?” I don't want to let his hand go, but I need to see how she's doing.

  Peter nods and I get up, letting go of his hand. My skin goes cold for a second, but I ignore it. My mother is more important than my own comfort.

  I knock on the door, but there's no answer so I push it open. Maybe she's sleeping. I peer in, cautious. What I see makes me run, my feet tripping on the cream-colored carpet.

  She's on the bed, flat on her back. Her eyes are closed and her skin is crazy pale.

  “Mom!” I shake her shoulder. Nothing. “Mom!” I slap her face, and she finally stirs. “What's wrong?”

  “I don't know, I just feel...” She can't finish the sentence and slumps, eyes rolling back.

  “Mom!” I scream.

  “Here,” a voice says next to me. It's Peter and he's brought the phone. I stare at it like I've never seen one before. What the hell do I do with it? Mom's voice captures my attention. She's awake, but unable to focus her eyes on my face.

  “You don't need to call. I'm fine. Just a little dizzy.” She barely has the strength to talk.

  “You fainted. That isn't good.” I can't remember the doctor's number. Before I can ask Peter, he's gone and back with the dry erase board that sits next to the phone.

  My hands shake as I dial the number. It's Dr. Young's cell phone, so I should be able to reach him. It rings twice before he answers.

  “Hi, Dr. Young, this is Ava Sullivan. My mom just passed out and I didn't know what to do.” There's a lot of noise in the background. I think I hear a whistle.

  “Is she awake now?” I hear him walking away from the noise.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I want you to bring her in right away. If I'm not available, someone else will be there to see her. How long will it take you get there?”

  Mom's trying to get my attention, but I ignore her. She's going to the damn hospital. “About twenty minutes.”

  “I'll let the nurses know you're on your way.”

  “Okay. Thank you.” I hang up. “We're going to see the doctor.”

  “I'm fine. You didn't need to call him.” She closes her eyes for a second. Her skin is still so pale, and there are little droplets of sweat along her wigline.

  “Yes, I did.” I hand the phone back to Peter. His calming energy doesn't do much for my panic. I don't know what to do?

  “Can you walk?” Peter asks my mother, leaning down so he's inches away from her face. Her eyes fill with fear.

  “I don't know.”

  “Let me carry you.” She tries to shake her head.

  “Oh, no. I'll be fine.” Her eyes go wider as he moves his arms to pick her up.

  “Mom, just let him. Please. He doesn't want your blood. Just mine.” It doesn't come out the way I want it to. I wanted it to be reassuring, but it comes out wrong.

  Her eyes bounce back and forth between Peter and me.

  “I will not hurt you.” He waits for her to nod before he gently picks her up like a wilted flower. She looks startled, but only by how easily he does it. I run around, trying to remember what I need to bring. I grab our purses and her car keys.

  “Peter? I don't know if I can drive.” My hands are shaking so bad, I can barely lock the front door.

  “Let me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “My reflexes are better than yours, even if you weren't in this state.”

  “I'm not in a state.” We're wasting time, so I cave. “Fine. Let's just go.” Mom tries to protest, but it's a feeble effort. That just makes me move faster. Even when she's really sick, there is nothing feeble about Claire Sullivan.

  I sit in the backseat, holding her hand and watching her face. I feel like I should be putting wet cloths on her forehead or giving her pills or something. Anything that would make me feel less helpless. And guilty. r />
  I try not to think about the fact that this happened just after I told her about Peter. Shit, that was a stupid idea. What had I done? I should not be allowed to make decisions, ever again.

  Peter pulls out of the driveway, gravel spitting from the tires. He drives fast, but not too fast. He also pretty much ignores stop signs, so we're there in ten minutes flat.

  Mom looks a little better, but I'm not taking her home until the doctor checks her out, no matter how much she complains and says it's not necessary.

  Her hand gripping mine is strong as we pull in front of the hospital. I direct Peter to the front door of Dr. Young's office. Peter parks the car in the fire lane and leans over the seat.

  “I will be right back.” It seems like hours, but it's probably seconds when he comes out of the door with a wheelchair, a nurse right on his heels. We get my protesting mother out of the car and into the wheelchair. The nurse turns to me asked what happened and I tell her. Of course, not the part about Peter. Or the shocking news she got just before the episode.

  The nurse, who doesn't look much older than me, takes charge, wheeling my mother in and whisking her away to an exam room. She's wearing scrubs with kittens on them, for Christ's sake.

  “You can wait here,” she says, and the swinging door bangs behind her. Wait, what?

  “I should go with her,” I say to no one in particular.

  The doors swing back and forth, the space between them getting smaller with each swing. Soon they're still. Closed. Smells assault me like arrows. The strongest is that weird cleaning solution that you never smell anywhere else outside of a hospital. There's blood, too, but it's covered up by smells of plastic and antiseptic and medicine, so it isn't appetizing. Not that it's normally appetizing. Much. I want to slam my head against the wall. Maybe I'll break my nose. Hell, I'm already in a hospital.

  “You should wait here. She will be fine.” Peter sits down, which is a strange thing for him to do. when it comes to sitting or standing, he always chooses to stand.

  I whirl around. “She's not going to be fine, Peter. She's going to die.”

  “That is not your fault.”

  “No, but this is!” I start pacing back and forth in the waiting room. The receptionist behind the sliding glass window watches me like I'm going to pull out a gun and threaten to shoot up the place. I wonder if the glass is bulletproof.

  Peter's calm voice cuts through the noise in my head. “It is not. You must not blame yourself.”

  “I shouldn't have told her.” Here come the tears. Peter stands and pulls me into his arms, my tears soaking into his shirt. I'm overwhelmed by his cool scent, which is like inhaling a Wintergreen Lifesaver. It cuts through the haze of self-loathing, but only for a second. Then I'm right back to hating and blaming myself.

  “Ava-Claire.” His voice makes me look up. He's doing that thing where he kind of pulls me in with his eyes. I remember that first time he did it. I let it happen again, giving myself up for just a second. In that time, I would have let him do anything. Drain me dry if he wanted to. I'm sure he does, but wouldn't. I think.

  “You cannot blame yourself for something you had no control over. It will not help you, or your mother. You need to sit down and wait.” I'm working on it when my phone rings. Shit. It's Dad. He's yelling before I can even say hello.

  “Where are you, where is your mother? I came home and you were both gone. What's happened?” His voice is frantic, bordering on absolute crazy. I wish he'd slow down so I can tell him.

  “Mom just had a little episode. We're at the hospital.”

  “Why didn't you call me?” He's getting hysterical. Any minute now his voice is going to go up several octaves.

  “Because we just got here.” I'm trying to be calm.

  There's a lot of weird sounds in the background. I have no idea what he's doing. “You should have called me right when it happened. What's going on?” Crash. Bang.

  “I don't know. The nurse took her away.” Stupid nurse with her kitten scrubs. How could I entrust my mother to a nurse who wore kitten scrubs?

  There's a slam on the other end, as if he'd punched something. “Well, go find her! I need to talk to whoever is in charge.”

  “Why don't you just come over?” He growls in anger, but I hear the jingling of keys. Did my loan officer, white-bread father just growl?

  “I'll be there in a few minutes. Don't let them do anything.” I want to tell him that I think they pretty much go by the rule first do no harm, but jokes probably wouldn't be taken very well in this situation.

  He hangs up without further ado. I sit down, putting my head in my hands.

  “My dad's on the way,” I say, even though Peter already knows this, having good enough hearing to have heard my dad yelling on the other line. People in California could probably still hear him. He sits next to me and rubs my back.

  “That feels really nice.” Tingly nice. Sexy nice. I should not be thinking sexy thoughts when my mother is in the hospital. This cements the truth that I am a horrible human being.

  “Good.”

  “You should go.” He doesn't need to be here for this.

  “I am fine. The only blood I desire is yours,” he says, as if reading my mind.

  “Oh, right. Sorry, I'm a little freaked out.” His thumbs travel up and down my spine, weaving in and out of the nubs of my vertebrae.

  “It is fine.”

  “Ava Sullivan?” A voice says, making my head snap toward her voice. It's the nurse again. Seriously, how is she old enough to wear those scrubs?

  I stand. Peter keeps a hand on my back, as if trying to restrain me. “How is she?”

  “She's fine. Dr. Young wants to do a few tests, but other than that you can take her home. Is there someone else here with you?” She glances at Peter and her eyes contract a little and she takes a tiny step back. Who's afraid of my big bad boyfriend? I also notice she doesn't give me any details. Because my tiny brain might not be able to handle them.

  “My dad's coming.” She looks relieved that an actual adult will be on the way. She checks her ponytail to make sure it's in place.

  “Good. You'll need to go to the pharmacy to get a new prescription. That should help with the fainting episodes.”

  “Episodes?” She looks at me like I'm a moron. I thought nurses were supposed to be caring and warm and comforting. This girl, whose name is Amber, according to her lanyard, is none of those things.

  “How long will it take your father to get here?” She looks around as if we're hiding him somewhere.

  “A few minutes, depending on how many laws he breaks.” She doesn't smile. I really don't like this girl. An image bursts in my mind of me reaching out and snapping her neck. I take one step back and try to clear my head of it.

  We sort of stare at each other for a little while, and then Dad bursts in and the adults take over. I'm shoved to the side and Dad bashes the nurse with questions. She's nicer to him, taking his arm and leading him into a corner so they can talk all serious and adult-like. It makes me want to roll my eyes, but I don't. Instead I look at Peter, who's staring straight ahead.

  I don't know what to do. Clearly, Dad has this in hand, but I don't want to go until I hear that Mom's okay. Dad and the nurse talk a little more, and then the door bangs open and there she is. I want to run to her and give her a hug, but Dad gets there first. The smell of his blood floats over to me, but for once, I can ignore it.

  “I'm fine, Sam. Please don't hover. I just want to go home.” She puts one hand on each armrest of the chair and pushes herself up. Dad grabs onto her arms and she lets him. She can stand, and wants to do it on her own, but she'd rather let him feel like he's useful. Her eyes seek his, to reassure him that she's fine. Then she finds me, reaching out, struggling to find my hand. I give it to her, relieved that her grip is strong and warm.

  “I'm fine. Stop worrying. You'll get wrinkles in that pretty forehead. Thank you, Peter.” She looks at him, and Dad finally notices Peter. Great, t
his is just the place I wanted to do this.

  “Who is this?” Dad looks at each of us in turn, searching for answers. Mom speaks first.

  “This is Ava's friend, Peter.” Such a benign word, friend. Sounds safe.

  Dad flounders for a second, taking Peter in. At least he's wearing shoes. Black sneakers he must have swiped from someone who rides a skateboard. I try to see what he would see, looking at Peter for the first time. Torn t-shirt, dirty jeans, messy hair in his eyes. I want to push it back so Dad can see those eyes I love so much, but I can't. Because Peter is my friend. Friends don't let friends touch each other's hair and gaze adoringly.

  “Oh. It's, um, nice to meet you, Peter.” I feel like Peter and my father should shake hands, but they don't. Dad is still to focused on Mom.

  “It is nice to meet you, Mr. Sullivan. I was hoping it would be under different circumstances.” There should be slightly awkward and uncomfortable laughter, but there isn't. There's just silence so thick my mother is the only one who dares to wade through it.

  “Peter had just stopped by when I felt a little faint. He carried me to the car and drove us here. He's quite the gentleman.” Since when did my mother become a Peter fan? Not that I'm complaining, but still. Less than an hour ago, she was scared to have him touch her and now she's singing his praises. Dad looks befuddled. This is too much for him to take in now, but in a few hours he's going to figure this out and then I'm in for it.

  Dad rubs Mom's back and speaks to her like she's mentally challenged. “I'll take you home in my car. Ava, can you drive your mother's car home?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, we'll see you there.” And off they go, Dad taking most of Mom's weight and hitting the handicap door button so it will open for her. I look around, thinking there should be paperwork or something, but no one stops us as we walk out.

  Dad's already got Mom in the passenger seat, tenderly buckling her seatbelt. “I didn't want you to meet my dad like that, but I guess we don't have to hide anymore,” I say to Peter.

  “He does not like me.” He says it like he's making an observation on the weather.