"Honey, just calling to check in with you. I called several times, but you didn't answer. I'm beginning to worry. I'm sure you're just busy being a teenager, living your life. Ah, I am sorry I miss so much of it. You're a tough cookie, but I guess that isn't' really an excuse, is it? Well... Anyway. I'm on the road so much these days it makes it hard to keep in touch. I will try phoning again around this time, so hopefully I'll catch you. I love you, sweetie. Goodbye."
Beep.
Irene sighed and replayed the message one more time. Several days had passed, and Cyrus had not made a reappearance. Finally, she could breathe again. Occasionally Irene wondered what happened to Cyrus. After so much persistence, Irene doubted he simply took the hint and left. The other possibility was Gabriel was somehow involved. Irene resolved not to worry too much about it and just be grateful he was gone.
On the surface, things were getting back to normal. She told Jordan the problem resolved itself. He seemed in better spirits as a result. Merle and her were still on the rocks, but efforts were being made to mend it. Most importantly, Irene was able to return to her regular activities. But she still was looking over her shoulder every night, and she still felt anxiety whenever she had to go into the basement. A part of Irene felt as though she wouldn't feel truly safe until her father was home.
Thus, Irene waited by the phone for it to ring. She skimmed the pages of an anthology she was studying for school, but her mind was raking over what to say to her father. Just when Irene had almost despaired of yet another broken promise, the jingle of the landline sprung to life.
"Hello, Locklyn residence," Irene greeted, hiding the anticipation in her voice. There was static on the end of the line. Her heart sank in the dead air.
"...Irene?"
Irene stood up immediately knocking her book onto the floor. "Dad! Hello! How are you?"
"I'm doing great! Especially hearing your voice, kiddo."
"I've told you before I'm a bit old for 'kiddo'," Irene sat back down as she talked, picking up the book and setting it on a nearby table.
"You'll always be my kiddo, even if you live to a hundred." Irene smiled, hearing her father bark out in laughter. "Anyway, how're things? You weren't answering the phone. Have you been off at wild parties?"
"Of course not." Irene smiled despite her feigned indignation, wrapping the spiral phone cord about one of her fingers.
"Really? Too bad. I kept bracing myself for a rebellious teen, and what do I get? A dutiful old soul. But I wouldn't trade you for the world." Irene didn't know what to say. She was just comforted at hearing her father's voice. Her father sighed, spawning immediate apprehension in Irene. "Honey, I might not make it back this Sunday."
"Oh..."
"There was a small miscommunication about my flight. So you just need to hold tight a little longer. I've wired more money into your account for groceries," her father reassured.
Irene wondered if' a little longer' would go from a few days to a few weeks; it had before.
"Alright, Dad, I'll see you when you get back. Then we can catch up." Irene didn't know why she allowed herself to get her hopes up. Breaking promises and avoiding home was her father's forte.
"I've got time now, Irene," her father insisted. Although Irene had been looking forward to talking to him, now she just wanted to hang up and process yet another disappointment. Not hearing a response from Irene, her father continued, "How's, uh, how's your friend, Merle, doing? Got any classes with her this year?"
"...No. She's a grade behind me, remember?"
"Ah. Right. I keep forgetting. Well then, how's Jordan?" Her father pursued. "He's a fine young lad; I'd like to have a beer with him," her father said cheerfully, trying to keep the conversation positive.
"Uh..."
"Once he's legal, of course," her father quickly amended.
Irene sighed. "Remember the spill he took when he wasn't wearing his hockey helmet?"
"Oooooh, yeah," her father said after an inward hiss. "They said he might have a concussion? But that was a while ago. I had a concussion when I was a kid but I was right as rain after some rest."
"Well Jordan wasn't." Irene said bluntly, a dribble of irritation leaking into her voice. "The scans didn't show he was bleeding into his brain, and it got worse. He had surgery to relieve the pressure, but then he got meningitis from the surgery."
"Oh." For a while there was an awkward silence. "I'm really sorry to hear that. I hope he recovers. I promise you, I will be back soon."
"Thanks, Dad. I'll see you then. But I've got to get to the store before it gets dark."
"Oh, alright then. It must be getting cold there now. I sent you a little extra for cab fare. Just remember to save..."
"...save the receipts, I know. Well. Goodbye, Dad."
"Take care, honey."
Click.
Irene rubbed her eyes, her fingers tips pressing into her skin as they trailed down her face. That could have gone better. But she'd endured this far already; she could handle a few more days. The situation was not as dire as it had been when Cyrus was occupying her basement. She just needed to purge every last trace of him from her home. Maybe even burn some sage just to be sure. Not that Irene was superstitious. But after what she'd experienced, she was second guessing her reliance on modern science for all explanations. But that left her wondering what she could rely on.
Irene went to her basement. She'd been putting it off, but now she whipped the sheets off of the cot Cyrus had been sleeping in and tossed them into the washer, adding a little extra bleach and soap. While that was washing, she went and got various cleaning supplies, as if she could wash away the memories and terror of the vampire.
Irene was tired when she had finished, and despite wearing gloves, her hands felt raw. But she was pleased with the result. All that remained was to do the shopping.
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"Irene? Is that you?" Irene turned quickly, startled at hearing her name. She braced herself, as if expecting someone to strike, until she recognised the care-worn voice.
"Oh, Mrs. Fisher. Hello," Irene greeted awkwardly as she picked up a grapefruit to examine it.
"Is your father still out of town?" Mrs. Fisher asked as she likewise began pinching lemons, selecting a few to add to the basket on her arm.
"Yes," Irene responded distantly. Irene picked up two grapefruits and put them in her cart.
"Are you going to carry all those groceries home by yourself?" Mrs Fisher asked, eyeing Irene's cart.
"I was just going to call a cab." Irene shrugged. "How is Jordan?"
"He's... he's hanging in there."
"Ah. Well..."
"Irene?"
Irene was just about to say her goodbyes and head to the checkout, but something in Mrs. Fisher's tone gave her pause. She chewed on her lower lip and peered curiously at Jordan's mother. "Yes, Mrs. Fisher?"
"Call me Mary, please."
"I... okay, Mary. What is it?" Irene tapped her fingers on the cart handle, apprehensive as to what Jordan's mother was hesitating to say.
"How would you like to come by for dinner tomorrow night? We don't see much of you anymore. I know you visit Jordan; It means a lot to him." Irene's gaze grew distant and she stared down at the colourful array of citrus fruits, unable to look at Mrs. Fisher for a moment.
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"I... it wouldn't be quite right without Jordan there," Irene hesitantly responded.
"He'd be there in spirit," Mrs Fisher said with a wistful smile.
Irene's stomach lurched and fluttered. Those words flew a red flag. Irene looked back up at Mrs. Fisher, no longer shying from her gaze. There were no misty eyes or apprehension she could detect in the woman. But still, Irene's curiosity was now piqued.
"Well... alright. Just tell me what to bring."
Mary Fisher gave a dubious look at Irene's cart. Irene also looked at her cart; stacked with frozen meals and macaroni. The grapefruits were the only fresh produce, and she suddenly felt either judged or pitied, but Irene wasn't sure which bothered her more.
"Just you and your appetite will be plenty," Mrs Fisher assured Irene. "We eat at 6:00. If you want to come a little early, that's welcome too."
Six o' clock. Irene's knee-jerk reaction was to invent an excuse not to go just to avoid being out past sundown. But Cyrus was no longer keeping a target on her back; she needn't fear the dark any longer. "Alright. I'll see you tomorrow. Thank you, Mrs. Fisher. It means a lot to me."
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Rain poured down as Irene stood at the Fisher residence. In one hand she clutched a dripping wet umbrella, which she shook out, collapsed, and hung on her arm. In her other hand she brandished a bottle of sparkling juice. Taking in a deep breath, Irene rang the doorbell.
Mrs. Fisher answered the door and immediately donned a large, pink smile. Irene inspected her brow for worry lines, but she seemed genuinely delighted to see her. Feeling a little more at ease, Irene held up the bottle.
"Oh thank you, sweetie. You didn't have to."
"It's the least I could do. Jordan and I would usually split a bottle of Crapple Scampagne on my birthday."
"That was very thoughtful of you, Irene. Hang up your wet things and make yourself at home."
Irene hung her jacket up on a nearby hookand slipped off her shoes; she was self conscious about tracking mud in on the Fishers' pristine floors. She ran a hand through her damp hair, shaking and smoothing it out as best she could.
A warm, savoury aroma greeted Irene, tinged with woody smoke. Irene followed Mrs. Fisher into the living room, where Mr. Fisher sat in his easy chair by the fireplace. He glanced up from his newspaper just long enough to nod, then he straightened the paper and brought it up higher to cover his face.
"Dinner will be ready soon. Warm yourself." Mary gave her husband a sharp look, but then disappeared into the kitchen.
Irene sat on the floor, cross legged. The air was filled with the crackling of the fire, and the crinkling of newsprint. Irene stirred the fire around with the poker to help reinvigorate it. Normally, the silence from Jordan's father would make her anxious, but after what she went through with Cyrus, it failed to register.
Cyrus. Why did she have to think of him tonight of all nights? Irene's cheeks flushed and she stabbed at the log with a bit more force, causing a spray of sparks to flare out with an enthusiastic pop. Mr. Fisher lowered his paper and fixed Irene with a stern gaze. Irene cleared her throat and put the poker back on its stand. Ameliorated, Mr. Fisher raised his newspaper again.
As Mr. Fisher was determined to be poor company, Irene opted to spend her time elsewhere. Wonderful smells greeted Irene as she stepped into the kitchen. "Mrs. Fish... Mary, is there something I can help with?"
Onions and peppers lept in the pan Mary was handling, delightfully browned and caramelized. "No, that's alright dear, it's almost ready."
Irene looked around, determined to occupy herself. "I'll set the table, then."
"Thank you, Irene." Irene knew her way around the kitchen well enough to find most of the dishes and utensils. Irene was making an endeavour not to think; unfortunately the result was thoughtlessly setting four places at the table. It wasn't until Mrs. Fisher stopped and frowned at the extra plate that Irene realized her error.
"Oh um... you said he'd be here in spirit, after all."
Mary winced a little, but then she nodded and smiled, saying nothing about it. Stupid... Irene took in a steadying breath and carried on.
Mr. Fisher came in and sat down in his chair, the only dining chair with armrests. He gawked at the additional plate in confusion, then his face turned grim.
"What is this? Are we expecting someone else?"
"Oh, silly me, habit," Mary twittered, quickly taking away the extra dish and utensils. Irene caught Mary's eye briefly and nodded to her in thanks, and Mrs. Fisher winked in response.
Mrs. Fisher set down a glossy glazed ham in the middle of the table. It had been a long time since Irene had a home cooked meal. Irene sat back and just enjoyed this snapshot of an idyllic family sitting down to sup together. The cozy scene was foreign to her, but something she often longed for.
Mary opened the bottle Irene had brought. "Would you like some, Jerry? It's apple cranberry."
Mr. Fisher squinted at the label before he shook his head. "No. Water's good enough for me."
Mary nodded and placed a pitcher of water by him. She then poured some sparkling juice for Irene and then for herself. "So, Irene, how has school been going?"
"Okay."
"Any plans for going to college?" Mary buttered a roll. Mr. Fisher looked up from slicing the ham with some interest.
"I've been looking at scholarships and maybe getting into a co-op program at UVic. I'm thinking of going into exercise and health sciences. If that doesn't pan out, I might seek a teaching degree locally," Irene answered as she ladled vegetables onto her plate. Mary looked down, but Irene was certain she saw just the briefest little crook of a smile on Mr. Fisher's ruddy face. But soon his mouth was occupied with a piece of meat.
"Have some ham, Irene. You are skin and bones," Mary passed the plate of ham over. "Do you have any other plans after school?"
Are they fishing? Irene stared down at her plate, anxiety tickling her. She rearranged the food on her plate as she thought long and hard about what to say. Ideas percolated as she placed a small slice of ham on her plate. There was an odd sense of relief of being able to think long and hard, rather than blurting out what leapt to her mind.
"My plans are flexible. A lot really depends on how this year goes," Irene finally answered. She caught Mrs. Fisher staring at her before she began working on cutting her own ham into smaller pieces. Her efforts were quite ineffectual, sawing lightly at the same spot. Meanwhile, Mr. Fisher was ripping into the meat with his serrated knife, making short work of it.
"I see. That's... prudent," Mary Fisher responded. She was making slow headway on cutting her slice into small, neat squares. Mr. Fisher was already reaching for second helpings.
For a while they all ate in silence. The food was delicious, but Irene felt her appetite dwindle. She wondered if she'd said something wrong. She caught several glances between Jordan's parents. If only Jordan was actually here. Jordan could usually give her signals on how to navigate his surly father's antics.
"Irene..." Mary set her utensils aside.
"Yes?"
"I... just want to say I am glad you have stuck with Jordan this far. He's told me that you don't really like hospitals since your sister passed away. I understand it must be hard for you to see him like that."
Mr. Fisher frowned, scowling. "It's hard for all of us."
"Of course it is," Mary amended hastily. "I am just trying to say that someone who didn't really care about our Jordan might have already moved on."
There was a startling clatter as Mr. Fisher slammed down his utensils. "Oh, enough of this!" Mr. Fisher looked straight at Irene, his thick brows furrowed. "Irene. Did Jordan ask you to marry him?" Mary looked mortified, but also had a look of hungry anticipation. Irene looked back at Mr. Fisher, whose temple was pulsing as he ground his teeth. "Well?"
Irene's stomach fluttered and her ears grew hot. "He mentioned it. But we're still in highschool."
"He's fixated on the idea. What did you do? Tell him you're pregnant?" Mr. Fisher accused.
"Jerry!" Mrs. Fisher scolded. Mr. Fisher held up a hand as his interrogative gaze fell heavily upon Irene.
Irene stared at him, jaw hanging open in astonishment. But we've never even had sex! Irene nearly blurted that statement out loud, but managed to refrain; what she and Jordan had done or hadn't done was none of Mr. Fisher's business. It did leave Irene wondering if Jordan had indicated otherwise. If that were the case, Irene was unsure how to feel about it. She did know, however, how to feel about being accused of entrapment.
Irene firmly closed her mouth, pressing her lips into a taut line as she steeled her expression, locking her eyes with his. "No."
Mr. Fisher waited, as if expecting her to elaborate. But none came. While still keeping eye contact, she ate another piece of ham to indicate to him he was not getting another word from her. "I don't want my son throwing his life away."
"Jerry!" Mary protested again in a higher pitch, this time being the one to slam her utensils down.
Irene looked at what remained on her plate, then stood up. She had done her best to remain respectful. But Irene felt raw, and these cutting words were carving away at parts of her that were still healing. She would not take any more. No one was forcing her to be there. She wasn't powerless.
"I am sorry. I came here because I thought I was welcome."
"Irene, you are..." Mrs. Fisher insisted.
"I don't think I am." Irene held up her hand. Mrs. Fisher looked hurt, but Mr. Fisher just looked affronted. Irene looked between the two. "This is hard on all of us, and me being here clearly isn't helping." Irene put on a haphazard smile and looked at Mrs. Fisher. "But thank you for the lovely meal."
"Now look what you've done," Mary berated as Irene took her plate over to the counter. Mr. Fisher crossed his arms and snorted. Mary turned to Irene again. "Irene... at least wait and I'll drive you home."
"Thank you, but no. It sounds like the rain has let up, and I need some time to think," Irene responded. Mary frowned and then gave her husband another sharp glance. He calmly resumed eating the last of his dinner, eyebrows raised and gaze on hi plate. It was a scene Irene was eager to leave before it completely boiled over. Maybe one day they would be her in-laws, but until then, this was not her problem.
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It felt like it had been a long time since Irene had walked through her neighbourhood at night. She kept her head up, constantly scanning for threats. A sparsely lit road stretched ahead of her. There wasn't much traffic in this area, and to Irene it seemed like an impassable desert. She regretted refusing Mrs. Fisher's offer to drive her. Irene pulled her still damp jacket close about her and gripped her umbrella, ready to strike anything that accosted her.
Irene saw the turn off to her driveway in the distance. She was almost home. As tired as she was, fear spurred her to break into a run. All she could think of was racing into her house, locking the doors, and jumping under her covers where it was warm and safe. The gravel on the narrow shoulder crunched under her feet. Almost there. ALMOST THERE.
SLAM! One moment she had a clear view ahead of her, the next there was a void blocking her view. Her feet slipped on the gravel as she tried to stop and she ploughed face-first into something. Or rather, by the feeling of fabric against her cheek, someone. Her arm was wrenched painfully as her weight pulled against it. Irene tried to scream but her mouth was invaded by leather. She had been spun around, her back against her assailant. Gripping her umbrella, she thrust it backwards. It made no difference. It connected with something, but was quickly snatched out of her grasp. Irene bit down hard on the cold leather. In response she felt another leather clad hand clamping on the sides of her neck. Vice-like, the grip pressed harder and harder and she felt as though her head was going to explode. Although it was dark, she could see even darker spots forming in her vision, eclipsed in an odd sparkling glow. Moments later, consciousness ceased.