The Single Undead Moms Club (Half Moon Hollow series Book 4) (13 page)

Scrolling through my phone, I found several voice-mail messages from the Council office daytime liaison. She was calling to set up a meeting time with my in-laws, who had contacted Jane’s office to try to arrange mediation for the custody of one Daniel Robert Stratton.

I was so glad that Danny was inside, because the string of curse words that came streaming out of my mouth would surely be repeated at school, resulting in my son progressing beyond behavior level four to at least a seven.

When I called Jane in
a panic, she assured me that the notice was a good thing, that it was less likely to end in a courtroom or in bloodshed if they were willing to mediate. Of course, I was the first custody case she’d ever handled, so I wasn’t really sure on what she was basing this comparison. But it made me a feel a little better.

I was a bit disappointed in the plain gray conference room of the Council offices. I expected something a bit more
American Horror Story
meets
Mad Men
, particularly after Jane described the insane number of Hello Kitty office accessories she’d had to toss out of her predecessor’s office. But maybe the vampire officials were trying to put visiting humans at ease by lulling them into a boredom coma. Nondescript gray carpet, gray laminate table, gray chairs, but no windows. The rest of the Council complex was decorated in a similar fashion. I wondered if the lack of windows and other indicators of time of day were as much an effort to trick employees into higher productivity as to avoid unpleasant sunlight exposure. Like Vegas, with duller furnishings.

The main advantage of the setting was Les and Marge’s abject discomfort. Marge clutched her purse in her lap as if some vampire had been waiting for centuries to snag her Vera Bradley bag and its bottomless supply of coupons. Les just sat across the table, arms crisscrossed over his chest, glaring at me. Because I’d become a vampire specifically to annoy him.

I’d dressed carefully in my most respectable “mom clothes,” or what had passed for my respectable mom clothes before I was sick. My teal sweater set and khakis were baggy from the weight I’d lost, but they were pressed, clean, and appropriate.

I hoped that this meeting would end more amicably than current attitudes around the table would indicate. I didn’t want to deny my in-laws visitation or access to Danny, but I refused to let them take over parenting him. He was
my
son. But for now, I was wary about weekend visits or even ice-cream trips. On some level, I just didn’t trust them to bring him back to me.

“Our mediator, Miss Dwyer, will be here shortly,” Jane’s very human receptionist, Margaret, assured us. Margaret was a graying, humorless woman with all the personality of dishwater, but she was kind and almost deferential to me, offering a variety of soothing herbal blood blends while we waited.

“If she’s not here in ten minutes, we’re out of here.” Les grunted. “We don’t spend time in buildings run by vampires after dark.”

“We’ll try to get you home as soon as possible,” I told him.

“Oh, because you’re running the meeting, are you?” Les said, his mouth twisting into a sour line.

I sighed. “I didn’t say that, Les, really. I’m just trying to—”

“Oh, we know what you’re ‘just trying’ to do,” Les interjected. “We know all about how you’re ruining our grandson. Weird hours at home, no proper meals, outbursts at school.”

I lifted a brow. How did my father-in-law know about my outburst in the custodian’s closet?

Wait, no, he probably meant Danny and Mrs. McGee. Mr. Walsh and I had a phone conference about the Applesauce Incident and agreed that while Danny’s reaction had been inappropriate, Mrs. McGee would not be allowed to continue to volunteer at the school if she couldn’t keep her opinions about vampires to herself. Mr. Walsh was willing to let her go over the incident—in his opinion, this was no different from a volunteer spouting slurs about other ethnic or religious groups. But honestly, Mrs. McGee was an institution at that school. Politically, I didn’t think I could afford to be the parent who insisted on her removal. So she had one more chance. After that, Mr. Walsh could toss her out on her ancient butt.

“That was one incident of misbehavior at school, not even worth a visit to the principal’s office. And Danny is supervised in the afternoons by a Council-approved, CPR-certified child-care provider who prepares healthy, balanced meals,” I told them.

At the mention of this, Marge sort of quavered, as if the idea of someone else cooking for her grandson was somehow the cruelest cut of all. I added, “You should know that if you’re going to call my parenting into question, you’re going to have to find something a little more serious than a classroom tantrum.”

Les sneered. “And you should know that we’re not screwing around with visitation. We don’t want a judge to think we’re happy with that. Our lawyer told us to hold out. It’s going to make it easier for us to go for full custody of Danny. Our boy deserves to be raised in a normal, human home with normal, human parents.”

“But you aren’t his parents. What sort of insane lawyer gave you that advice?” I demanded.

“None of your business,” Les said, smiling nastily.

I stared at my father-in-law, wondering how he’d managed to keep this level of petulant rudeness under wraps for so many years. Sure, he’d been a condescending mansplainer, but he’d generally been the “nice to your face, but ask other people to ‘redirect’ you when you weren’t around” type since Rob and I started dating. Marge cleared her throat, her dark, almost starched curls bouncing as she leaned across the table.

“Look, I don’t see any reason why we can’t all be reasonable here,” she said, her tone wheedling. “We all want the same things. We all want Danny to have a happy, normal childhood.”

“Everybody needs to stop emphasizing the word ‘normal,’ ” I told them. “There is no normal anymore; there hasn’t been since vampires became our neighbors instead of myth. This is the new normal. And y’all need to deal with it.”

I cleared my throat. I was losing myself, reverting back to my old accent as I grew more upset. I needed to calm down. If I lost control in this session, it would be one more justification for Danny to be removed from his home.

“We just need to work together to find a compromise,” Marge continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Libby doesn’t want to disappoint us, I’m sure. You want us to have a cordial relationship, don’t you?”

How did Marge manage that sweet tone, considering her nightgowned hissy fit outside my home just days before? Were we pretending that had never happened? Because I didn’t know if I could do that. And I certainly noticed her not-terribly-subtle implication that we could only have a cordial relationship if I was willing to bend to their wishes.

“We just have to work out a schedule. You’ll get Halloween with Danny. I’m sure your people love Halloween. And we’ll take Thanksgiving and Christmas. You can just sleep in those nights.”

I frowned. “Why wouldn’t I want Danny to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with me?”

Marge tittered nervously, looking to Les for validation, but all he did was roll his eyes and stare at the ceiling. “Well, you wouldn’t want Danny to miss out on spending the holidays with his relatives on my side. Besides, it would be an awfully small celebration if it was just you and Danny. Family has never been as important to
you
as it is to most people,” Marge said. “And besides, it’s not like you’re going to eat anyway.”

Ouch. I mean, she wasn’t wrong about the eating thing, but ouch.

It wasn’t unusual for my in-laws to cite my limited genealogical tree. I’d never been allowed to forget that I’d married into an expansive, storied McClure County family. But they normally did it in a far more passive-aggressive, less “steal your child like something out of a Grimm tale” manner.

The aforementioned very late Miss Dwyer finally arrived and did her best, going around and around with us on suggesting pickup schedules and potential weekends. But Les and Marge—or at least Les—wouldn’t have it. He insisted that there would be no visitation schedule. They wanted total custody or nothing.

After Les refused yet another carefully constructed suggestion from Miss Dwyer, I will admit that I lost my temper a little. If “a little” meant snapping a fancy fountain pen in half with my thumb and splattering black ink all over the carpet. I took a deep breath and resisted the urge to wipe my smudged hands against my khakis.

“Les and Marge, you need to understand that if and when you see Danny, it will be on my terms. If we can’t come to some sort of resolution, you may not be able to see him at all.” I knew I was using my “explaining to Danny why playing with matches is wrong” voice, but I didn’t care. They’d lured me to mediation under false pretenses. They had it coming.

While Marge was downright unsettled by this statement, Les didn’t even twitch. “We’re not worried about that,” he said, his gray mustache bristling as he smirked.

I hid my stained hand under the table and very carefully asked through my clenched fangs, “If you didn’t plan on cooperating, why did you bother coming to mediation at all? You were the ones to call the Council office and request this meeting in the first place.”

Les shrugged. “Our lawyer said that this was the best way to show that we were trying to be reasonable.”

If and when I found out who was representing my in-laws in this farce, that attorney might just be my first human chew toy.

Be very careful approaching children’s social events. They will be fraught with dangers, including birthday candles, unsecured silverware, and clowns.

—My Mommy Has Fangs: A Guide to Post-Vampiric Parenting

I
dumped yet another bag of gummy feet into a camouflage paper bowl and wondered how I’d gotten myself into throwing a Bigfoot-themed sleepover for a cabal of first-graders.

Danny was officially turning six, and it was his dearest wish to have a big-boy sleepover. We’d spent months discussing the best snacks to serve and the best games to play. He and Kerrianne spent most of the week creating an elaborate pillow fort in his new bedroom to house this sugar-fueled spectacular. He’d been pushing for it since he was four, but overnighting with a group of grumpy toddlers was a bit beyond even my mothering skill level, so I’d been able to put him off. But this was the year. We’d agreed that when he hit first grade, when it was almost guaranteed that his friends were potty-trained and could feed themselves, I would be willing to host them. Danny resented the “almost” guaranteed, but we shook on it and everything.

At least I was a nocturnal creature now and had a ninety percent chance of outlasting them, sleep-wise. But I’d woken up with a weird heavy feeling in my stomach that evening, a feeling of impending dread that had nothing to do with not picking up the cookie cake on time or the fact that I could only find one age-appropriate Sasquatch-related movie for the kids to watch. It turned out there were a lot of super-creepy, violent movies made about Sasquatch.
Harry and the Hendersons
was the least emotionally scarring option.

I couldn’t put my finger on why I was so unsettled. I tried to invite Les and Marge for cake and ice cream, at least, hoping to bridge the gap a bit with a magnanimous, slightly underhanded gesture. But they hadn’t returned my numerous calls. My conscience was clear, at least.

I may have overprepared a little bit, abusing my renewed Pinterest account to find Bigfoot-themed printables and games. I’d arranged for a moonlit Sasquatch hunt in the backyard, leading to a big footprint near the tree line that the boys were going to fill with plaster. I’d thought about ending it with a Bigfoot-shaped piñata, but I wasn’t comfortable with the idea that if you loved something you should hunt it down and beat it with a stick until delicious surprises fall out.

We’d followed the school’s unwritten party policy of inviting every boy in Danny’s class. The administration would not tolerate a child doling out party invites like a tiny Perez Hilton. The problem was that I didn’t know how many kids to expect. None of the mothers had RSVP’d. This was not unusual. In the Hollow, an RSVP phone contact was just the number a mother called to inform the hostess how many of the guest’s uninvited siblings would also be attending.

So why did I have this weird “Carrie before the prom” feeling pressing on my chest?

An hour after the party was expected to start, I got my answer. Not one single kid had arrived. Not one.

Danny was collapsed on the couch, his jeans and flannel shirt rumpled from his rolling around on the cushions, waiting for his friends to arrive. His little Outback hat had been thrown to the ground, forgotten. He’d started out so excited, bouncing on the balls of his feet while he waited at the front door for cars to roll down the driveway, and then slowly wilting into the pile of disappointment lolling on the couch.

It took iron control over every single muscle fiber in my face to keep a calm, cheerful expression for Danny’s sake. I couldn’t believe this was a coincidence. In all of the birthday parties Danny had attended, I’d never seen this happen. At least two or three kids showed up for every party, even in the homes where it was rumored that a meth lab was operating. I could not believe that this was not somehow connected to the fact that I was a vampire now. Danny was being shunned because of me.