The Source (7 page)

I pause for a moment,
“It’s definitely interesting work.  It’s just the first day so I haven’t really
decided yet.”

“Now, Emma Jean,” she
begins, “if you know within the first couple of seconds whether or not you’re
gonna like a person, you should know after a whole day whether or not you’re
going to like the people you have to work with.  And that’s really what makes a
job.  You’re smart enough to do anything and like it, but if you don’t like the
people around you, you ain’t gonna be happy.  You remember what your paw-paw
used to say?”

I smile, “You can’t
dress up a pig.”

“That’s right.  You
can put fancy clothes on it, but it’s still a pig, so why bother?  You’re
better off calling it a pig, and unless you want to wallow in the slop, find
some place else.”

“I know, mom.  Thanks
for reminding me.  Hey, did you have your check-up with the doctor?”

She grunts, “Yes. 
They don’t know what’s goin’ on with me.  I just hurt all over.  Gettin’ old, I
guess.  I’ve got a prescription to get filled that’s s’posed to help with the
tinglin’ in my legs, but that’s it.”

“Why don’t you see
another doctor to get another opinion?”

“No, I ain’t gonna do
that.  I’m not going to start with a new doctor who has to completely learn my
medical history.  Not to mention the fact that he would probably be young
enough to be my son.  No, I’m gonna stick with Dr. Lester.  I’ve been seein’
him for over fifteen years and if he tells me wrong, then God meant it to be
that way.”

I’m thankful that she
can’t see me roll my eyes.  “Just promise me you’ll think about it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So what’s going on?”

“Do you remember
Donna Cook from high school?” she asks.

“Yes, we graduated
together, but I didn’t know her very well.”

“Her dad died,” she
states matter-of-factly.  “He had a massive heart attack while working at the
plant.”

I don’t really know
what to do with that information, so I just say, “Okay.”

“And the woman across
the street, Agnes, she got a new dog.  The damn thing barks all through the
night.  I told her that if she didn’t get that dog to shut up I was going to
use my BB gun to shoot it.”

“Now, mom, you can’t
do that.  What if it were your dog and she shot it with a BB gun?”

“I don’t have a dog. 
I have a cat that minds it’s own business.  Maybe I should let Cookie out so
she can piss in her flower garden.  That would show her.”

“It would show her
what?”  I ask.  “That cat piss kills flowers?”

“No, it would show
her that having a yappy-assed dog is not nearly as bad as a cat that will piss
all over everything.  And that I’ll control my animal when she controls hers. 
Dead flowers ain’t nothin’ compared to all of the nights of sleep I’ve lost.”

I stifle a laugh,
“Your reasoning is beautiful, mom.”

“It’s about time you
learnt that,” she says.

“Well, I would love
to talk some more, but it’s been a long night and I need to get some rest.”

“Okay, Emma Jean. 
You get some rest and don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Love you, mom.”

“I love you, too,
Emma Jean. You take good care o’ yourself now.”

I hang up the phone
and sit unmoving for a moment, smiling to myself.  I may not always agree with
my mom, but one thing is for sure.  She can always make me laugh. 

I set the phone back
on the end table and pick up the remote to the television  It’s 5:00 in the
morning, so there’s probably nothing but infomercials on, but like the
part-time couch potato that I am, I feel obligated to check.  I get sucked into
a cheesy movie about a woman’s struggles with a secret admirer.  The woman
finds herself in somewhat comical situations because she cannot figure out who
it is that likes her. 

This is a major
problem with humans.  Often we communicate with one another without ever saying
what we really mean.  Most people are pretending to be what they think is cool
or most acceptable.  Those who go against the grain usually do it for the
attention.  Hey, look at me!  I’m being fake in a different way!  How do we
know when someone is being real?  When we’re seeing the real spirit of the
person and not just the social accessories of the human casing?  When am I
going to start being real?  Even more than that, who is the real me?  If I
can’t answer that question, I can’t really expect it of others.  The last thing
I want to do is drown in a sea of hypocrisy. 

Okay, I definitely
need to go to bed.  I’ve gone from repulsive thoughts to questioning humanity’s
intentions.  I turn off the television, pick up my half-empty glass of wine and
head to the bedroom.  Setting the wine glass beside the glass of water on the
nightstand, I snuggle up into my queen-sized bed and hope for dreamless sleep.

I jerk awake to the
sound of the alarm, only it isn’t the alarm.  The phone is ringing.  It’s
either my mom or the wrong phone number because no on else has my number. 
Maybe I should just let it ring and try to go back to sleep.  I look at the
clock and it reads 1:00 p.m.  I still have a couple more hours before I have to
get up and get ready.  It could actually be work as they also have my number. 
I should check.

“Hello?” I say, more
as a question than a statement.

“Hello, Emma.  Are
you resting comfortably enough?” a man’s voice asks.

“I was until I was
rudely awakened up by the phone ringing.  Who is this?”

“Aw, to forget me so
soon.”  He chuckles.  “This is Tucker.”

“Tucker?   How did
you get my phone number?”  My pulse is racing, exhilaration coursing through
me.  A part of me is excited that he had called - that any man had called.  The
other part of me is filled with dread at how he found me.

“I’m an archivist,
remember?” he says.  “I have access to all of the researchers’ contact
numbers.”

In complete shock I
gruffly say, “Yeah, for work purposes.  So, is there something going on at the
facility that I need to know about?”

He clears his throat,
“Um, no.  I just thought that since you don’t know anything about Rowan, I
would re-extend my offer to show you around town.”

“Tucker,” I grit my
teeth, “first off, I was in a deep sleep and so not ready to wake up. 
Secondly, access to my number through work does not give you license to harass
me.”

“Hey, excuse me if I
wanted to help a young woman that I found attractive.  I just thought that
maybe if I could spend some more time with you, I would be able to make up for
the disaster that was our first meeting.”

“You’re not winning
any points on the second try by going the stalker route.”

He grunts, “You know
what?  You’re not worth the trouble.  I thought that you would be fun to get to
know.  It looks like you’re just another insecure fat chick who is sarcastic
and belligerent to shield herself from
everything
so that when nothing good does happen, she
can say, ‘See?  This proves that I’m unattractive, fat and not worth
anything.’”

He abruptly
disconnects line.

My mouth drops open. 
I continue to hold the phone to my ear as if I were waiting for him to say that
it was all a joke, that he didn’t mean any of it.  My eyes begin to burn.  The
world around me becomes very bleary as I close my mouth, my lips trembling.  I
set the phone in my lap as tears fall down my cheeks.

How could someone be
so cruel?  Especially someone who was pretending to like me?  Was it some sort
of game?  If I had played along, would he have just done the same thing, only
after I started to like him?  What kind of person does that?

The same type of
person who uses their work connections to invade your privacy.  A person who
does not respect others.  Not their space.  Not their feelings.  A person who
actually doesn’t respect himself because he thinks so little of himself that he
has to attack others to maintain his sense of pride.  A false sense of pride. 
False pride is worse than the sin of pride itself.  If you have nothing to be
proud about, then a false sense of pride is characteristic of a fool.

I set the phone back
on the bedside table and lay down, drawing the comforter up around my chest.  I
blink quickly, my lashes heavy with tears.  I close my eyes tightly and pray
that I will be able to sleep just for one hour more.  One hour of
unconsciousness, on a plane where that phone call does not exist.  I toss and
turn, unable to relax, my mind replaying what Tucker had said over and over
like my brain has a repeat button. 

I roll over and put
the blankets over my head, thinking maybe I can drown out the sound of my own
thoughts.  I get too hot, so I roll over to the other side and kick my legs out
from under the blankets, wriggling my toes in the cool air.  After about twenty
minutes of this, I sit up and decide that I might as well get up instead of
wearing myself out trying to get back to sleep. 

I go to the bathroom
and undress for a nice, hot shower.  In some ways I’m hoping to steam thoughts
of Tucker right out of my mind, but I don’t think that I can get the water hot
enough for that.  I settle for trying to distract myself with what I do best,
which is come up with great ideas in the shower.  Some people get them while
using the toilet; I get them while taking showers.  So maybe if I focus on
everything that Rick and I discussed, then I will get that clear vision of the
path to my intellectual destination.

Rick.  He could be
such an ass.  So why did I think he was so hot?  Sighing, I turn the water on
high, with hot on full throttle with cold just a trickle.  The heat from the
water is just this side of scalding.  Scalding.  Much like sunburn because both
ways, the skin is basically cooking.

I look down at the
dark pink skin of my arms, running my fingers over them as I imagine a vampire
burning in the sun.  Quickly cooking.  Thinking aloud while still running my fingers
over my arms, “To cook something you need a fire source.  In this case, that
would be the sun.”  I turn around under the spray of the shower.  “For
something to cook quickly, you have to increase the heat or add an agent, a
quickener.  Is there something in the vampire body that acts like this?” 
Shaking my head, “I don’t think that’s it.  If that were the case, it would be
possible that increased heat could also kill vampires.  Which would mean that a
spark from an electric wire could be enough to kill one.  I haven’t heard of
that before, but it doesn’t mean that isn’t possible.”

I run my hands
through my hair.  Think.  Vampires are technically humans, so is there
something in humans that causes a similar reaction that is intensified in
vampires because of their biological changes?  I lather my hair up as I massage
my scalp. Humans get sunburns, which are directly related to the protective
effectiveness of melanin.  But, we have already determined that vampires have
the same level of melanin.  So what else could it be?

I stand very still,
shampoo dripping from my hair.  Is it really a sunburn type of reaction?  I
mean, I’ve never seen a vampire die in the sunlight, so I don’t know exactly
what happens when it starts.  I begin rinsing my hair.  I need to get more
information from Rick.   

Once I’m done in the
shower, I wrap an extra large towel around myself and walk out to my
bedroom.  When I get there, I just happen to notice that the light is
blinking on my phone letting me know that I have a new voicemail. 
Probably my mom again.  I pick up the phone from the nightstand and dial
my voicemail while I go to the closet to look for something to wear.  I
jerk to a stop in front of the closet door as I hear Tucker’s voice. 

 “Emma, listen,
I’m really sorry.  I don’t know what came over me thinking that I had a
right to call you…and here I am doing it again.  Christ.  Okay, I
just wanted to apologize.  I hope that this doesn’t mean that you won’t
talk to me anymore.  Let me make it up to you in some way.  Okay. 
I guess that’s it.  I’ll see you tonight.”

 I lean my hand
against the door as the recorded voice told me of my options for saving and
deleting the message.  My first reaction is to delete it as quickly as
possible.  As I start to feel lightness all over, like my soul has just
had the breath knocked out of it.  I press STAR 1 on the phone to save the
message. 

I turn and look at my
bed, trying to think of what to do next.  I mean, I know I have to get
ready for work, but I have this nagging sense that there is something else that
I should do.  I walk over to the bed and sit down.  I hold the phone
in my lap as I raise my head and look at nothing.  I slightly tremble as I
feel the hairs on my forearms stand at attention.  I take a deep breath
and steel myself to get up, place the phone back on the nightstand and begin to
look for an appropriate outfit.

Now, which color best
screams “not your victim?”

I sit in my car,
looking at the research facility, wondering when I should venture out into the
open and into the building.  I grip the steering wheel and look around the
parking lot.  I’m trying not to be too paranoid, but I can’t help but wonder
when Tucker might jump out at me.  I take a deep breath and let my eyes scan
the parking lot in front of me.  I bounce in my seat as something hits the
passenger-side window.  Twisting my hands on the wheel, I panic at what to do
because there is a person, apparently male, standing by my car.  I pray that
it’s not Tucker.