The Vampire's Photograph (19 page)

January 1, 1:15 a.m.

Hey—it's me.

Happy New Year…

Dean is gone. There. I said it.

But saying it doesn't help. Saying it doesn't change what happened:

I killed him. I killed my cousin.

I could lie to you and tell you that a vampire did it—but I know better.

Vampires are just creatures…like a dog, or my new cat Amey. If you put milk in front of Amey, she's going to lap it up. And she'll hiss at you if you try to stop her before the bowl is clean, empty, dead…

A vampire is no different.

So whose fault is it? The one who drinks the blood, or the one who puts the dish right there at its feet? I know how it feels to me. I'm the one who put my cousin in front of Oliver…

IT. Oliver =
it
. Don't forget that, Emalie.

January 3, 2:45 p.m.

Ms. Davis is a toad! Actually, she's worse. Scientists wonder what's living down in the deep, dark bottom of the ocean, down where there's no light and no warmth, but they don't even know that one of their mystery creatures has crawled up onto land to run North Seattle Middle School's newspaper club.

“I'm sorry, Emalie…
la la la
…but I just don't think we should publish an article about your cousin's death…
la blah lala
,” croaks the toad. “I know you're upset, but vampires?…
too de-loo de-loo
…Maybe I should talk to your father…”

She says it like she's so caring, but she's just another demon. With those giant glasses, like two fishbowls, with a brown piranha in each one, leering out at me. We know it's your fault, they say. Thanks.

I
.

Hate
.

Her
.

So, I've been down here in the basement with Amey and Jade, my other new kitty, tearing up pictures of its house…shredding them, watching them fall to the floor like snow, along with my tears. What a stupid girl who took these photos. What a stupid believer.

And do you want to know the worst part? I still believe!!!! Idiot!!! After I tore apart all my silly vampire pictures, do you know what I couldn't do? Tear up the one thing I should have.

Because I went to the library last week and did some research, and found an article about the night its parents died, the night I saw into the portal. Oliver's name used to be Nathan. And his parents were Howard and Lindsey. And I'm asking myself: Why does knowing he was human make it any different?

Because there's something not right about the night Dean died. I mean, in addition to the everything that's already so, so wrong about it. I feel like there's something else. Like I'm remembering it wrong. I wish I could explain it more.

Oh, Dad's calling. Gotta run…

January 3, 10:13 p.m.

You won't believe what happened this afternoon:

When Dad calls me upstairs, I expect it to be something I don't expect. That's how it is with Dad: Cole Joseph Watkins, son of Jonathan and Irene Watkins of Anchorage, Alaska. Once upon a time, in black-and-white pictures, he was a kid called C.J. Then he met what Irene called a “wild girl.” That's my mother, Margaret Browne. And then he was an adult named Cole, and then he was a father, and a computer programmer, and a homeowner. But then his wife left him, and it was good-bye to all that, and to the Dad I used to know.

It's not that he's not there for me. He is. It's just that when he
is
there, he's not
all
there. If that makes any sense.

So then today, I'm walking up the stairs, and I'm ready, because it could be any kind of weather in the kitchen: a hurricane of frustration and throwing the empty milk carton. “There is just no way to keep on top of all this!” he'll shout, and I'll feel like it's my fault for having been born, even when I think I know that's not how he means it…

Or it could be a tornado of laughing at a comic in the newspaper. “Emalie, you've
got
to see this!” he'll say, and I'll look and laugh even though it's not really that funny…

Or, worst of all, it could be an afternoon rain of quiet speaking. “Emalie, have you finished your homework?” he'll ask with the red eyes that look like they were just rubbed hard to clean up the tears…

Of course, the one kind of weather I don't expect at all is a bright, sunny afternoon.

“Hey kiddo,” he says, standing by the door, putting on his jacket. The first thing I notice is his face has no stubble. His hair is just-showered wet and sticky with gel. He looks like he popped out of a time vortex from two and a half years ago, before Mom left.

And then more surprises:

“Your aunt Kathleen called.”

Whoa. That's mom's aunt, my great aunt.

“They've got a job opening down at the docks,” Dad is saying. “They want me to interview.”

I look at him sideways. Careful, Emalie. This is feeling good. What's the catch? “So?”

He almost laughs. “Well, so we're going down for the interview. Kathleen wanted to see you too. It's been a while.”

A shaved face and a job interview? I'm thinking about collapsing to the floor and then maybe jumping up and making pancakes and drinking syrup straight from the bottle. Instead, I just look around our kitchen, at the boxes that are still half-unpacked after three months of living here, at the one frying pan on the stove that never comes quite clean. If my dad had a job we could get nonstick. Nonstick. It sounds like the future.

But I show nothing on my face. Just look out the window by his shoulder and say: “Okay.” I am good at this. Emalie who doesn't get her hopes up.

I grab my vest, scarf, hat, and gloves, and we grab the bus down to Ballard. We are as quiet as ever on the way, Dad staring out the window, me with headphones on. But I am watching him. I still can't get over the shaved chin. It's so smooth. There is a zit there. He's not that old, this dad of mine. I've never thought of him as not so old before. He fidgets in his seat like it's his first day of school. Do adults still have first days of school?

On the way, I daydream: If this job pans out, maybe we could have nonstick and one of those pepper grinders. With the multicolored pepper. Oh man, that's the good stuff! I would grind that thing straight into my mouth. Pepper. Syrup. Pepper. Syrup…

We get off the bus on Leary and head down toward the canal. Crossing streets of windowless warehouses and forgotten train tracks, the pavement lumpy around the smooth steel lines. The sky is pool blue, the sun brilliant white, and a cold breeze that smells sour like the ocean ripples our clothes and makes us squint. You can't breathe too deep because everything is tense against that coldness. The sun is barely over the top of Queen Anne Hill and there are four-month-long shadows between the warehouses. The dirt alleys between them have puddles that will be there all winter.

We reach the canal, lined with these giant fishing boats streaked with rust. There is one sliver of the water that you can see, and the universe is nice enough to stick a kayaker in the middle of the sparkling blue right as we walk by. A little brown dock sticks out into this space. To the left of the dock is a tiny line of sailboats, wrapped tight in plastic for the winter, huddling like ducklings in the shadow of a huge white fishing boat. To the right is a low wooden building sticking out into the water on a wharf. It is made of warped boards, and has a pattern of scraped doors and cloudy windows.

Dad stops at one of the doors and I watch him do the deep-breath nervous thing. I know that thing. It's the same thing you do before you walk out on stage for a chorus concert, or climb through a vampire's window—

Except
bam
! That makes me think of Dean. Whoa, watch out, Emalie. Almost walked into the sad-mood trap. I shake it off. Gotta focus on Dad.

“Good luck,” I say to him.

He turns, almost like he's surprised that I'm there. Then he smiles big, and nods at me like we're partners. “Thanks.”

Inside is a small office with dark wood walls. There are two desks, a neat one and a sloppy one. The sloppy one has an empty chair in front of it and pink crinkled papers smeared across it.

Behind the neat one, all the papers arranged at right angles, sits my great-aunt Kathleen. She's a big lady, and is wearing a flowery pink shirt that makes her look bigger than she is. She has hair that is supposed to be blond but looks more like orange, and then gray at the roots…but her eyes look like Mom's. Which is weird.

“There you are,” she says to Dad, but looks over to me so fast I get a rush of nerves. It's almost like I'm the one she's been waiting for.

“Hey, Kathleen,” Dad says, sounding nervous. I wonder if he notices the Mom eyes too?

Kathleen is standing. “I'm so glad you guys could come down,” she says, and waves at the two brown chairs on the brown rug in front of her brown desk. We sit down.

“So,” Kathleen goes on, “It's like I told you on the phone, C.J.: We have a small fishing fleet, three boats. You'd be in charge of overseeing the catch and processing, as well as keeping us in line with the wonderful Fisheries department—”

“Buh.” A wiry, gruff man walks into the room from the back hallway. He has a patchy blond beard and curly hair sticking out from a black hat. He's wearing rubber overalls that are all splotchy with blood. He sneers and says: “Fisheries department. Those sons a—”

“Careful, Zeke,” Kathleen warns. “There are innocent ears in the room.” She smiles at me.

I try to smile back but I think: Innocent?! More like murderer's ears! No. Don't think about that, Emalie. Almost walked into another sad trap. Man, those traps are everywhere.

Zeke shrugs and sits at his messy desk. He reaches into his pocket and then drops a new crumply pink paper onto the mess of other pink papers. “Sorry.”

“C.J., this is Zeke. He runs the docks. You'll be working with him.”

“Hi,” says my dad.

Zeke says hi back with his eyebrows.

“Zeke can explain way more about what you'll be doing than I can,” Kathleen says. “Why don't you two take a walk around the boats? Zeke, you can show C.J. the ins and outs, and I'll catch up with my niece here.”

“Don't you want to see my résumé?” Dad asks.

Kathleen just shakes her head. “You're family.” She glances at me. “That's the only résumé you need.”

Dad follows Zeke out the back. I sit there, and I feel Kathleen looking at me. It makes me nervous. Almost like she wants something.

“Want to take a walk out on the pier?” she finally asks.

“Okay.”

We head back outside and past the long line of beat-up doors and grimy windows. At the end of the building is an open deck, sunlight gleaming off the bleached boards. We walk out to the end and lean on the warped railing. There's water all around, covered in sparkly diamonds. Off to the right is a rusty boat, and I hear Zeke talking to Dad over there.

“So, how are you, Emalie?” Kathleen asks.

“Fine,” I lie. I don't like this. It feels like this conversation is going somewhere…

“I'm sorry about your cousin,” she says. And then: “And about the vampire.”

Even in the bright sun, I shudder. How does she know? “What are you—” I start to say.

But she cuts me off. “It's okay. It's understandable that you were curious about vampires. Though they're based in evil, they are connected to the forces of the larger universe, to the spirits…just like you.”

I look up at her, trying to figure out what she's talking about, but at the same time, my heart is pounding like an angry fist against my ribs.

“What do you mean?”

And then she says it: “Do you find yourself feeling sad a lot? Like, sad for the people around you, for the world?”

Okay, this is too much. How does she know that?

“Yeah, like, all the time.”

“Well, Emalie,” Kathleen puts her big, soft hand on my shoulder. “There's a reason for that. You are connected to the emotions and spirits of the world in a way that very few people are—but I am, and so was your mother.”

I can't believe this. I am staring at the water and counting the diamonds because what am I supposed to do, or say, or even think?

Kathleen goes on. “You would never have known this, but we—you, your mother, and me—are descended from a long line of women who are able to sense the spiritual world. We can use this sense in powerful ways—sometimes even to predict the future. We're called—”

“Orani,” I say, without even knowing I'm going to.

“Yes,” Kathleen agrees.

I realize that I've been holding on to that word since Dead Désirée said it in the Underground. She told Oliver I was an Orani, but then didn't say any more about it. And I was going to ask Oliver, but…

Aunt Kathleen is going on full steam ahead. “Our bloodline traces all the way back to ancient Mesopotamia, maybe further.” She is blowing my mind, but at the same time, it's crazy because I feel like I already know what she is saying. “Not every woman in our family has it, but those who do must keep it secret and be trained. I think your mother hoped it would skip you, so you'd be safe, but I think you and I can be pretty sure now that you are part of the Orani line. Especially after you joined Oliver in that Portal vision. No ordinary human could have done that.”

I'm spinning. How does she know all these details? It's almost like she's reading my mind—

“You're wondering how I know all this.”

I practically laugh, and yet it's a relief, too. “Yeah.”

“I can sense it, in the emotions and energy radiating off you. You would never know this, but even from across town, I felt the precise moment when you entered that Portal. If you know what forces to watch, you can see an Orani's interaction with the spiritual world. It makes ripples like a finger touching water, and you've made a lot of ripples lately.”