Undead and Unpopular (18 page)

"But—"

"If it's important, they'll call back."

"But it's your mother."

I practically snarled. The phone, the fucking phone! People used it the way they used to use the cat-o'-nine-tails. You had to drop everything and answer the fucking thing. And God help you if you were home and, for whatever reason, didn't answer. "But I called!" Yeah, it was convenient for
you
so you called. But I'm in the shit because it wasn't convenient for
me
to drop everything and talk to
you
, on the spot, for whatever
you
needed to talk about.

Unfortunately, Tina was the type who lunged for it every time it so much as peeped. She couldn't stand the sound of a ringing phone. Always tracked me down: it's so-and-so. Well, I'm
recovering from a fatal chest wound, take a message
. But it's your mother! Yeah, well, she'll call back. But she's on the phone
now
.

I practically snatched it from her. "Hi, Mom, this really isn't a good t—"

"Your grandfather," Mom said in the doleful voice reserved for announcing funerals, "has escaped."

"Escaped what? Mom? He's got three kinds of cancer, he's eighty-nine, and he's hooked up to forty different machines. What are you talking about, escaped?"

"Someone's coming up the driveway," Tina said in a low voice.

"Well, go take care of it."

"And if they need to see you, Majesty?"

I cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. "Read my royal lips, Tina:
this is not a good time
!"

"What?" my mom said.

"I wasn't talking to you, Mom. See, the reason I sound all distracted right now is because
this is not a good time
."

"Well, why did you answer the phone then?" my mom asked reasonably. "Just let it ring."

"
Gah
! Tell me about Grandpa, please."

"Well, you know he doesn't care for that nursing home."

"Right. So what else is new. The guy's got three kinds of cancer. And frankly, it probably isn't much fun for the nursing home to have him there."

"This is true," Mom replied promptly. She had, after all, been raised by the gentleman in question. "Anyway, he doesn't like it there. The animals are the least of it."

I had to laugh. The animals! Apparently all these studies had been done about how soothing and restful nursing home inmates—uh, residents—found live-in cats, dogs, and birds.

So my grandpa's nursing home adopted all these strays, and told incoming residents,
why, of course you can keep your angry, incontinent, biting dog Nibbles! No problemo! Bring all his brothers and sisters, too! Share them with the other residents
!

On paper, this is a swell idea. What the genius who did the study didn't take into account was: Grandpa Joe. Maybe he had only nice, soft-spoken old ladies and gentlemen in the study.

Grandpa had grown up on a farm, and had a very pragmatic view of animals:
if I can't eventually kill you and eat you, you are taking up valuable air and space
. My mom never had a pet—not so much as a goldfish in a bowl—the entire time she was growing up. Neither had I, until I'd moved out after college and picked up Giselle the cat from the pound.

The animals had pretty much taken over the nursing home. They had the run of the place, and took ruthless advantage of it. And they certainly made the staff feel better.
Ohhh, how cute, that cat is helping that man with all the terminal illnesses
!

So now, my grandfather, who should be enjoying his autumn years, has to boot a snoozing golden retriever out of his bed if he wants to snag a nap after lunch.

"Well, he just couldn't take it anymore," Mom was saying. "So he unhooked all the equipment he was on—"

"Um, hello, didn't any alarms go off in the nursing station?"

"Well, hon, you know how understaffed they are. And Grandpa lulled them into a false sense of security by pulling his leads out a bunch of other times."

"Like the boy who cried wolf," I suggested. The angry cancer-raddled animal-hater who cried wolf, repeatedly, to fool his captors. I mean the nurses. "Except a whole bunch of times."

"Right. So nobody thought much of it when the alarms went off—they figured Joe was up to his old tricks again. So he got into his chair—"

"He can transfer by himself now?" I knew all the lingo from a brief, but memorable, stint as a volunteer at that very home.

"Yes. So he got into his wheelchair and—you know. Escaped."

"Just wheeled himself out past the border guard, huh?"

"Exactly. You know—oh, look, that sweet old man is coming out to see the world."

"Morons," I decided.

"Yes, but they couldn't know. They aren't family. Anyway, out he goes—"

"Outside?"

"I know, I know."

"It's twenty fucking degrees outside!"

"Well, more like ten there." There being Brainerd, Minnesota. "But sadly, your grandfather did not foresee his old enemy, fatigue, when he made his daring dash for freedom."

"Where did he think he was going to go in a hospital johnny?" I wondered. Dumb question. For Grandpa, being half-naked was irrelevant. Being master of your own destiny was all! "How far did he get?"

"About three blocks outside the home and then fell asleep. A family on the way to visit a relative ratted him out."

"Vile informers!" I cried.

"So the nurses came to get him, and wheeled him back, and tucked him back into bed—he was so exhausted he didn't even wake up—and imagine how completely irritated he was when he woke up with a cat on his pillow!"

I shuddered, imagining Grandpa's wrath. As a member of The Greatest Generation, he wasn't adverse to blowing shit up to get his way.

"The important thing is, he's okay."

"Betsy, what am I going to do? He hates it there. I mean he
hates
it. How can I keep my own father in a place that he hates?"

"You could revel in the payback for a horrible childhood?" I guessed.

"Elizabeth." On this, as in very few other things, my mom had no sense of humor. I guess when you spent your childhood dodging fists and trying not to get kicked down stairs, it wasn't much fun to joke about it later. "You're not helping."

"Come on, Mom, it's a nursing home. He's lucky he's not in a hospital. Actually, he's lucky he's not dead."

"That's true," she said doubtfully.

"Although, if he's peppy enough to escape, he maybe could be moved some other place."

"Maybe. But where? Any place private is too expensive."

"Yeah." I looked over at Marc, who was tenderly touching Jessica's nose and murmuring to her. She in turn had just finished telling him a heartwarming Grandpa Joe story she had previously heard from me, probably the one involving grenades and the minister. "Listen, I've got an idea about that. My roommate, Marc, has a—"

"Oh, that clever doctor. Did I tell you I met the perfect man for him? He's a grad student, getting his doctorate in Japanese literature—"

"Yeah, that sounds really fun and useful. Listen, his father has this place—they must have some like it up where Joe is, but if not, maybe we could move him down here…"

"What kind of place?"

I told her. And that was how I ended up with my Grandpa Joe living four miles away from my vampire-infested house. Which may or may not, now that I look back, have been a greater hazard to my health than having my heart temporarily blown up by holy water.

I never did find out who had popped in for a surprise visit. Which was fine with me. More surprises, I so did not need.

"You realize of course that, once he gets transferred down here, you'll have to visit him. When he was a four-hour drive away, that was one thing, but now you could walk there in ten minutes."

"Shut up," I moaned, "shut up, shut
up
."

"I have to admit," Jessica went on cheerfully—why wouldn't she be cheerful, the swelling had gone down and
her
grandparents were dead. "I'm amazed he's still alive. Didn't they tell you
last
year that he had only months to live?"

"Three months," I remembered. "They gave him three months."

"Wow. And now here he's going to be living with Marc's father!"

"Yes, it's all a rich tapestry of horror and survival. Where's a perfectly made rainbow drink when you need one?"

"Marc's sleeping," she said, "and you can't blame him. Guy finally gets a day off, and spends it taking care of his roommates."

"Finally, having a doctor in the house pays off."

"I know I'm feeling better—how about you?"

"Fine." Which was true. When I'd risen that afternoon, it was like nothing happened. If not for the ruined T-shirt and sports bra in the garbage, I'd guess nothing had happened.

Sinclair had seen for himself, pulling off my bra the minute our bedroom door had closed, going over my chest and back inch by inch. Which had turned into him going over my crotch inch by inch. Repeat as needed. The evening had turned out so terrific, it made it almost—

No, I didn't mean that. It wasn't worth it no matter how much sex I'd had. I didn't mind getting shot nearly as much as I minded Jessica and Delk getting hurt.