“Well, he sounds charming.” I grinned woefully. “In a corny kind of way.”
“He was charming and kind. He treated Jason and I as if we were his own sons. Victor Stronghold was his name, and soon, became Arietta’s. And we were happy.” He nodded. “Victor took us fishing and camping, taught us how to play baseball and showed us maps of the world. But happiness was short lived. They had tried for so long to have a child, and when the days of waiting for the stork to arrive became years—we all lost hope.
“I was nearly thirteen when Uncle Arthur came to visit. He and my aunt became close. Victor was called away to duty in the Navy for six months and—” David scratched his brow, “—when he returned, Arietta was pregnant.”
“So it was your uncle’s baby?” I asked, my eyes wide.
“Yes. Victor was devastated and humiliated. He left town for a few months, but returned later and begged her to stay with him—despite her indiscretions.”
“He must have really loved her.”
“Apparently. But she refused—repeatedly. I remember them fighting about it…at night…while we cowered in our beds, frightened Victor would hurt our aunt. One night she announced to him that she’d be marrying Arthur. So he left, and life went on.”
“Wait. So, just to be clear. Arthur was a vampire then?”
He nodded. “He was. He planned to change Arietta after the child was born.”
“Wow.”
David plucked the dry edges of the leaf in hand and flicked the debris onto the wind. “The doctor predicted the child would arrive in spring, but the snow had started to melt and the days turn warm and still, nothing happened. I stayed home from school for more than a fortnight to watch over her until, one day, she packed my lunch and sent me out the door—told me she would be fine.” He rested the back of his head against the stone. “I remember it all like it was yesterday. So many things aligned to allow tragedy to upturn our lives that day.”
“Like what?”
“Uncle Arthur was running errands on the other side of the Port—a day’s travel by foot—” He straightened his leg, “—and Jason and I would not be home until sunset, at the earliest.”
“So…” I waited, but he’d obviously continued living the story inside his mind, forgetting to share. “What happened then?”
“I—” He rolled his head sideways to look at me. “I just don’t know if I can talk about this, Ara. It’s too…” I watched his flat palm smooth circles over the left side of his chest. “It’s too painful.”
I nodded. “That’s fine.”
“But, I—” He sat up more and reached for my face. “I could show you—if you would let me.”
“Show me?”
“I can share memories,” he said, his voice trickling with hope. “It’s…it won’t be very clear, since I haven’t mastered this technique yet, but it will save me the lengthy monologue.” His lip quirked on one side.
“Okay.” I grabbed his hand, rolling my cheek against it. “Show me.”
“Close your eyes.” He shuffled closer and rested his other hand on my cheek. “Try not to fight it when you see memories that don’t belong to you. Just watch—like a movie.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
A faint image, like a photo taken on a sunny day then placed in a dark room at a perpendicular angle, appeared on the backs of my eyelids. I drew a deep breath and watched the slanted image, kind of squinting a little, even with my eyes closed.
“Sorry. I’m not too good at this.” David’s breath brushed softly against my ear. “Does it hurt?”
“No. Is it supposed to?”
“No. But it can.”
“I’m fine,” I said and settled back internally to watch the movie.
The evening sky hugged the ground in the distance, red bleeding into night, and as far as the eye could see, the undisturbed horizon ran off into hills, tan roads snaking inward and disappearing among them. The last dregs of light turned the grass orange where it lined the dirt road under a boy’s feet. He whistled and waved to his neighbours as he passed, but in his green eyes, the depths of his worries flared. He walked with an edge to his step, half hurrying, half skipping, as if to pretend he felt no concern. But when he looked up to a house at the end of the street, the open front door seemed to stop his heart.
Silence seized the sound of children laughing, dogs barking, and his own quiet thoughts. I couldn’t understand why, but I could sense something was off. So could the boy.
Two breaths passed before the thump of his knapsack hitting the ground brought all life, all sound, back.
The movie played in slow motion, making the distance between the picket gate and the porch steps seem like a hundred yards as he ran, his heels kicking up clouds of dust behind him. But everything stopped, the colour draining from the day, shadowing out the warmth as no one greeted the boy’s call. He stood in the frame of the door, his eyes tracing the raw pine staircase, the archway to the left, and finally falling over a table knocked to its side; shattered blue pottery lay among twelve rose stems, the red petals crumpled and torn, smudged into the hardwood floors all around his feet.
“Arietta?” he called again, expecting to hear her reply. He held his breath, this boy with gold-brown hair and fair skin, and bravely entered, though he could feel the grip of tragedy climbing the walls. He toed the edge of the table, shifting it away, seeing four curled fingers, tipped red with blood, the rest of the arm slightly hidden by the gate of the stairs.
“Aunty?” He ran to her side, falling to his knees at the sight of her fragile, slender body, twisted awkwardly, as if she had fallen from something impossibly high and landed without bones in her body. Stringy tendrils mocked what was once hair of gold, and as the boy reached forward and stroked it from her cheek, he turned her face toward him and let out a shallow, empty cry, falling back on his heels.
A face unrecognisably human stared back at him; eyes swollen shut, a deep void where the other half of her skull should be—her lip torn up to her nose, several teeth missing.
My heart, which had been steady the whole time, suddenly beat faster.
The boy got to his knees again and, swiping tears from his youthful cheeks, lifted the bodice of her dress and fell heavily upon her blackened belly. He felt helplessly around the dome of skin, searching for the feel of life within, and while his body shook from the fear of truth, he turned his head to read something inscribed on the wall beside him. The memory blanked out the words, leaving only the feeling that followed, and I knew they were a passage from the Bible, condemning infidelity.