Vampires, Hearts and Other Dead Things: Chapters 1–2

Be strong like Buffy. I repeat the mantra in my head as I glare into the garish fluorescent lights.

Dad and I are vampire connoisseurs. We’ve seen every vampire movie and television show and documentary ever made at least ten times.

Sometimes Mom smiles at one of his corny jokes or even laughs at one of mine if Dad goads her into it.

He’s a fraying thread between us.

No prelude, no staring at his papers before speaking, no pre-bad news sigh.

My treacherous heart speeds, beating faster than I thought possible.

If pancreatic cancer were a vampire, it wouldn’t be well-groomed Lestat, and it definitely wouldn’t be sparkly Edward. No, it’d be the vampire horde from 30 Days of Night—merciless, bloody, ravaging a whole town until nothing is left.

Gerald was short and thin with stringy black hair that hid his gaunt cheeks when he wasn’t tucking it behind his ears.

His clothes were mismatched—modern slacks, a brocade waistcoat with faded gold stitching, a yellowing white shirt with ruffles at the neck and wrists—a collection of pieces from different eras with little care for how they went together.

But despite all that, he held himself like a prince as he sat in a chair across from Lester Holt and smiled coyly when asked how many humans he’d killed.

There still weren’t many I could see at eight years old, but we started doing Fangtastic Thursdays as soon as I could handle some of the classics, and every year on the anniversary of Gerald’s reveal, we watch the marathon of documentaries, listen to researchers talk about their continued efforts to find them again, and make our own speculations about where they might be, all while munching on my famous white-painted sugar cookies drizzled in red frosting.

His lips quirk, and he stares off like he’s thinking, but it goes on for too long.

We used to quiz each other on what year an obscure vampire movie came out, and now he can’t name a single one.

“But vampires are immortal.” My consistent argument.

My voice breaks, and I bite my tongue to give myself a tangible pain to focus on.

I mostly avoided her because I couldn’t stand the condescending glances she shared with Mom whenever I spoke about anything vampire-related—even if was just a new movie.

Jessica showed up with color-coded binders full of research and options and clinical trials. She had statistics for Mom. She had hope for Dad.

She even knew the best diet—the one Mom’s been diligently following ever since.

Pulling out my sketchbook, I flip to the first picture—a landscape of the forest behind our house done in stark charcoal with none of the vibrant chalks or watercolors I usually favor.

I stare down at the vibrant petals, melding subtle shades of purple.

My dad and I always joke that she’s so composed even onions can’t make her shed a tear, but it’s really because she wears contacts.

Mom’s agnostic. Dad’s religious. I waver between them both, but lately I’ve taken up praying again.

I lean toward her, praying she’s going to tell me she still has hope too, or at least show me that we're both burying the same unfathomable pain.

The chasm that used to be between us opens again in an instant.

It’s the same look she gave me when I tried to follow her up a tree that I was too small to climb and inevitably fell, scraping away my skin on the bark.

I stare into the glaring sun, trying to burn the memory away.

Glancing away, he watches a woman walk by us in an over-the-top pink hat boasting an array of garish flowers.

He gestures outward with his hand, like this encompasses the entire world.

He beckons me closer and takes my hand.

“Dad.” I mean to say his name like an admonishment, the way Mom says mine when I’ve done something I should know is ridiculous, but it comes out more like a question.

“I want to be lucid.”

Dad drifts off, but peace eludes him even in sleep now, and every so often his face twists into a grimace.

A new, tenuous hope builds in my chest like an expanding life raft, and I cling to it.

Sometimes my mom steals the remote from her in the afternoon and turns on Dr. Phil, but then my grandma gripes about having to watch a pompous old white man pretend he knows better than anyone else until my mom gives up and turns the cartoons back on.

Dad’s parents died when I was young, and Mom's live a vagabond lifestyle, traveling the world while running a company that makes all-natural cleaning products.

It coaxes a small smile from me.

He attempts to laugh, but the strain of trying to be casual ruins it, and it fades into a choking cough when I don’t join him.

He leans forward on the bed and rests his elbows on his knees, staring up at me with an open expression. He was always good at disarming people.

It got us out of more than one scrape as kids—and for him it wasn’t even about manipulation. When he smiled, he meant it.

She was quieter and less adventurous than me, more like the brooding artist on the inside, with blond hair and a soft smile on the outside.