Blood Drive

Mom’s voice is steady, controlled. “Why wouldn’t Steve have told us that you were pregnant?”

“He never knew. I didn’t find out until after the accident. When Steve died, I got sick. Very sick. I ended up in the hospital. While I was there I found out I was pregnant.”

Carolyn releases my father’s hand. “I thought it would be okay. I loved Steve. But I made the mistake of telling my parents. They didn’t share my enthusiasm. They tried to convince me to have an abortion. They were relentless.”

“Why didn’t you come to us?” Mom asks.

Carolyn’s expression hardens. “Would you have wanted to know?” There is an accusatory edge to her voice. “You didn’t bother to call to see why I hadn’t come to the funeral. I figured you would feel the same way my parents did, that we were too young to have had a real relationship. That the baby was a mistake.”

When no one responds, she waves the air with a hand. “It doesn’t matter now anyway. I ran away. I came here because I got a scholarship to nursing school. After I had Trish, I got a job at a local hospital. I raised Trish in the best way I could. We got along very well until Trish started high school. Suddenly, everything changed.”

“Tell us,” Mom says. “But what you say had better be the truth.”

Carolyn perches on the edge of the couch. “Trish and I moved here from downtown last year,” she says. “I didn’t like the group of kids Trish was involved with in her old school.” She looks up at my mother. “I didn’t know it was your school. Not until later.”

Mom says nothing.

Carolyn shrugs and continues. “There was an older group of kids in the neighborhood who took a special interest in Trish from the moment we moved in. Naturally, she loved the attention. I suspect they were smoking pot and drinking. I should have stopped it then. But if Trish was doing it, too, she was very clever at hiding it. She never missed a curfew. Never neglected her chores or lied about where she was going or with whom. A couple of months ago, things changed.”

She moves restlessly, crosses and uncrosses her legs. “Trish has always been a good student but suddenly her grades fell. She began to stay out late, was evasive about what she was doing. Sometimes she would come home stoned or drunk. Once she didn’t make it into the house before passing out on the front porch steps. I tried everything I could think of to intervene. That’s when I contacted Daniel Frey, the one teacher Trish seemed to respect. I hoped that he could offer insight into Trish’s behavior.”

She pauses and wearily shakes her head. “He promised to watch out for Trish and asked my permission for her to join a select group of students he mentored after school. But he said his techniques were a bit unconventional and he often took students to his home for overnight or weekend sessions. If I objected to that, I could say no and he wouldn’t pursue it.”

At this point my mother can no longer hold her tongue. “You didn’t think ‘overnight and weekend sessions’ an odd thing for a teacher to suggest? It didn’t occur to you that perhaps you should contact someone else at the school and report what this teacher said to you?”

Carolyn lowers her eyes. “He gave me the name of a parent of one of the other students in his ‘program.’ I called her. She told me in glowing terms how Mr. Frey had helped her daughter. You have to understand, Mrs. Strong. I was desperate. Trish refused the help I offered through the hospital. She was slipping away and I felt I had no one else to turn to. When Trish said she’d accept Mr. Frey’s help, I was relieved.”

Mom shakes her head. “You’ve leveled some very serious charges against this teacher. Once we’ve found Trish, I expect you to come with me before the school board. But right now, we need to help your daughter. Do you have any idea where she is?”

Carolyn shrugs. “No. She’s been gone two days. She left right after the disappearance of Barbara Franco. When I heard this morning that Barbara’s body had been discovered, that she’d been murdered, I was afraid Trish might be involved.”

Mom draws a sharp breath. “Barbara’s body was discovered?”

The tone suggests she knew this girl too. She catches my eye and gives a brief nod. “Another of our students. God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

I look at Carolyn. “Why do you suspect Trish is involved?”

Carolyn bites her lip. “Barbara is the one friend Trish made here that was her same age. They really seemed to hit it off. But she was as worried about Trish as I was. Barbara came to me last week with suspicions about Mr. Frey and what he was doing with Trish. I told her that she must be mistaken. I had talked to him, that he was helping Trish. But she kept insisting that Frey was supplying drugs to kids in exchange for sex.”

“And you didn’t believe it?”

“Would you? Trish was getting better. There were no more late night parties. She seemed happier. But I couldn’t convince Barbara. She said if I didn’t do something to stop what was going on, she would. She said she would go to you, Mrs. Strong, and tell you what was happening.”

I look over at my mother. “Did she?”

Mom shakes her head. “No. I wish she had.”

Carolyn’s expression crumbles and she begins to cry. “She didn’t because I talked her out of it.” Sobs shake her shoulders. “I told her she should go to Mr. Frey first. I told her he was a good teacher and it wouldn’t be fair to slander his reputation with gossip. I sent her to Frey. I think he killed her, and I’m afraid Trish may have helped.”

We let her cry, though part of me wants to ask her why she hasn’t told this story to the police. The other part acknowledges that if what she says is true, Trish is Steve’s child. She’s blood. And she’s in trouble.

After a minute, I go into the kitchen for a box of tissues. Carolyn accepts the box, pulls one free and mops at her face. She reaches down and pulls something out of the tote at her feet.

It’s a photo album.

She holds it out to us like an offering. “Pictures of Trish. I thought you might like to see them.”

Neither Mom nor Dad moves to accept it, but I can’t resist. I lower myself onto the couch beside her and open to the first page.

My brother’s eyes look back at me.

I can’t tell how tall she is from the school picture, or what body type she is, but the resemblance to my brother is remarkable. She has Steve’s dark, onyx eyes, huge, almond shaped. She’s looking straight at the camera, her facial bones delicate, her mouth full. Her hair is the same color as my mother’s, pulled back with a clip at the top of her head, tendrils resting on her shoulders, wisping around her face. She’s smiling but not quite. An almost spectral radiance surrounds her. I can’t stop myself. I suck in a breath, blow it out and hold the picture up for my parent’s to see.

This is my brother’s child.

***

Carolyn leaves at eleven, agreeing to meet us again tomorrow evening. She leaves behind the photo album. My parents and I spend hours poring over it. Mom brings out one of Steve’s baby pictures to compare with Trish’s. There’s no need for a DNA test. The two babies could have been twins. Before long, we are all hugging each other and crying.

They ask me to spend the night with them. I want to. But one of the sad truths about being a vampire is a keen awareness of the everyday things that make us different from humans. I have to avoid mirrors, for instance. And quite naturally, my parent’s home is full of them. Nighttime is particularly bad because I cast no reflection in brightly-lit windows either. So far, neither Mom nor Dad have noticed how I carefully pull all the drapes just before sunset. One of these days, however, they may question why I’m so diligent. They live at the top of Mt.Helix and the view from their home sweeps from Del Mar to Mexico. I used to love it, especially at night.