Ninety-Nine Years

The ambulance takes a right turn off one of the main streets into the Scotch 80’s, a classic development from the 1960’s. Although ranch and mid century homes dominate, this is no bland pre-planned development.

As Wes drives, Alastair gazes out the window, dwelling on the redhead and her stepfather, “You realize we’re just going around in circles.”

“I know you’re not talking about my driving.” Wes immediately regrets his sharpness. “What?”

Alastair hopes talking about it will somehow make it better, “Someone gets hurt, they grow up to hurt someone else, on and on it goes.”

Wes vents, “I don’t buy that hopeless cycle bullshit. There’s always a choice.”

Alastair shows his age, “Yeah and most of the time people make the wrong one.”

“I just try to stay out of other people’s drama as much as I can.”

Alastair sighs, “I try, believe me, as much as my nature allows.”

As the ambulance pulls to the curb, Alastair watches Wes curiously.

A fire truck follows the ambulance. They pull up to an elegant, well tended ranch-style house. Vintage charm mixes with swanky luxury.

A firefighter helps Wes and Alastair with their gear as they walk up the front walkway. Wes walks slowly, taking his time to admire his surroundings, “I think I found my dream home. Just need to work for the next hundred years to get enough coin to buy it.”

Alastair sighs, “I’d need two hundred years, I’m not good with money.”

They reach the main door and hunt for a doorbell, but there isn’t one. Instead, there’s a large, circular brass knocker featuring a dragon and phoenix chasing each other around.

Anne answers. She’s waifish, with dark blond hair and skin that hasn’t seen the sun in ages, her delicate features are twisted by worry. Saying nothing, she props the door open and motions for the medics to follow. Wes lights up the moment he sees her.

As Alastair and Wes enter the living room they’re startled by the unique decor. Tasteful contemporary furniture is upstaged by crucifixes, Native American totems, laughing Buddhas; anything and everything religious decorates this room. The room is crowded from floor to ceiling with items collected over many years. It’s the kind of collection that would make a museum curator drool. Alastair moves through the room confidently, unafraid and unaffected by the display. He runs his fingers along a large golden crucifix displayed on an end table.

Anne’s voice echoes off the high ceilings, “My grandmother’s having a hard time breathing.”

Wes’s concern shows, “For how long.”

Anne struggles to separate the days, “A week, maybe a little bit more.”

They take a left turn down the hall, into a bedroom. Monastic simplicity, basic clean furniture, punctuated by an oil painting of Lucifer’s fall from heaven and a statue of the ever changing, though destructive, Hindu goddess Kali.

Helen sits in a reading chair next to her bed breathing uncomfortably. Her long silver hair is neatly arranged in a bun, framing the face of a lady who has seen it all. She wears an elegant blouse with a collar that covers most of her neck with khaki pants fit for an explorer.

Helen eyes the medics and firefighter warily as they enter. She reprimands Anne, “I told you I don’t need help.”

The firefighter, bored of medical calls, sets his gear down and heads for the door, “I’ll be on the truck.”

Alastair’s the last to walk into the room, as he gets closer Helen’s discomfort grows. Her change alarms the medics, they break into their gear.

Wes tries to keep it professional, “We need to monitor her heart rate.”

“On it.” Alastair starts to loosen Helen’s blouse but she’s uncomfortable.

Anne steps in, “They’re here to help.”

Alastair watches as Anne helps her grandmother loosen her blouse. She backs away, giving Alastair room to move. As Alastair attaches the electrodes for the heart monitor, as he works he notices something odd… Two small wounds on Helen’s neck, open yet somehow bloodless. Alastair instantly recognizes the handiwork of another of his kind.

Wes breaks Alastair’s concentration, gently pushing him away to fit an oxygen tube to Helen’s nostrils. The heart monitor activates with a familiar beep, monitoring her rapid but steady beat.

Stunned, Alastair backs away from Helen. As he does, Helen’s rhythm gets stronger and slows to normal.

Wes looks to Anne. “We should get her in the hospital. You want to ride along or follow in your car?”

Helen steels herself, looking at Alastair with anger and fear, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Anne pleads, “You need help. Better to play it safe.”

The old lady is unrelenting “I’m not safe anywhere.”

Wes sees Anne’s concern, guides her into the hallway for a privacy.

“She can’t refuse help.” Anne asks desperately, “Can she?”

Wes tries to get his facts straight, “She’s still considered mentally competent, right?”

Anne sees where this is going. “She’s not senile.”

“Then it’s her right to refuse transport.” Wes brushes his hand along her shoulder, she responds to his comforting touch.

***

In Helen’s room, Alastair keeps a polite distance between himself and his charge. Her vitals have stabilized. She examines him with a wary curiosity.

Alastair whispers, “You shouldn’t take your life for granted.”

“Do you even remember what it is to be alive?”

Alastair looks out the bedroom door, Wes and Anne are out of earshot. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

Helen’s fear is overwhelmed by curiosity, “How long since you were changed?”

He recites the answer, “Ninety-nine years.”

She knows the deal, “That explains why you’re still running around like a mortal. You can’t face immortality, and can’t give your powers away.”

Alastair’s stunned by her knowledge. He quietly stares at Helen trying to put the thoughts racing though his mind into words but before he can ask anything more of Helen, Wes and Anne return.

***

The fire truck pulls away, leaving Wes and Alastair to struggle with an overload of supplies as they make their way back to the ambulance.

Wes takes a look back, “I hope they’re all right.”

Alastair keeps his mind on business, “I’m sure we’ll get a call if things change.”

Wes responds eagerly, “I’m keeping a copy of her book in the ambulance from now on.”

“Her book?”

“Don’t you know who she is” Wes rolls his eyes, “Helen Nolan, ‘The Zen of Monstrosity.’ It’s kinda like Jung but more fun to read. Helped me to understand my dark side.”

Alastair smiles as he considers what Wes’s deep dark secrets might be.

Wes squirms, suddenly uncomfortable, “What?”

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce