A spark of interest flashed across her features before she wrestled her face back under control and reset her bored expression. She stretched her fingers then slid her hands along her thighs, probably to dry the moisture on her palms. ‘I studied art. Painting, drawing. I also write a little poetry.’
‘You’re an artist and a poet?’ I smiled. ‘That’s wonderful. What great talents to have.’
‘It doesn’t matter any more.’ She lifted a shoulder and shifted her gaze to the clock and then back to my face.
Oh, yes. Practised apathy. Feigned nonchalance. Fear.
‘Why is that?’
She tapped a blood-red fingernail on her leg. ‘It’s a waste of my time to sit in closed-up rooms, listening to boring people talk about boring subjects. I have bigger plans.’
I wonder if she’s given any thought to how closed-up a coffin is?
‘What bigger plans?’
‘I already told you,’ she said with an impatient tone.
‘Oh, yes, becoming a vampire. What’s so great about that? Why would you want to be a blood-drinking dead thing? Do vampires really sparkle in the sun?’ I asked, thinking about the latest trendy vampire movies.
Can she find the humour in the vampire craze, or is it deadly serious?
‘Wow.’ She laughed and leaped off the couch, then paced in the space behind the furniture. ‘You are really off. Vampires don’t sparkle. And they’re not dead. Well, I guess they’re technically dead, but they don’t look like zombies. That’s probably what you’re thinking of.’
I followed her back-and-forth motion with my gaze, noting how her purple cape flared out with each turn in her path. She appeared agitated, perhaps even slightly manic. I relaxed back in my chair and breathed evenly, wanting to encourage her to follow my example.
Bipolar?
‘The vampires I know are unearthly beautiful.’ She stopped walking and took a deep breath before returning to her seat. She met my eyes, her chin raised in defiance. ‘Vampires don’t feel bad about drinking blood, either. They don’t have to kill to eat – they can just take a little. Obviously they’re simply higher on the food chain than we are. It’s really quite natural.’
‘Sucking blood is natural?’ I wrote another note.
Sure. They’ll sell blood at holistic food stores any day now. Buy a pint of A-positive and get a pair of Birkenstocks or Crocs for free.
‘Well, yeah.’ She looked at me as if I were the village idiot. ‘Every creature has the right to exist. Just because we don’t understand them doesn’t make them bad.’
Poor, misunderstood bloodsuckers. Midnight is definitely wearing rose-coloured – I mean blood-coloured – glasses.
‘So what is it, then? Do you want to be unearthly beautiful? Is that what appeals to you?’
‘Of course. Who wouldn’t want that?’ She flipped her hair over her shoulder. ‘But I’m more interested in immortality and being with someone for ever.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
She stared at me, silent.
Okay. That struck a nerve. Try something different.
‘I can’t even imagine what it would be like to live for ever,’ I said, twisting the pen through my fingers. ‘Can you? What would I do with myself for all those centuries? I already get bored sometimes over the weekend.’
Midnight giggled, despite her attempt not to. ‘I guess it is hard to imagine. At least I’d have a lot of time to practise my art. My vampire friends talk about some of the things they’ve done with their lives.’
I wonder if these vampires are imaginary friends. Is she having auditory hallucinations? Is she psychotic?
‘What do they say?’
She looked around the room, probably giving herself time to decide how much to share. ‘Some of them spent a lot of years just trying to learn how to be vampires. Nobody taught them, so they travelled around the world, figuring things out, trying not to get staked. Others spent the time doing things they loved – that’s what I would do. Nobody could force me to do anything.’
‘Who is forcing you to do something?’
Silence.
Definitely more going on here than meets the eye. Is she in a dangerous situation or delusional? What happened to derail her? How did she go from straight-A student to vampire wannabe? Time to regroup.
‘Do you have a good relationship with your parents?’ I played with a button on my suit jacket – a nervous habit I’ve never extinguished.
‘I guess. They don’t understand me.’
The teenage lament. I remember the feeling.
‘Tell me about your mother. What’s she like?’
‘There’s nothing to tell. She has all these ideas about who she wants me to be. Did she ever ask me what I want? No. She thinks because she’s a lawyer, I should be one, too. Being an artist isn’t a good enough career. Money is the only thing that matters to her. All she does is work. She says it’s hard for a woman to make partner in a big law firm, so she’s a workaholic.’
Poor Midnight. Looking for someone who won’t abandon her.
‘How do you feel about that?’
‘I get where she’s coming from, but I don’t want that life. She’s not happy. I don’t see the point.’
‘Do you miss her when she works all the time?’
She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. Sadness clouded her face before she shoved the feeling into the deep freeze. ‘Nope. I hang with my friends.’
Lots of bottled-up pain here.
‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’
‘No. I’m an only.’
‘What about your father?’ I circled a comment I’d written earlier in my notes.
She paused and studied the carpet. ‘He’s a drunk. A boozer. That’s what he calls himself.’
‘An alcoholic?’
‘Out of control.’ She nodded and brought her gaze to mine. ‘A nut-job, an addict. He sees someone like you. That’s why I ended up here. They’re worried I inherited whatever glitch he has.’
‘You mean a substance-abuse problem?’
Crap. As if things weren’t challenging enough for her . . .
‘Yeah, among other things. He’s an alkie. Drinks so much he has hallucinations sometimes. He can’t work any more. He’s totally paranoid – thinks everyone’s out to get him. I’m surprised he doesn’t wear an aluminium foil hat to keep the aliens away. Growing up with that has been a real freak show.’
No wonder she has no boundaries between what’s real and what isn’t. Mental illness runs in her family.
‘Do you think you have a problem? Drugs? Alcohol?’
‘No.’ She frowned. ‘I’ve smoked my share of pot and I like wine, but I’d rather die than be like my father. I keep myself under control.’
She’d rather die . . . Is all this vampire talk just another form of suicidal ideation? Does she have a plan? A quick way to escape from the pain? She’s sending out such mixed signals.
‘Are there times when you don’t have yourself under control?’
She chewed on her lip again, then glared at me. ‘Why are you making me talk about this stuff?’ Her eyes glistened with the beginnings of tears. ‘I’m already sad all the time, except for when I’m with my friends. What’s the use of talking about it? Do you want me to feel worse? There’s nothing I can do about my family. I want to think about something good. Something positive.’ She sniffled.
Yes. This is good.
I met her gaze, grateful that the dam had finally broken and she might share what was really going on. ‘I know it doesn’t make sense, because all we want to do is avoid the bad feelings, but sometimes talking about them helps. We’re afraid to put our emotions into words because they’re overwhelming. Frightening. But if we can find a safe place to let our guard down, to vent some of that intensity and purge a little of the negativity, we usually start to feel better. Therapy can help. I hope you’ll begin to think of this office as a safe place.’