MaryJane Davidson - Undead and Uneasy

This was true, but I was in no mood for logic. “And you didn't even say good-​bye. I know you didn't like them, but Jesus!”

And why were we screaming at each other in the foyer? Maybe I was still too mad to make nicey-​nice hostess, even to Mom, whom I usually adored. How could I not adore someone who welcomed her daughter back from the dead with open arms? “Someone had to watch your son,” she replied sharply. “And it's not as though you have no friends. Where is everybody, anyway?” “The question of the day,” I muttered. No way was I telling her Sinclair and I were fighting—she liked him, if possible, more than she liked me. And she'd worry herself sick about Jessica. And she didn't know Marc or Laura that well, or the others at all.

Then the full impact of her words hit me like a hammer upside the head. "Someone had to watch my what?”

“ Jon .”

“What?”

She pointed at my half brother, as if I'd forgotten I was holding him in my arms. In fact, I had. “Your son. The reading of the will? Yesterday? Remember?”

“You know full well I wasn't there. My nails were a mess, and it's not like the Ant was going to let Dad leave me a damned thing. So I gave myself a manicure in Wine Cordial.”

My mother sighed, the way she used to sigh when I told her my middle school term project was due later in the morning, and I hadn't even started yet. “In the event of their deaths, you're his legal guardian. They're dead. So guess what?”

“But—but—” Babyjon cooed and wriggled and looked far too happy with the circumstances. I couldn't decide whether to be thrilled or appalled. I settled on appalled. “But I didn't want a baby like this .”

“Like what?”

“Like—you know. Via the vehicle of death.”

Mom frowned. “What was that again?”

“I mean, I wanted my own baby. Mine and Sinclair's baby.”

“Well, you've got this one,” she said, completely unmoved by my panic.

“But—”

“And you certainly have the means to bring him up properly.”

“But—”

“Although I wonder. . . will he get his days and nights confused, living with you two as parents?”

“That's the burning question on your mind? Because I can think of a few dozen other slightly more pressing ones!”

“Dear, don't scream. My hearing is fine.”

“I'm not ready!”

“You're still screaming. And no one ever is, dear.” She coughed. “Take it from me.”

“I can't do it!”

“We all say that in the beginning.”

“But I really really can't!”

“We all say that, too. Well, the first twenty years, anyway.”

I thrust him toward her, like I was offering her a platter of hors d'ouevres. “You take him!”

“My dear, I am almost sixty years old.”

“Sixty years young,” I offered wildly.

Mom shot me a black look. “My child-​rearing days .ire over. You, on the other hand, are eternally young, have a support system, a rich best friend, a fine soon-​to-​be-​husband, legal guardianship, and a blood tie.”

“And on that basis I'm the new mom?”

“Congratulations,” she said, pushing the baby back toward my face. His great, blue googley eyes widened at me, as his mouth formed a drool-​tinged O. “It's a boy. And now, I have to go.”

“You’re leaving?” I nearly shrieked.

“I'm supposed to visit your grandfather in the hospice this afternoon. You remember your grandfather, dear? Lest you accuse others of neglect.”

“I can't believe you're leaving me like this! I have three words for you, Mother—state-​funded nursing home. Do you hear me? STATE-​FUNDED NURSING HOME!!!” I yelled after her, just as Babyjon yarked milk all over my beautiful black designer suit.

The kitchen phone rang, and I ran toward it, stopping to plop Babyjon in his port-​a-​crib (a subsidiary of BabyCrap™) on the way, where he promptly flopped over on his back and went to sleep. Yeah, well, dead parents were exhausting for everybody.

I gave thanks for all the junk we'd bought when he'd been born, hoping to have occasional chances to babysit. Babysit, not raise him to adulthood! But because of my precautions, we had diapers, cribs, formula, bottles, baby blankets, and onesies up the wazoo.

It was funny, the Ant had only warmed up to nu when she saw how much Babyjon liked me. As .1 newborn, he screamed almost constantly from colic (or perhaps rage at the decor of his nursery) and only shut up when I held him. Once the Ant saw that, I was the number one babysitter.

Sinclair had not been pleased. But I wasn't going to think about Sinclair, except how much I was about to yell at him when I got him on the phone.

The thought of surprising Sinclair with this kid, I have to admit, gave me a certain perverse pleasure. It salved the terror I felt at the sudden responsibility.

I skidded across the floor and snatched the phone in the middle of the sixth ring. “Hello? Sinclair? You bum! Where are you? Hello?”

"—can't—cell—''

“Who is this?”

“—too far—can't—hear”

I could barely make out the words through the thick static. “Who! Is! This!”

“—worry—message—country”

“Marc? Is that you?”

“—no other way—don't—okay—”

“Tina?”

“—back—time—”

“Dad? If you're calling from beyond the grave, I'm going to be very upset,” I threatened. There wasn't even a click. Just a dead line.

I sat down at the table, deliberately forgetting about all the times the bunch of us had sat around making smoothies or inventing absurd drinks (e.g., The Queen Betsy: one ounce amaretto, two ounces orange juice, three ounces cranberry juice, seven ounces of champagne, and let me tell you, it was heaven in a martini glass).

I thought: Everybody’s gone. Everybody.

I thought: How could they do this to me?

Okay, Jessica had an excuse. Battling cancer via chemo was a dandy way to get out of social obligations. And Detective Berry—well, I didn't especially want him around. He had known, once upon a time, that I had died and come back to life. I had drunk his blood, once upon a time, and it had gone badly. Sinclair had fixed it by making Nick forget. The last thing I needed was for him to be at the same funeral home he'd come to two Aprils ago for my funeral.

No, it was good for Nick to be at Jessica's side when he wasn't foiling killers and petty thieves.

Same with Tina. When she left to check on the European vampires, she had no idea this was going to happen. No, I couldn't blame her, either.

But Marc? He of all people didn't have a life, and he picks now to disappear? To not call, or return calls?

Mom? (Like she couldn't have gotten someone else to watch Babyjon?)

Sinclair? The guy who knew friggin' everything didn't show up for the double funeral?

Laura? She rebelled against her mom, the devil, by being the most churchgoing, God-​fearing person you ever saw (when she wasn't killing serial killers or beating the shit out of vampires), but she couldn't be bothered to go to a family funeral?

Cathie the ghost, on a fucking world tour?

Antonia? Garrett? Okay, I hadn't known them very long, but they did live in my (Jessica's) house rent-​free. I'd taken her in when her Pack wanted nothing to do with her. When the other werewolves were scared shitless of her. And Garrett? I'd saved him from staking multiple times. But they took off on me, too.

What the fuck excuse did any of them have? They were supposed to be my friends, my fiancé, my family, my roommates. So why was I rattling around in this big-​ass mansion by myself? Except for Babyjon, snoring in the corner? Shit, nobody even sent me flowers! It wasn't fair. And don't tell me life isn't fair, either. Like a vampire doesn't know that?