Page 15 of One Last Smile

“You know she’s a vampire, right?”

Annie looks at me, and her expression is so serious that I almost think she believes what she said. It’s a moment before the absurdity of that thought hits me. When it does, I laugh and play along with the joke.

“That would explain why she’s so pale and thin. Aren’t vampires supposed to be tall, though?”

Annie’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m serious. I’ve thought about it a long time, and I really believe she has to leach energy from other people to survive.”

Once more, I hesitate a moment. Annie’s just turned ten years old, and at only twelve years old myself, we both engage in our fair share of play-pretend still. But we’re too old to actually believe anything we make up, aren’t we?

Of course we are. Annie’s just being ridiculous. I decide this is an excellent opportunity for me to demonstrate my maturity as the oldest sister and tell Annie something that will help her understand the difference between children and adults.

“Oh, Annie,” I say, sitting next to her on the park bench and putting a comforting hand on her arm. “I know that Mother is hard to deal with at times.” I’ve recently started calling Mum Mother and Dad Father. I feel very grown up calling them that. “But you must remember that she is only like this because she loves us very much, and she wants us to have happy, successful lives.”

“Is she happy?”

I start to say, of course she is, but the words don’t leave my mouth. It hits me that I’ve never once seen Mother smile.

No, that’s not true. I recall one time when Annie was three years old, she was curious about the food Mother was making on the stove. I was only five at the time, and I can’t remember exactly what she was making, only that she had a pot of water boiling. Mother noticed Annie looking at that water and set her on the counter near the stove.

I recall wondering why on Earth she would put a toddler on the counter. What if Annie burned herself? I looked at her and prepared to ask her that exact question, but the expression on her face chilled me. It was not an angry face. It was not vindictive or vicious. It was… absent somewhat. Her eyes were still in her head, and she was aware of her surroundings. She set Annie on the counter, with no thought to ensure that she couldn’t accidentally touch the boiling water.

There was nothing there, no emotion at all. Not the anger I am used to, or the occasional cruelty. Not the typical long-suffering exhaustion that is her usual expression. Just… nothing.

She set Annie on the counter and walked away. I wanted to warn my sister not to touch the stove. I wanted to lift her off of the counter and lead her from the room to play in our bedroom. I wanted to save her, but I noticed my mother watching us, and I knew in my heart of hearts that if I made any move to rescue her, my mother would punish me tenfold for interfering.

Annie looked at the water for a second, her eyes wide with curiosity.

Then she placed her hand on the edge of the pot.

She pulled it back quickly and looked at it, her brow furrowed in confusion. What on Earth was that strange sensation she was feeling on her palm?

Then the pain hit. Her eyes widened in shock, and then they looked at me. Even at three years old, the understanding was there, the knowledge of my betrayal.

Then they turned to my mother, and just before the shrieking started, I saw heartbreaking grief.

And my mother watched her screaming child, a look of approval in her eyes, the corners of her mouth tilted upward, and said these words.

“Now you’ll know better.”

***

I gasp and then release a sob of anguish. My eyes are shut tightly, and I hear my voice moan, “No, Annie!”

The voice is not that of a child but that of a fifty-year-old woman. It snaps me the rest of the way out of my dream, and I open my eyes to see the sun shining through the window. I sit up and look at my cell phone. I rarely use the implement as anything more than a flashlight or clock, and as a timepiece, it proves quite useful and unfailingly accurate.

It’s seven-fifty-six. I’ve slept in nearly two hours.

I sigh and roll out of bed, dressing quickly and heading upstairs. I don’t have time to dwell on the nightmare or on the fact that for the first time in twenty-six years I’ve slept through an alarm. Today is the first day of Lucas’s instruction, and I have made myself late.

The family is nearly finished with breakfast. No one pays me any mind as I head to the kitchen and prepare myself a scrambled egg and some toast with jam. The novelty of my existence is wearing off, and I’m slowly becoming just another servant. I think I prefer that.

When I return to the table, only Lucas remains. He looks at me, and for the first time, I see the resemblance between his wide, not-quite-innocent stare and my sister’s direct, piercing gaze.

I force a smile and say, “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

“Well, thank you. And you?”

“Well enough,” I lie. “I’m sorry I was late to breakfast.”

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