Bad Blood Read online

  My father grins. “You’re making them? Banana or chocolate chip?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Chocolate chip.” I shake my head and give him a look that asks, Is there any other kind?

  That finally gets a smile from my mom. She puts her arm around me as we walk down the stairs to the kitchen, giving me an extra squeeze before letting me go. I grab the flour and sugar and start gathering ingredients from the pantry.

  “When I spoke with your aunt Abigail earlier,” my mother says, sitting at the kitchen table, “she mentioned you made these for her last summer.” She stops, then lets out a little sniffle. “She’s looking forward to seeing you.” She wipes away a tear and I feel a flood of guilt over the pain I’ve caused her.

  “Did you tell her?” I ask quietly.

  My mother glances at my father. “Of course we told her. She needs to know what’s going on with you in case…” She pauses. “I’m really not sure you should go. Or maybe I should go with you….”

  My father puts his hand on her shoulder. “We’ve already discussed this, love.” At Great Lakes I learned that one of the reasons for self-destructive behavior is not having enough control over your own life, feeling helpless. I brought this up with Dr. Casella and we had a whole session with my parents about it. Unfortunately, it seems to have made my mother even more protective.

  She looks at him. “Our daughter just got out of a clinic for mentally unstable youth and you want us to send her halfway around the world?”

  “It’s been a month, Mom. And I’ll be a phone call away.”

  She turns her gaze on me. “If you bother to answer. Last year I couldn’t get ahold of you unless I used that texting apple thing….”

  “App, Mom,” I say. It takes every ounce of willpower not to roll my eyes.

  “I don’t care what it’s called,” she snaps. “The point is that if I want to hear your voice, to make sure you’re okay, I won’t be able to. As if typing a message can take the place of a real conversation.”

  “Mom, I promise to always answer the phone when you call, no matter what the time.” I motion to myself, dressed and ready to go. “I’m better. I’ll have my weekly sessions with Dr. Casella.” I explain to her, again, that video chat will be just as good as seeing Dr. Casella in person. “I’ll be fine.”

  I know that the best way to convince her is to just act like myself, to show her I’m no different than I was last year or the year before. That I’m still just me.

  “Clearly you are not fine, Heather. Maybe the other thing is over, but you just had a violent nightmare.” She sighs. “Maybe it’s all the scary movies you guys watch.”

  “It’s not the movies,” my dad and I say at the same time, causing my mom to bark out an unexpected laugh. She’s squeamish when it comes to horror films, but my dad and I both love the gore. Even when I was younger, I couldn’t get enough. I knew it was just pretend, but I liked feeling scared and safe at the same time.

  “Oh, that reminds me, I ordered Blood Dawn so you can download it,” he says to me. We missed that one in the theater, thanks to my time at the Center.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I love creepy vampire films.

  “And I have that list of things to bring back. I’ll pay the fee for the extra luggage, so dinnae worry about that.” After nearly twenty-five years in America, my father’s accent has lessened, but it’s not completely gone. Do not and cannot always come out like dinnae and cannae. “Just be sure to have your aunt take you shopping….You’re still too young to get the whisky I want.”

  My mother shoots him a look and my father shrugs.

  “What? When you’re Scottish, bottles of Scotch make excellent presents for clients.” My father is an architect. Forever ago he came to Chicago for school, met my mother, and decided to stay.

  Since they’re arguing about whether it’s acceptable for their underage daughter to carry hard liquor across international borders, I know it’s a done deal; my mom has been won over. They’ll let me go visit the Scottish side of my family. I bang my hip against the counter and try to hide my wince of pain. I can’t forget to get some bandages for the plane.

  Maybe the night terror is related to the other thing…the thing I tried so hard to keep hidden from my parents, from everyone. The thing only recently forced into the light of day. The horrible dream and the strange need. I push the thought aside and cook breakfast for my parents, my throbbing hip bringing me comfort, making me forget the terror I felt in my dreams.

  AFTER SEVEN HOURS, three in-flight movies, and a crappy airline meal with a substance that may or may not have been chicken, I’m ready to crawl out of my skin. I get that feeling that someone is watching me. No one is, though. The other passengers are either sleeping or watching their miniscreens.

  “I’m just being paranoid,” I mumble, barely above a whisper.

  But my blood is pounding in my ears. I wipe my clammy hands on my jeans. What if I started freaking out on the airplane? It would be beyond embarrassing, not to mention I’d most likely be banned from this airline in the future. I’d probably be on the news—my mother would never let me leave her sight again.

  The thought makes my stomach hurt, and I feel suddenly ill. I grab my backpack from under the seat in front of me, push past the old woman beside me, and practically sprint down the aisle to the bathroom.

  “Miss!” a flight attendant calls. “Miss, we’re about to begin our descent. Please find your seat.”

  “It’s an emergency,” I say, squeezing myself into the bathroom and locking the door. I’m not usually claustrophobic, but I feel trapped. I heave my backpack onto the tiny counter next to the sink, wedging it in with my body so it doesn’t fall over. With shaking hands I undo my pants so my hip is exposed. Quickly I pull off the bandage and throw it away.

  I fumble with my backpack, trying to undo from the strap the attached pin that screams GO VIKINGS! in bright red letters. My school mascot. I rip the pin off, poking my pointer finger with the needle. A single drop of blood appears on my skin and the sight calms me. I suck on the pinprick and the salty, metallic taste steadies my nerves. Then I bring my attention to my hip.

  Carved into the flesh is a small, neat pattern. I press the pin into the skin at the center of the coil and feel an instant release, my body going back to normal, the tension dissipating. I pull the pin out and tattoo the pattern, slowly and expertly.

  I work smoothly, rhythmically. When I was thirteen, I used to scratch my skin just to see the blood, putting to use the X-Acto knife my parents bought me for school projects. Then I began to slash straight, neat lines on my upper thigh. After a while the incisions stopped giving me the much-needed feeling of release, and those scars have all but healed. Instead, I began to carve patterns in my skin. The three-tipped Celtic knot on my hip; an X on my inner thigh, a small circle in the middle; and on my upper arm just under my armpit, a spiral. I knew my parents would be horrified, but I see it as a kind of art. People get tattoos, don’t they? How is this different?

  I realized how very different it was when my mother walked in on me as I carefully sliced my skin. The look of horror on her face. I expected yelling, screaming, but her quiet revulsion was way worse. After five minutes on the computer, she phoned Great Lakes, and she and my dad shipped me off the next day. My dad was confused about the whole thing, hadn’t seen what my mom had. The real me, knife in hand, covered in blood.

  I think back to the time, years ago, when I would never have considered cutting myself. I hated the sight of blood—real blood, anyway. Now it seems so routine. Maybe I can be normal again. I glance at my reflection in the mirror, pin in hand, blood welling over the wound on my hip.

  I am not normal.

  A knock on the door interrupts my trance.

  “Miss? You really must take your seat now.”

  “Just a minute!” I yell, replacing the bandage and doing my pants back up. I fasten the pin back on my bag—sharp objects may not be allowed on airplanes, but no one cares about a
school spirit pin on a backpack—and give myself another look in the mirror. My hair is out of place from my nap, but other than that I look fine.

  Calmed, I open the door. The stewardess glares at me, but I give her a smile and make my way back to my seat, the craving sated.

  “Heeeea-ther!” My aunt waves at me as soon as I step out of the terminal.

  I run to her, wrapping her in a big hug. She’s the girl version of my father, tall and thin, with dark blond hair and deep blue eyes. I inherited the MacNair eyes, but my hair is a lighter blond, like my mother’s.

  “I missed you, love,” my aunt says, giving me another hug. Her accent is heavier than my father’s, since she’s never left Scotland for anything longer than a few weeks of vacation every year. “I’m glad you’re here.” Each vowel is pronounced with great care, each r rolled to perfection.

  “Me too, Aunt Abbie.” Once we landed I felt a million times better, like I’m where I belong.

  We grab my luggage and head toward her car. I automatically go to the right side before remembering the steering wheel is on the right in Scotland. “Are you driving?” my aunt teases.

  “Not if we want to make it home alive,” I say with a grin, walking around to the passenger side. “I’ve just gotten the hang of driving on the correct side of the road.” That starts my aunt off on a rant about how the UK is right and the rest of the world got it wrong. It makes me smile to listen to her, getting used to her accent again. Usually by the end of the summer I have a slight Scottish twang myself, which amuses my father to no end. He calls me his “wee Scottish lassie” until it fades and I am once again his “American girl.”

  We drive past cottages and sheep until we get closer to the city, where the buildings are a strange blend of modern and Gothic. New structures stand alongside stone buildings hundreds of years old. Even the side streets feel old, cobblestone roads and small, dark alleyways. As we drive farther into the city center, the buildings become denser and there are all kinds of shops and restaurants.

  “So Dad told you about…” I trail off lamely.

  “Aye. They called me when you went into the…what do they call it?”

  “Wellness Center. There were a lot of girls there with issues, like eating disorders and other stuff. One girl would pull out her hair, one strand at a time.” I babble on, hoping to distract my aunt from talking about my issues, my problems.

  “Well, your mum said that I’m to watch you like a hawk and make sure you’re taking your medicine and staying healthy.”

  I nod. “It’s not that I hate myself or anything like that,” I try to explain.

  “Love, if you’re worried what I think, dinnae. Everybody has their secrets; everybody has their dark side. As long as you’re getting better…”

  “I am,” I assure her quickly, and she flashes me a smile. I’m glad she doesn’t think less of me. I want things to be the way they’ve always been between us.

  Black cabs whiz by, zooming in and out of traffic. I ask my aunt about the trip she’s going to take to Australia. She’s been planning it for years, and it’s supposed to finally happen in the fall.

  She doesn’t seem to want to discuss it, though. When I press her, she says, “I’m no’ sure I’ll make it out there this year.”

  “I thought you were definitely going,” I say, confused.

  “Oh, nothing’s set in stone.”

  I shake my head. “But, Aunt Abbie—”

  “I meant to ask you about school.” She cuts me off. I realize Aunt Abbie wants me to drop it, so I do. I’ll ask her again later. Maybe she met someone, but that wouldn’t prevent her from taking a two-week vacation.

  “My mom’s pissed that I’ve decided I want to go to film school,” I say, changing the subject.

  “Even when you were wee she talked about you becoming a lawyer. You know, she went to law school, but then…life happened.”

  “Meaning I happened,” I say. “I don’t know how to make her understand….” I trail off as we turn onto Princes Street and I catch sight of Edinburgh Castle.

  On one side of the street are department stores and shops; the other side is a well-manicured park, and above that an imposing stone structure built on an extinct volcano looms over the city. Rock juts out from the otherwise green hill. The castle itself is surrounded by a gray stone wall. I stare up at it as we drive by. I thought I’d feel better coming to Scotland, but the strange emptiness is still there. Was I wrong about needing to be here? Or is there someplace specific I should go. The castle? No, that doesn’t feel right. There’s somewhere I need to be. The thought fills me with a strange dread, but also with a sweet anticipation. I shiver. This medicine is really messing with my head.

  “She’ll come around eventually,” my aunt is saying. “What does your father say?”

  I pull my eyes away from the castle. “Um…Dad? He’s psyched. He thinks I’m going to be the next George A. Romero.”

  “Who?” she asks.

  “Night of the Living Dead?” I prompt. Blank stare. “Never mind. How about Steven Spielberg?”

  My aunt’s face brightens. “Him, I’ve heard of.”

  It’s taking us forever to go along Princes Street. Between the shopping and the park-goers, there are droves of people meandering around. We crawl along at a snail’s pace, and my aunt curses.

  “Move your arse! Cross at the crosswalk!” she yells. “You barmy idiot! I swear, I’m going to move to the country.”

  “You say that every summer,” I remind her with a laugh.

  “And every summer I mean it. Every dozy git that fancies themselves at all artistic flocks here for the festival and makes my life a living hell.” Translation: My aunt is sick of all the hipsters who show up for the Fringe Festival every August. People from around the world come to Edinburgh and the city just vibrates with excitement.

  Aunt Abbie glances at me. “I’ve taken a sabbatical this summer, so we have plenty of time to spend together.” She’s a librarian at the University of Edinburgh. I’m about to ask why she took the summer off instead of a vacation in the fall for her trip when she catches my questioning look and misinterprets its meaning. “I promise, I’m no’ your jailor. I willnae take up all of your time. Fiona and Asha have already been asking after you…and Robert too.”

  I smile. I only get to see my “summer” friends a few months each year, but we’ve stayed close since I was little. I’ve been friends with them longer than with any of my friends back home. A little spike of panic rises up. “You didn’t tell them about—”

  “No, of course no’. That’s for you to tell if you wish. Fiona got it into her head that you went to some film program, and that pretty much seems to be the consensus. Although she kept asking why you disappeared online.”

  I wasn’t allowed to have my phone while I was at Great Lakes. Thinking of Fiona makes me think of all the other people I miss here. A blush rises to my face.

  “And Alistair?” I ask, trying to make my voice casual, but I know I sound eager. My aunt flashes me a grin. I’ve been not-so-secretly in love with Robby’s older brother, Alistair, forever. They’re the sons of my aunt’s friend, and we were always thrown together and told to go and play. Robby is my age, but Alistair is three years older. I had a crush on him before I even understood what having a crush meant.

  “Alistair started university this year at St. Andrews. He’s staying up there for the summer.” She takes in my fallen face. “But Robert is around, giving ghost tours on the high street. You’ll want to be seeing him.”

  I laugh. Robby is more annoying than anything else, always showing off and trying to get attention. “Of course I’ll see Robby.” I think of the last picture I saw of him, posted on his Instagram feed, making a goofy face. “But really I want to see Fiona and Asha. Can they come over soon?”

  “Whenever you want. Friday I have dinner with a few colleagues from the university, just to catch up. You can have them over for the night. You’ll have the place to yourself. The
re’s plenty of room now that Mum is…” Her words hang heavy in the car.

  “How is Gram?” I ask. My aunt lived with my grandma for years, which was fine when Gram was just a bit forgetful. This year her dementia got a lot worse and she had to be moved to an assisted living facility.

  “Good. I think she’s happy, though it’s hard to tell.”

  “I can visit her, right?” I ask.

  “As much as you’d like. But I have to warn you, Heather…she’s no’ all there.” It takes me a moment to realize what my aunt has said. She drops the t when she says not, so my brain needs a moment to translate.

  “She’s worse than last year?” I ask, dreading the answer.

  “Aye. I’m sorry, love. She’s still your gram…just no’ the way you remember.”

  I nod as we break free from Princes Street traffic and drive up the Mound, the hill that separates the “old” part of Edinburgh from the “new”; even the new part of the city is still pretty old. The street winds past the Scottish National Gallery and an assembly hall that looks more like a cathedral, to the Royal Mile, which leads to the castle. Once we cross the Royal Mile, also called the high street, it’s only a few minutes to my aunt’s flat. She lives right next to a large park called the Meadows.

  As we’re about to cross the Royal Mile, a man steps into the street, not even checking for traffic. My aunt honks her horn and curses again. “Bloody tourists!” she yells.

  I smile. I may be an American, but I’m not a tourist. Not really. Scotland is in my blood.

  WE LUG MY bags up the stone steps to my aunt’s flat. By the third landing Aunt Abbie completely breaks down into a coughing fit. She had part of her lung removed several years back and is usually fine but sometimes has trouble with physical activity. I help her up the stairs to the kitchen so she can rest and go back for my luggage. When I finally get it all inside, she seems to have recovered. She sits at the table, her breathing back to normal.