The Night Horde SoCal: Shadow And Soul Part 6

"What the f.u.c.k is this, Beeb?" Faith turned to see that Bibi had gone white and looked like she was going to pa.s.s out. "Hey-you need to sit down?"

Bibi shook her head. "I'm okay. But Jesus, baby. I know what this is. Sweet Jesus."

"What?"

"Hoosier's dad-you remember him at all?"

Faith had a vague recollection of an old guy at a few of their parties. She thought she remembered him being pretty grumpy. Not really a grandpa type. "I think so, yeah."

"We brought him out to be near us after Hooj's mom pa.s.sed. He had...f.u.c.k, Faith. He had Alzheimer's. When it started, he forgot little s.h.i.+t, like losing his keys or forgettin' to close his pants, leavin' the fridge door open. Stuff we all do sometimes, but he started doing it all the time. When it really started to come on, he got all distant and belligerent. It wasn't so easy to tell at first, 'cuz he wasn't so nice a guy anyway. But I think he knew what was happenin' and didn't want people to know. It started like this, honey. It looked like this-him tryin' to remember what he kept forgettin', pullin' away from people close to him."

Faith shook her head. By the time Bibi took a breath, she was shaking her head vigorously. "No way. Mom's fifty-six. That's barely old."

That got a little bit of a smile. "It ain't old, period, baby. She's too young. G.o.d, I hope it's something else. That doctor not called yet?"

Again, Faith shook her head, pulling her phone out of her bag at the same time. "f.u.c.k. I have a missed call and a voice mail." She listened to the message-and it was, indeed, Dr. Tomiko. "Yeah, she called. She wants to talk to me." Closing the barn door while the horse ran free, she toggled her ringer on.

"Well, let's get movin'. You mama keeps her suitcases in that room over there."

Though the afternoon was moving toward evening when Faith and Bibi got back to the hospital, Dr. Tomiko was standing at the nurse's station. When she saw them, she turned and stepped forward, like she'd been waiting specifically for them.

"Hi, Miss Fordham." She extended her hand, and Faith took it and gave it a halfhearted shake. The things Bibi had said while they were standing in her mother's hallway were clanging around in her head. They hadn't talked much on the drive; they'd both been preoccupied with what they'd seen and what Bibi thought it might mean.

What, Faith wondered, would it mean for her? She knew it was selfish, and maybe even coldhearted, to think about herself in this circ.u.mstance, but knowing didn't make the thoughts dissipate. Sera was thousands of miles away. Who else was there to take care of their mother if she would need taking care of? Bibi? She was taking care of Tucker. And managing the clubhouse. And all the other gazillion kinds of things she'd always been involved in, Faith was sure.

Dr. Tomiko motioned toward the empty waiting room. "Let's sit down."

"I'll just go in and sit her while you two talk," Bibi said. Faith reached out and grabbed her hand. She didn't want to be alone to hear whatever the doctor thought she needed to sit down to hear.

"She's sleeping right now," Dr. Tomiko said. "Maybe you could go have a coffee?"

"No. She can stay. She's my mom's best friend. She can hear all of it-I'd tell her anyway."

The doctor nodded. "Okay, then let's talk."

They all sat, cl.u.s.tered in a corner of the waiting room. Dr. Tomiko maintained perfect eye contact with Faith-as if, Faith thought, she'd had training on the way to appear compa.s.sionate and involved when giving hard news. "We did a long series of tests, last night and today. We've ruled out stroke, tumor, hydrocephalus, encephalitis or any other infection. We've ruled out drug or alcohol-related complications. Your mother shows some signs of past alcohol abuse, but my guess is that she doesn't drink currently?"

Faith shook her head before she realized that she had no idea if her mother drank currently, but she sensed that Bibi did the same at her side, agreeing. They were ruling things out, which should be a good thing, right? It didn't feel like a good thing. Infections had cures. They ran their course. A tumor could be excised. Fluid could be drained. The things the doctor wasn't ruling out-those were things that endured. That changed lives.

"Your mother had...we'll call it an episode...during the MRI. She became disoriented and very agitated. She had to be sedated in order to ensure her safety. It was a light dose of valium, just enough to calm her. But she hasn't come back from that episode yet. We had to restrain her again, and she's not clear on basic details of her current life. But she's calling for her husband-I believe you told me that he's deceased, right? Has been for some years?" Faith nodded, and the doctor nodded in response. "I'm not ready to make a diagnosis yet, though. I need some details about her behavior before last night."

Last night. It still hadn't even been twenty-four hours since she'd gotten a call from this hospital, yanked some random clothes on, and driven to Madrone. The striking absurdity of that, of how much had changed in so few hours, rendered Faith mute, nearly insensible.

But Bibi spoke up. "We just came from her house. We saw some things." She told the doctor what they'd seen at Faith's mother's house. Faith watched as the doctor listened. She began to nod. In her eyes, Faith saw somber excitement-like she was figuring out a puzzle, but the picture it was making wasn't pretty.

Then Bibi, finished with her description of the Post-Its, asked, "Is it Alzheimer's, doc?"

"No," Faith found her voice. "No. She's too young."

Dr. Tomiko turned and directed her answer to Faith. "She is a little young, yes. Normally, we see symptoms after age sixty. But that's a norm, not a rule. I've seen cases of early-onset in patients as young as thirty-four. As I said, there are more tests I'd like to do, but what you describe in her house is a cla.s.sic coping strategy at the onset of progressive loss of cognition. Not all dementia is Alzheimer's, and a lot of the diagnosis is ruling out rather than ruling in. But that's the direction we're going to take our diagnostics at this point, yes."

"But why was she running around naked in the middle of the night, raving? How is that memory loss?"

"Any kind of dementia is more than just memory loss. It's loss of cognition-the ability to think in a connected, linear way. Add that to lapses of memory, sometimes years or decades that are just lost, and the world becomes a terrifying, alien place."

Bibi sniffed, and Faith realized she was weeping. Faith herself was too numb and dazed to feel anything but confusion.

"So now what?"

"The break in her leg is severe enough to warrant that she stay admitted for at least another five or six days. I'd like to use that time to refine my understanding and give you a definitive diagnosis if I can. I suggest you bring in another neurologist, too, for a second opinion. When she's discharged, she'll need help at least until the cast is off-maybe longer, depending on the diagnosis. There'll be some physical therapy she'll need for her leg, and some occupational therapy to help keep her as lucid as possible for as long as possible. There are meds, too, that can help. Again, this is predicated on firming up a diagnosis in the first place."

"Okay." That was all Faith said. She was having her own cognition problems at the moment and felt too exhausted to try to make sense.

It was more than merely the upheaval and emotional intensity of the past day that made her feel so suddenly fatigued. It was the looming, dawning thought that was trying very hard to make sense, was demanding to be understood-the thought that Faith, who'd run from this family ten years before, who'd left hurting and angry and lost, who had been forced, by the people she should have been most able to trust, to endure a violation that still tore her up when she contemplated it, that she would end up her mother's caretaker.

A woman who'd called her a s.l.u.t and a wh.o.r.e, who'd said only hours before that she wasn't wanted-that woman, her mother, would become Faith's responsibility. She knew it was true. It didn't matter whether the diagnosis was definitive or not. Faith knew it was true.

She pinched her arm. Hard.

"Thank you, doc." Bibi's tone was dismissive, and the doctor caught on.

"Of course. I'll stay in touch, and you have my card if you think of other questions." She extended her hand again, and Faith stared at it for a second before she shook it.

When Dr. Tomiko was gone, Bibi put her hand on Faith's thigh. "You know what, baby? I'll take this s.h.i.+t in to your mama and sit with her a while. Why don't you go on back to the house? Take a hot bath and lie down."

She shook her head. "I can't. Michael's there. I can't deal with all this and that, too. And...G.o.d, I have to get out of these clothes. I've been wearing them for a whole day-and I picked them up off my floor when I put them on. No. I'm going home."

"Faith, no."

"I'll be back. I will. I need to be in my own place and get my head on right. And I need to pack a bag of my own, I guess. Give me a couple of days, and I'll be back."

Bibi just eyed her in that incisive, insightful way of hers.

"I'll be back, Beebs. I promise."

She had meant to get right on the freeway from the hospital and head west just as fast as traffic would allow. But instead she found herself parked on the wide concrete expanse in front of her mother's, sad, ugly house in a sad, ugly neighborhood. She didn't have a key, but she knew she'd find the spare if she wanted to. But that wasn't why she was here. She got out of Dante and went around to the back yard. Then she sat down on the slab patio and called out softly, "Sly...you here, dude?" She made her cat-call, ticking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Sly...Sly...Sly..."

She sat there a long time; it was full dark when she heard the deep, low growl she remembered. She smiled.

"Hey, psycho. C'mon." She held out her hand in the direction of the growl and kept it there, not moving. Finally, from the dark yard came a huge black-and-white cat, his gold eyes glinting in the light from the neighbors' yards. He came on her, crouching low, his ears back on his head. He was bigger, heavier, and missing half of his left ear now, but he was her cat.

She couldn't believe her mother had kept this cat-who liked exactly two people on the planet and thought everyone else was a bitter enemy to be destroyed.

Unless there were babies. He hated all living things except his two people-and babies. He loved babies.

Growling the whole time, Sly inched up to her. She kept her hand out and steady. When he got close enough, he nosed her fingertips, and then batted at her hand, all his claws, honed by a life outdoors, extended. He drew blood, but she didn't flinch. She'd been ready. She remembered this dance.

Then he put his head under her hand and rubbed himself on her. And then he climbed into her lap and lay down, purring. He stretched one paw out over her leg and flexed his talons of death, and then he relaxed completely.

She scratched at his ears, and he blinked up at her. He remembered her.

Faith sat on the patio of her estranged mother's strange house, reuniting with her old cat, and let memory take her away.

memory Well, as birthdays went, this one wouldn't be landing on any best-of lists. After the last of her few friends left to the soundtrack of her parents screaming at each other, Faith stood in the back yard and kicked at a salvia plant. When she heard something crash inside, she knew Act II would be underway, soon, and she decided to blitz before she got caught in the crossfire.

She just drove around without any real destination. She could have gone to Bethany or Joelle's, but they'd just left, and they'd want to talk about her parents' fireworks finale. And that was a boring and annoying topic.

As she drove past the big community park, and saw that there was some kind of fair or carnival or something going on today. That was at least something to occupy her time, so she looked for a parking place. The park was crowded, so she had to park a few blocks down and over. But that was a time-killer, too, so it all worked out.

It wasn't much of a fair. Just some dumb rides, the kind they pulled in on flatbeds, and some food booths. And some people playing music. But then she saw a line of bikes, bikes she recognized. She couldn't remember if she'd ever known that the club was working this fair, but it was the kind of thing they did. Uncle Hoosier called stuff like this 'charm patrol'-doing nice things for the neighborhood so the neighbors didn't notice so much when they were doing things like selling drugs and guns to bangers.

She wasn't supposed to know about that stuff. There was a lot she wasn't supposed to know about. But people tended to forget she was around.

Michael's bike was one of those lined up on the street. It made sense-he was a Prospect, and Prospects got gigs like this. She kept an eye out for him while she wandered around the park.

She kept an eye out for him whenever she was around the club, but he wasn't all that easy to find. It had been almost four months since he'd kissed her. She thought about that kiss every day. Her first and still her only kiss, and it had been amazing. But she could count on her fingers the number of times they'd spoken since-and have a few fingers left over. She thought he was avoiding her.

That made sense, too, she guessed. Her father had probably threatened him. He was always scaring boys away. It was like he wanted her to die a lonely virgin.

After maybe half an hour or so, she heard the unmistakable roar of bikes rolling away. She turned and looked. All but one bike was gone. The club booth must have closed up. Or the guys had been called away for something.

But the one bike left was Michael's. She sharpened her eyes.

She saw him emptying a big trash bin near the food booths. Her heart picked up its pace as she crossed the gra.s.s in his direction. He was bent over, tying up the bag, and she came up behind him.

"Hey."

He jumped and wheeled around, his face turning red. Moving the smelly bag of garbage in front of him, holding it almost like it was a s.h.i.+eld, he took a step back before he said, "Hey."

"Didn't mean to scare you. Just thought I'd say hi."

"You didn't-scare me, I mean."

Yeah, right. He looked totally calm, standing there holding a dripping garbage bag up in front of his chest. Sure.

Well, this just sucked. Her disgust and dejection leaked out of her in some kind of huffy noise. "Okay. Sorry to interrupt your important work there. See ya." She turned and walked off, trying to seem like she didn't care.

"Wait-Faith, hold up."

She turned to see him coming after her, still holding his stupid garbage bag. "Sorry. What are you doing here? I thought there was a party for your birthday. Oh-happy birthday."

"There was. It got called on account of my parents shouting at each other."

"That sucks. I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "It's no big. It's what they do. It's the same every time. They shout and scream, then my mom throws things. Then my dad storms out and bangs around in the garage while my mom bangs around in the kitchen. Then she thinks of something more she just has to say, and she goes out to the garage and shouts it at him and then goes back inside. Then my dad chases after her and she says more mean things. Then he shouts something like, 'One of these days, b.i.t.c.h, I'm going to cut that nasty tongue right out of your mouth.'"

Michael laughed-a surprised noise, almost like a cough. "Your dad likes cutting body parts off, huh?"

Faith thought that was a weird thing to say. "Nah. He'd never do it. That's usually about the end of the fight. She slaps him, and he punches a wall, and then they f.u.c.k really loud for like the whole rest of the night. I've seen that movie a hundred times. Thought I'd skip it today." She nodded at his pet garbage bag. "You're dripping. It's gross."

He looked down at it like he hadn't known it was there. "f.u.c.k. Yeah. Gimme a minute?"

Was he going to hang out with her? Holy b.a.l.l.s, that would brighten her birthday up. "Yeah, sure."

She waited while he took the garbage off somewhere. When he came back, he was drying his hands on a paper towel, which he tossed in the newly-emptied bin. He smiled as he walked up to her. "Want some company for a minute?"

Smiling and trying not to look like a dork about it, she nodded, and they walked down the little path between the booths.

At the other end of the park, an animal rescue group had a little setup, a ring of cages, crates, and small pens. Faith bounced a little. "Hey! Babies!" She took a couple of quick steps toward the animals, but realized that Michael had stopped those few steps back. He looked...mad, or something. "What's wrong?"

"I hate these things."

"What? Animals?"

"No. These cages, everybody poking at them, and nowhere for them to go. It sucks."

"But people adopt them and take them home. This helps them."

The noise Michael made then was pure contempt. "Right." But then he looked at her, and his expression softened. "Sorry. Ignore me." He closed the distance between them, and they did a tour of the crates and pens.

It was the end of the day, and it looked like the group had had a pretty successful adoption drive. Though they had a big sign advertising puppies and kittens, most of the animals left were grown. There was a sign hanging from their table that advertised a discount on the adoption fee for adult animals, too, but that apparently hadn't swayed many people.

Tucked back behind the table, not part of the circle of adoptable animals, was a good-size wire crate. Inside it was a big cat with long black and white fur, like a tuxedo. He was wedged tightly against a back corner of the crate, his gold eyes wide and suspicious.

Michael went around the table and squatted next to the crate. The cat made a fierce, threatening sound, a growl and a yowl both. Michael sat down on the gra.s.s. "Hey, dude."

The young woman managing the animals came over. "I'm sorry. He's not up for adoption."

Michael looked up at her, and Faith saw aggression in his eyes. His cheeks were pink. She'd noticed he got really blushy when he was upset, or just felt strongly in one way or another. He'd blushed hard when he'd kissed her, too.

"Why not?" he asked.

"He's...not well socialized. You should get away from the crate, too. When he makes that sound, he means business."

"Then why is he here?"

The woman looked a little guilty. "It's weird. He's really aggressive with people, but he loves babies. We came in today with a litter of orphaned kittens that he's been taking care of. They all found forever homes." At that, she smiled perkily.

"So he had a family this morning, and he doesn't now?" Michael's face was getting really red, and Faith felt a little worried.

Now the woman was angry. "Look. We're a no-kill shelter. Tom would have been euthanized the very second he went into any other facility. It takes three people to hold him down to even do a simple vet check. He's bloodied all of us. But he's still got a home."

"Where does he live when he's not at the park?"