Blue Christmas

by

Bonnie Pardoe

Tracy Vetter flicked off the radio with a huff. If she heard one more perky-ass version of "Sleigh Ride" she was going to scream! "I thought you liked Christmas music," her partner innocently asked as he steered his Cadillac down Yonge Street. "I do," the younger detective sighed. "Usually. I don't know.... I'm just not feeling very ... Christmassy right now." "Is it because of our John Doe back there?" Nick Knight was referring to the homeless man found in the park, the murder scene which they had just left. The cause of death might have been chalked up to hypothermia had the man's neck not been so obviously broken. "You hope it never happens -- most especially at this time of year -- but it does. I know it's your first Christmas in Homicide, Trace, but ... well, for what it's worth, it's hard for everyone. You just have to keep doing your job like it was any other day." Tracy nodded, knowing it was easier to let Nick think his assumption was right than to try to explain to him what was really wrong. It was not that she did not feel for that man, and for his friends and family, if he had any. "Do you ever wonder, Nick, how they became what they are? Homeless, I mean," she asked, though that was not really what she meant at all. Their John Doe had reminded her of Vachon's friend Screed: "Is it a choice for some of them or is it something that just happens, like one day they just wake up to find they have no choices left?" Nick shrugged, but did not answer. He was obviously thinking about something else, so Tracy let the conversation wane and began to think about the murdered transient again. She had not gotten much of an opportunity to look at him before Natalie packed him off to the morgue for autopsy, but Tracy was pretty sure that she had seen a neat pair of bite marks on the man's neck. She wondered if Nat had seen them as well; the coroner would certainly notice sooner or later, and what would she make of them then? Bite marks equals vampire, Tracy stated the obvious to herself, just to start at the beginning. Broken neck equals ... will not rise from the dead to suck the blood of the living? Vachon had once told her that was one way to make certain the victim stayed dead -- seems as though vampires run an exclusive little club and not just anyone is allowed to join. Interesting. So, why Screed and not this guy? There was no way to know: this homeless man was a complete stranger to her, while Screed was not much more than that, plus they were both now dead. That is, dead-dead, not undead-dead. Normally -- she scoffed at the word, like anything in her life had been normal since the night that plane exploded over Toronto and a certain vampire had, literally, fallen into her life -- normally, Tracy would just satisfy her curiosity with a pit-stop at Vachon's church on her way home, but the previously-not-so-abandoned building was indeed now empty. The last time she had been there, Javier Vachon had been sick with fever, near real death. He had ordered her to leave, and Tracy regretted obeying him every step of the way home. She had almost gone back, several times, but she was too frightened of what she might find. Tracy had seen Vachon dead once, months ago, under a piece of airplane fuselage in the middle of that charred field outside of town -- she had not known him then, but the horrors of that night would always be with her and the thought of him lying dead again seemed to bring all that back to the forefront of her mind. Of course, he had survived the fever. Two nights later Vachon had come tapping at her bedroom window like a modern day Peter Pan. "Hullo, Tracy." She had stared, wide-eyed, as he crawled over the window sill, pushing the shroud of white drapes out of his way. Then he had stood in the corner, as silent and lifeless as a shadow -- so still that Tracy's mind began to insist that he must be a figment of her imagination caused by a bit of undigested salad or something, but her soul knew the truth which filled up her eyes and spilled down her face. Vachon had crossed over to her then and, reaching out, brushed his thumb across one of her moist cheeks. "Why are you crying? I'm not dead, you know. Well ... no more than I was before," he had said as a lazy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Tracy had tentatively clasped his hand, pulling it away from her face, and looked down at it, as she ran her free hand over the cool, pale skin; turning it over, she had drawn the nail of her index finger across the thin skin of his palm and was rewarded with the wiggling of his fingers as the tickle had registered in the pain-receptors of his brain. She had smiled up at him through a haze of tears, "You're really here, aren't you?" He had nodded, almost amused at her wonder. "How?" He had shrugged. "I got better." Not really an answer, but she had let it go. "Does that mean your friend Screed..." but her words had trailed off as she saw the smile fade from Vachon's lips and a shadow close over his eyes. Screed had indeed died and Vachon had recovered. How unfair was that? Vachon must have been thinking. And what do you say to someone who has lost someone they have known for almost half a millennium? Tracy could not even begin to fathom how Vachon might be feeling, having never lost anyone closer to her than her cat when she was four and too young to really know what that meant, and her dog when she was nineteen and away at school. "I'm sorry." Vachon had shrugged again. "It's okay." But it was not. She had known it was not -- Tracy had known as soon as his eyes had wandered out into the living room followed almost immediately by his body. Vachon had stopped in front of her small CD collection, picking up random albums, and changed the subject: "Did you ever get that new record I told you about, the one by Treble Charger?" "No," she had said softly as she came up behind Vachon, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Tracy had felt his muscles under her fingers tense as his entire body went rigid -- Michelangelo's David in leather and blue jeans -- like he was frozen in time -- but then the moment passed and he moved casually towards the coffee table to pick up the television's remote control. "Have you gotten cable yet?" the eternal boy had asked as he flicked the set on, immediately starting to flip through the channels. "No. You know I'm never home to watch TV, Vachon," she had sighed, briefly indulging him, as she walked over to join him in front of the couch. "You're home tonight, aren't you?" "Yes. I'm home tonight. But," she had begun, as she removed the remote from his hand and turned the television set off. "I would rather be somewhere else." "Really?" He had turned to look at her then, with his dark eyebrows raised expectantly. "I'd like you to take me somewhere," Tracy had ventured, though she did not know how he would react. "Where?" She had known by the look on his face that he hoped she would say some bar or movie house, but she disappointed him; she had felt this was too important. "Screed's grave." He had stared at her for a moment, his eyes shadowed again. Then, simply, and without any emotion in his voice or on his face, he had quietly answered her: "No." "But, I'd like to pay my respects." Vachon had finally given in ... three nights later. He had left a very brief message on her answering machine: "If you still want to go, I'll take you tonight." So, she had called in sick -- again -- figuring that she would make up for it around the holidays, when everyone else would be wanting time-off to spend with their families -- and showed up at Vachon's church with a bouquet of dark-pink carnations. "They're for Screed," she had explained as Vachon took them from her. He had brought the dozen blooms up to his nose and, with eyes closed, inhaled deeply. "I wanted to bring him something..." she had begun to explain, but was then confounded when Vachon carelessly tossed the flowers aside, by chance hitting the old chair and not the floor. "You can't leave anything. Not even flowers. No one can suspect there might be a grave there." Tracy had wondered where Vachon had chosen to bury his friend. Surely not in some public place -- behind some bench in High Park, in the shadow of the Palm House dome, along side The Martin Goodman Trail.... It had turned out to be a less-trodden spot than any of those, though it was anything but secluded -- Cherry Beach, down near the water. The night, and probably not by chance, had been moonless, so Tracy had a difficult time picking her way through weeds and over the uneven ground from the distant spot Vachon had chosen to park his motorcycle. Vachon had remained a shadowed figure in the distance ahead of her, apparently not having any difficulty navigating in the dark and not thinking to offer her any assistance, until she stumbled, and then he suddenly was at her side, supporting her weight so that she would not fall. Once Tracy had gotten her balance again, they walked on, this time together, though Vachon still seemed to be miles away. And then he had stopped. "This is it. Right here," he had said. Tracy had taken an unconscious half-step backwards, not wanting to tread on the grave. As the pair had stood in silence in the darkness, Tracy began to regret asking Vachon to bring her there. She had not been to a funeral since she was fourteen, and a police-friend of her father had been killed in the line of duty. There had been flags and rifles, and a minister to do all of the talking. What did one say over an unmarked grave, and who did one say it to -- the dead or the living ... or, in this case, the undead? "How long had you known him?" "A really long time," was all that Vachon had said. And Tracy had heard the tightness in his throat. It had been unfair of her to expect him to talk about Screed right then, not that soon. "I'm sorry." She had taken his arm in hers and hugged it, resting her chin on his shoulder. Vachon had not moved to return the kindness; he had simply stared out at the distant city lights across the Inner Harbour. It had been another week before she saw him again. Tracy had stopped by the church, uninvited, on her way in to work. She had been surprised to find the carnations she had brought for Screed in a vase -- actually, it was a old apple-juice bottle -- but more surprising was the sight of Vachon packing his knapsack. "Where are you going?" He had shrugged, not even taking the time to look over at her. "Are you coming back?" Silence had hung in the room like a fog, and Tracy felt the chill seeping into her bones. The sharp razz of the zipper being pulled home had proceeded an exhale from Vachon who then straightened up before turning to face her. He had looked at her with those shadowed eyes -- so uncharacteristically dull that it hurt her heart to meet them. Tracy simply had not been able to bear the pain, though she knew it was minuscule compared to what he must be feeling, and she felt cowardly for staring down at the floor. Vachon had slung the pack over his shoulder, then headed past her towards the door. "Vachon" -- the name had escaped her lips in a desperate breath before her mind thought better of it. He had stopped and turned around. Tracy had somehow found the strength to look at him then and her heart sunk when she was met with pink-tinged tears. She had wanted to run to him, to somehow make everything okay again, but she had not; the look on his face -- the firmness of his mouth and the slight but disdainful tilt of his chin -- would not allowed it. All she could do was share his tears, and the first one which had forged a course down her cheek brought a softening to his lips. She had thought then that he might stay after all, that he might be the one to come to her as she had wanted to go to him. But he had turned away again, then was gone. "Vachon!" she had called through her tears as she ran out the door in his wake. The cold outside-air had frozen the salty drops to her cheeks but she failed to notice as she cried his name into the night. That had been over a month ago. It was now just before dawn on the twenty-fifth of December. Paperwork had been started on the John Doe case. A preliminary time of death had been established by the coroner's office: somewhere between three and four that morning. This had eliminated the need to check bars in the area. Officers had been dispatched with photos to local shelters and soup kitchens. There was not anything else to be done -- Tracy knew if a vampire was responsible, and she was pretty sure one was, there was not anything else which could be done. She and Nick had both been able to book off not long before dawn for which she was grateful, as she had not much felt like being at work all week -- all month, if truth be told -- yet, she had not exactly felt like going home. So, she drove through the gray, deserted streets of Toronto -- alone, past the festive downtown Christmas decorations which hung from every lamp post or were strewn across every store-front window. They reminded her that she had not gotten around to buying a tree for her apartment; in fact, she had not gotten around to decorating at all -- even the Christmas cards she had received were still sitting in a pile by the telephone, prompting her to return the sentiments which she did not particularly feel at the moment, had not felt since Vachon had fallen ill. And now it was Christmas morning, too late to bother with any of it, even if she had felt remotely like bothering. Eventually, just as the sun was pushing up into view over the Inner Harbour, Tracy found herself at Cherry Beach. She left the engine running after she parked the car -- the heat blowing on her feet and legs was only a small comfort to her on this cold, winter morning, but it was one she was not willing to forego. She stared out the front windshield into the hazy, pale red of the dawn and wondered why she had come here. Tracy had not returned to Screed's grave since that night with Vachon. And in the light of the morning, she now realized that she had no idea exactly where Screed's grave was located -- Cherry Beach was quite a large tract of man-made shoreline. The young woman finally cut the engine -- and the heat -- feeling guilty about wasting the gasoline and not wanting to drain her battery. With a sigh, she opened the car door and got out, doing up the top two buttons of her coat once she was standing. As she walked along the border between the parking lot and the shoreline, Tracy pulled on her knit gloves, then shoved her hands deep into her pockets, as she hunched up her shoulders against the chill breeze coming off the water. She was reluctant to leave the asphalt paving; Tracy knew Screed's grave was out there somewhere, but she did not want to make the mistake of accidentally walking over it. Aside from the old horror-movie cliché which were never too far from her conscious mind, what with the type of job she held and now with the type of friends she kept -- used to keep, still wanted to keep, whatever -- it just seemed so disrespectful. Not that she had much respect for Screed; she had not known him well enough to form much of an opinion at all. They had met only twice: the first time he had been encouraging Vachon to kill her, and the second time he had tried to kill her himself. Not a particularly good start to any sort of relationship. And then there was the fact that he ate rats -- well, drank their blood. Ick. Oh, sure, she knew all the stories -- rats are actually very clean, intelligent creatures who make excellent pets -- but the fact remained that these rats lived in the sewers beneath the city and it was probably extremely rare that they ever came across a bag of RatChow. No, they ate garbage and Screed ate them. Of course, there was the fact that he chose to eat vermin instead of eating people, so that really was a point in his favor. And despite his odd speech patterns and less-than-dapper manner of dress, he had seemed rather intelligent. That first night, while she was tied to a chair in Screed's hovel and they thought she was still unconscious, Tracy had overheard Vachon talking to Screed: "I was on the plane that crashed. She was there, helping the rescue crews. She saw me." "Bloody 'ell," Screed had sighed. "I can' believe ya've lived this long, mate, bein' as careless as ya are. 'Aven't ya learnt anything in the past few centuries? Ya can't mix wif their kind. Ya gotta stay clear o' 'em, mate -- keep ya distance.... An' stop makin' friends! Ya know 'ow it always turns out -- ya get all attached to 'em and then they die, or ya get 'unted down like a dog 'cuz they find out wot ya really are!" "I know, I know. But it's not like I planned for this to happen. Hell, if I'd had my way, I'd be in Edmonton right now." "Yeah, yeah. I 'eard that one a'fore." Screed had rolled his eyes before pantomiming with a whiny voice, "It ain't me fault, Screed-ee. I'm not respon-sible. Why do 'ese things always 'appen to mee-ee." Then he had slipped back into his normal tenor, "Go tell it ta someone 'oo cares. Go cry on Ursie's shoulder, if tha's all ya want is sympathy. But if ya wanna fix this, mate, then fix it." "Don't you think I'd like to? Don't you think I've tried? I told her not to follow me, that it was too dangerous. And now I'm the one stuck with this because she's too curious to have taken my warning seriously?" "It's not a screamin' problem, mate. Ya just do wha' needs to be done. Ya look 'er in tha baby blues and then give 'er the bloody jammy. Ya boozle tha girl." Tracy had to admit, Screed had been right with that one. Had Vachon been able to make her forget, she would probably be a lot happier right now.... No -- not true. Dad and his pride would still be away on a ski holiday in the Rockies, Mom would still be brooding at Aunt Pauline's in Montreal, and she would still be alone in Toronto, working double-shifts for lack of anything better to do. But if Vachon had not stayed last summer he never would have gotten sick; he would have been hundreds of miles away from Toronto ... which, actually, he probably was. So, really, nothing would be different at all. Except ... well, maybe.... Would Screed have gone with Vachon if Vachon had left Toronto? They had not been on the plane together. Maybe Screed would have followed later -- soon enough to have missed out on that unfortunate snack courtesy of Doctor Linda Wyatt? Would he still be alive today if Vachon had not chosen to stay? And why had he stayed? Was the Inca the only reason Vachon had been leaving? He had never said. Tracy had liked to flatter herself that she was the reason he finally remained, but ... now ... well, that would mean she was indirectly responsible for Screed's death and for Vachon nearly dying and she certainly did not want that! How could she live with herself believing such things? As she ventured out onto the snow-covered grounds, Tracy wondered if she would have been left to bury both Screed and Vachon had Vachon not lived. She wondered if either of them had other friends who would have known they were sick, but if those friends were vampires then perhaps they were now dead, too. Was Vachon grieving for more than one lost friend? She would probably never know. All she knew was Vachon and Screed had not been the only vampires in Toronto and Vachon had not been the only one to survive the fever -- as evidenced by the John Doe so carelessly left in the park. Tracy suddenly felt the need to stand beside Screed's grave again. She had not known what to say that night, but now she needed to say good-bye. She only wished she knew where the grave was. It had been so dark ... except for the lights from downtown. She looked out across the water at the cityscape, hoping to get her bearings, but the buildings were too far away to be of any use perspectively. Then she remembered having stumbled that night, tripping over something rather large. Tracy rubbed the top of her left boot against the back of her pants in memory of the pain -- she had actually bruised the outside of her foot. The detective began to scan the beach-side park for whatever it was she could have tripped over. It had been something big -- big enough, she was sure, that it would not now be obscured by the few inches of icy crystals which covered the ground. She retraced her steps down the asphalt until she spied a piece of wood sticking up at an odd angle. Gingerly, Tracy stepped onto the snowy ground and carefully made her way towards the wood. From this distance, she could not tell if it was just a two by four someone had dumped or if it was actually a piece of driftwood. As she neared, Tracy realized she was looking at a wooden leg belonging to a broken, prone sawhorse. Tracy scanned the area for the other end of the trestle but it was not to be found. She saw nothing else over which she might have stumbled that night. If this was the place, Tracy thought, then Screed's grave was only a few more feet towards the water. She swallowed hard before taking a couple of small steps in that direction. Then she stopped and checked over her shoulder to verify that she was alone -- not that anyone would be out here this time of year, at this hour of the morning, on Christmas day, but she felt an obligation to be certain. The park was indeed empty, barren, actually. It seemed such a cold, lonely place -- poetically appropriate for the grave-site of a vampire -- yet who did not deserve better than this? Tracy knelt down and picked up a handful of wet snow, which she crumbled in her gloved palm. "Good-bye, Screed. Thanks for not killing me," she said quietly to the frozen earth. Tracy stood again, wiping the few unmelted crystals of snow from her gloves before shoving them back in her pockets. "I'm glad you were Vachon's friend. I'm sure he misses you very much. I wish I knew how to comfort him. I wish he were here to let me try. I can't understand what it's like to know someone for hundreds of years, but I suppose you would have known exactly what to say to him had our fates been reverse. Something like, 'At least it's done and you don't have to worry about her knowing anymore,'" she laughed. "Would that have made him feel better, Screed? Or would you have just listened while he talked? Would he even have wanted to talk? He wouldn't talk to me about you. I tried, I really did. I guess he figured that I couldn't understand. But I could have just listened. Sometimes it's good to be able to talk, even if the person you're talking to can't ... understand. Or even hear you!" she sighed at the irony. "I'm talking to dirt. Great." Tracy took a step back and looked out over the harbour again. The sun was now hidden behind accumulating gray clouds -- it would be a snowy Christmas tonight. The thought should have made her smile, but it did not. Instead, a tear ran down her cheek as she looked back at the unmarked grave. "I miss him, Screed. I knew I would, but ... I didn't think I'd miss him this much." She cried until she was forced to remove her gloves to dig through her pants' pockets for a tissue; she blew her runny nose, then wiped the tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I hate this! Why do I let him get to me? He probably hasn't even thought about me since he took off. Dammit, Vachon!" She slammed her fist against her thigh as she turned on her heel and left. Tracy reached her car without looking back once. It was over. Screed was dead, Vachon was gone. "If I never see another vampire in my entire life it will be too soon," Tracy silently swore. But then she could not help reminding herself that, aside from the occasional unsolvable murder, it was not vampires in general which were the problem here -- it was Vachon specifically. She wondered what he had been like as a kid, and if he would be any different now if he really was as young as he looked. Would a mortal Vachon solve everything for the two of them? Once back inside her car, she started the engine, then turned the heat on high, hoping to relieve the numbness in her limbs. She was just so tired; filling in for Andrews yesterday afternoon, and having volunteered to cover for Tanguay tomorrow morning only compounded the feeling. She knew that she should head home, but that pile of unanswered Christmas cards and two unopened boxes of decorations were lying in wait for her and she really did not want to face them. She scrunched her eyes closed and rubbed her still-cold hands over her face. The chill of her skin reminded her of Vachon. Everything reminded her of Vachon. Tracy gave one last look in the direction of Screed's grave. "I don't suppose you would have talked to me if you were still alive, huh? Well ... thanks for listening to me now." Tracy shifted her car into reverse. "You probably wouldn't believe me, but ... I'm sorry you're gone." She slowly backed up the car -- "And not just for Vachon's sake" -- shifted again, then drove out of the parking lot. Flakes of white snow began to drift lazily down over Toronto, slowly bleaching out the dirty mounds which had accumulated along the curbs. In a few hours everything would look pure and fresh again, as if seen through the innocent eyes of a small child -- one like Tracy had been. Always curious though never really questioning the reality she had been given. Always hopeful that the good in the world would prevail. Always sure that those around her loved her unconditionally. Always believing that sincere wishes really did come true. But Tracy was an adult now and she had not wished for anything in years, not with the light, idealistic, hopeful heart of a child. The young woman pulled her car into the alleyway beside the run-down old church and got out of her car. As she walked around to the rear entrance, she paused to look up into the gray clouds dusting the city with powdered sugar, as if it were a huge funnel cake. Finally, Tracy noticed the icicles dripping from the eaves and the snow frosting the bare trees, and she smiled. "Santa? If you can hear me ..." she began, as she always did when she had been small. "All I want for Christmas...." But her wish was interrupted by a huge cracking noise. Tracy looked up to see a large, icy sheet of snow breaking away from the edge on the roof directly above her! She dove out of the way just in time, only to slip on a patch of ice and land head-long in a puddle of frigid water which quickly soaked through her clothes, turning her bones to icicles. As she stood, the water between her clothes and her skin trickled down into the few spots which had still dry and, therefore, had still been warm. The worst was the icy stream which ran off her hair and down her spine. Her immediate thoughts were for dryness and warmth, but it was fifteen minutes from the church to her house, even with the lack of traffic, and the thought of driving across town in her cold, wet clothes was wholly unappealing to Tracy. Instead, she went inside the deserted church. She had stopped to see if Vachon might have returned, but now all she looked for was some dry clothing he may have left behind. The church was, as usual, cold, but nowhere near as cold as it was outside. She made her way directly to the room she had last seen Vachon in -- the one in which he had set up his bed. As soon as Tracy opened the door, she began to look around for the boxes where Vachon stored his clothes -- two old wine crates. At least he recycled. They were in the far corner, both mostly empty. Tracy knew that he had never owned very many clothes, and he had taken some with him when he had left, but she was grateful that he had not taken everything. In the back of her mind, she hoped this was significant, that it meant that he would return, but she knew that was not reasonable. He had left a lot of things behind when he had intended to leave Toronto the first time. Then, as now, he had not even taken his guitar. Tracy rummaged through the box and came up with a white t-shirt, a dark-colored thermal-knit shirt and a pair of blue jeans. She stripped out of her wet clothing as quickly as the sodden material would allow, then dried herself off with the t-shirt. Tracy then slipped the other shirt over her head, and slid her arms into the sleeves. The shirt was a bit loose on her, especially through the shoulders, but it was warm and dry and that was really all she cared about. She wrapped the t-shirt around her wet hair before pulling on the jeans, only to realize that the pants were significantly too small, too small for her to even pull them up over her hips -- no wonder Vachon had left them behind. Tracy peeled the jeans off and stood, bare-legged, in the corner wondering what other options she had; finally, she dug through the boxes again, hoping to find another pair of jeans or some sweatpants or even a pair of boxers, but she came up empty-handed. She checked her own pants again, wondering how wet they actually were. Very. They were only damp in the seat but completely saturated through the front and down the legs. She would not be putting those jeans back on any time soon. With no other options open to her, Tracy decided to lay out her coat, sweater, shirt, and jeans in hopes that they would not take too long to air dry, then, still cold from getting wet and now being without bottoms to match her top, the young woman crawled into Vachon's bed. It was the same bed he had occupied during his illness, the one she had sat vigil on for most of that night. Tracy wondered again if she should have left him when he had asked her to. Vachon had been trying to spare her what he said was an unpleasant end, but that only meant that he would have faced that horrible end alone. Had he been disappointed in her when she did what he asked? It had been one of the few times she did not disobeyed his wishes. Tracy sat in the bed with the covers tucked snugly around her bare legs, feeling guilty that Vachon might have died alone. She wondered if he now resented her, and if maybe that had been the reason, or at least part of the reason, he was reluctant to talk about Screed and why he finally left. She just did not know where they stood. They had been friends ... at least, she had thought of Vachon as a friend: someone she could talk to about stuff, bounce ideas off of, vent to, share a smile and a laugh.... She enjoyed being around him and he seemed to reciprocate the feeling; neither minded the other dropping by unexpectedly and both seemed glad of the other's company most times. But Tracy had felt more than friendship for Vachon, ever since that first night. It had started out as some perverse fascination over a less-than-orthodox man who had been the sole adult-survivor of a plane crash, then attraction once she began to talk to him and saw him in the very normal surroundings of her apartment. And then Vachon had kissed her; Tracy would never forget what his cool lips felt like on hers. For that moment in time the world just slipped away, leaving the two of them hanging alone in space. He had later mentioned something which could not be more appropriate for what she, in her comparatively limited experience, felt when he kissed her: "it was everything." For that briefest of moments, she had been complete and content. But she had gotten scared and pushed him away, like she always did when people threatened to get too close. After what had happened between her parents, she simply did not know how adults dealt with each other on an intimate level. How much to trust, how much to give, how much to expect, and how much to risk? When was not enough too much and too much never enough? She had almost worked up the courage to tell him how she felt, to try to explain all these scary yet wonderful emotions she had whenever she thought about him, but even his impending death had not given her the courage to bare her soul. Even what she thought would be their final kiss had been chaste -- it had been oh-so-similar to the first one they had shared and yet it had left her with a gaping sense of emptiness, not fulfillment. And now he was gone. Perhaps never to return. It had only been a few weeks, but to her it felt like an eternity. To him? She had no idea. What does a month mean when you actually have eternity? When you have already lived for over four centuries? Maybe he would return years from now expecting her to be the same young woman, when, in fact, she would be some spent-husk who had pined away her life for someone she could never have. Someone she had dreamed into the perfect man no other could possibly equal. Or perhaps she would never see him again; she might wait forever while he spent the years in the arms of someone else.... As her thoughts weighed heavily on her heart, Tracy's eyes grew weary. She laid her head down on Vachon's pillow, pulling the heavy blanket over her shoulders, and quickly fell asleep. At first there was nothing, but then she dreamed of Screed's grave; the snow melting to reveal freshly-turned earth, which soon fell away, leaving a fathomlessly deep hole. The hole became the dark depths of Vachon's dead eyes, looking up at her from the bottom of the pit. A shovelful of dirt landed on his chest, splashing across his stone-cold face, followed by another and another until she could see only the bare outline of his form beneath the thin layer of soil. Nick was at her side. "Some relationships just aren't meant to be," he said without speaking. "Maybe you should try a plumber?" "Is Tracy gonna be okay?" At the sound of another voice, Tracy looked up from the bottom of the grave to see Natalie above talking to Nick. "Well, after what she's been through..." Nick began, as if Tracy was not even there. "It takes time." A shovelful of dirt then rained down on the young woman, though neither Nick nor Natalie noticed. The falling soil felt like soft flakes of snow on her pale skin. She held her hands aloft, reveling in the dark flurries like a child on Christmas morning. Then Tracy was prone on the loose dirt, pulling her hands from above her head down to her sides as she opened and closed her stiffened legs, to make an angel in the dark soil at the bottom of her grave. Clumps of dirt continued to rain down, washing away the white of her nightgown to reveal black like the moonless sky the night Vachon had taken her to Screed's grave. "This is it," she heard Vachon say from not-too-far-off, though she could not see him. "I've buried a lot of mortal friends. I don't like to be the one left behind." And then he was beside her; she looked up at him through her dark shroud of soil but she still could not see him. Tracy wanted to reach out to him, to take his hand, to touch his face, but all she could do was cry muddy tears. Vachon took her hand in his, she knew, though she could not feel it. "When does it get easier? I don't think it ever does." He placed cold lips on the back of her fair hand. "At least, I hope it doesn't, Tracy," he said from so far away. "Tracy?" Her eyes fluttered open and, for a moment, she saw his pale face with its rich eyes staring down at her. "Vachon!" she breathed, sitting up and looked madly about the room. "Vachon?" She had been certain that he had been there, spoken her name, held her hand ... that he had come back. "Vachon?" her heart cried. But no one was there to answer. "Vachon." Tracy wrapped her arms about herself as tears bled from the corners of her eyes. "I miss you so much. Please ... come home." The End

Inspired by the Billy Hayes & Jay Johnson song of the same name. Thanks go to Amy Rambow, Libby Singleton, and Cynthia Hoffman for their most valuable comments. And thanks to James Parriott for not only creating these characters but for letting us use them in this profitless forum. Snippets of dialogue borrowed from the Forever Knight episodes "Black Buddha," "Trophy Girl," and "Fever." Finally, I'd like to take a moment to remember a love never lost because it remained just out of reach. A corner of my heart shall always shine because of you.

Happy Holidays and a Merry New Year!

(December 1997)