Phillip hesitated, looking at him hard and suspiciously. Then he shook his head slowly. "Being friends is one thing, but it's wrong to mix her up. In the end, pretending isn't going to do her any good. I don't even think it makes her feel better now-she looked pretty bad in there."
"Bad?"
"Pale and shaky. You know Poppy; you know how she gets overexcited about things. You shouldn't be fooling arou nd with her emotions." He narrowed his eyes and said, "So maybe you'd better stay away from her for a while. Just to make sure sh e hasn't go t the wrong idea."
"Whatever," James said. He wasn't really listening.
"Okay," Phillip said. "We have a deal. But I'm warning you, if you break it, you're in trouble."
James wasn't listening to that, either. Which was a mistake.
In the darkened hospital room Poppy lay and listened to her mother's breathing.
You're not asleep, she thought, and I'm not asleep. And you know I'm not, and I know you're not....
But they couldn't talk. Poppy wanted desperately to let her mother know that everything was going to be all right-but how? She couldn't betray James's secret. And even if she could, her mother wouldn't believe her.
I have to find a way, Poppy thought. I have to. And then a great wave of drowsiness overtook her. It had been the longest day in her life, and she was full of alien blood already working its strange magic in her. She couldn't ... she just couldn't ...
keep her eyes open.
Several times during the night a nurse came in to take her vital signs, but Poppy never really woke up. For the first time in weeks, no pain interrupted her dreams.
She opened her eyes the next morning feeling confused and weak. Black dots swarmed through her vision when she sat up.
"Hungry?" her mother asked. "They left this breakfast tray for you."
The smell of hospital eggs made Poppy feel nauseated. But because her mother was watching her anxiously, she played with the food on the tray before she went to was h up. In the bathroom mirror she examined the side of her neck. Amazing-there was no trace of a mark.
When she came out of the bathroom, her mother was crying.
Not floods of tears, not sobbing. Just dabbing her eyes on a Kleenex. But Poppy couldn't stand it.
"Mom, if you're worried about telling me ... I know."
The whole sentence was out before Poppy could even think about it.
Her mother's head jerked up in horror. She stared at Poppy with more tears spilling. "Sweetheart-you know ... ?"
"I know what I've got and I know how bad it is," Poppy said.
If this was the wrong strategy, it was too late now. "I listened when you and Cliff were talking to the doctors."
"Oh, my Lord."
What can I say? Poppy wond ered. It's okay, Mom, because I'm not going to die; I'm going to become a vampire. I hope. I can't be sure, because sometimes you don't make it through the transformation. But with any luck, I should be sucking blood in a few weeks.
Come to think of it, she hadn't asked James exactly how long it would take to change her.
Her mother was taking deep, calming breaths. "Poppy, I want you to know how much I love you. Cliff and I will do anything-anything-we can to help you. Right now he's looking into some clinical protocols-those are experimental studies where they test new ways of treating people. If we can just .. .
buy time ... until a cure . ' .."
Poppy couldn't stand it. She could feel her mother's pain.
Literally. It carne in palpable waves that seemed to echo through her bloodstream, making her dizzy.
It's that bloo d, s he thought. It's doing something to me-changing me.
Even as she thought it, she went to her mother. She wanted to hug her, and she needed help standing up.
"Mom, I'm not scar ed," she said, muffled against her mother's shoulder. "I can't explain, but I'm not scared. And I don't want you to be unhappy over me."
Her mother just held on fiercely, as if Death might try to snatch Poppy out of her arms that minute. She was crying.
Poppy cried, too. Real tears, because even if she wasn't going to die truly, she was going to lose so much. Her old life, her family, everything familiar. It felt good to cry over it; it was something she needed to do.
But when it was done, she tried again.
"The one thing I don't want is for you to be unhappy or worry,"
she said, and looked up at her mother. "So could you just try not to? For my sake?"
Oh, God, I'm coming off like Beth in Little Women, she thought. Saint Poppy. And the truth is, if I were really dying, I'd go kicking and screaming all the way.
Still, she'd managed to comfort her mother, who drew back looking tearstained but quietly proud. "You're really something, Poppet," was all she said, but her lips trembled.
Saint Poppy looked away, horribly embarrasseduntil another wave of dizziness saved her. She allowed her mother to help her back into bed.
And it was then that she finally found a way to pose the question she needed to ask.
"Mom," she said slowly, "what if there was a cure for me somewhere-like in some other country or something-and I could go there and get better, but they wouldn't ever let me come back? I mean, you'd know I was okay, but you wouldn't ever be able to see me again." She looked at her mother intently. "Would you want me to do it?"
Her mother answered instantly. "Sweetheart, I'd want you cured if you had to go to the moon. As long as you were happy." She had to pause a mo ment, th en resumed steadily.
"But, honey, there isn't such a place. I wish there were."
"I know." Poppy patted her arm gently. "I was just asking. I love you, Mom."