Chapter 17 The First Rule of Fight Vampire Club Trope
Dr. Eleanor Rosetti had an office over the adorable bookstore on Main Street.
Alone, I sat in a quiet waiting room with two chairs arranged around a coffee table.
The wall facing me featured a painting of a decaying tree inhabited by owls, their big, round yellow eyes staring me down not in judgment, more like they wanted to eat me.
A cheap water feature was probably intended to relax me, but running water made me nervous. Too much time in a cave will do that.
Unlike the Reka River caves in Slovenia, therapy was unexplored territory.
A part of me was excited to see what all the hype was about.
Another part wanted to put up my nose and walk out.
All of these people hyping it were too young to remember important recent history, such as Luke and Laura’s wedding on General Hospital.
Practically babies, wielding the language of suffering like they were the first generation to experience despair.
There was always enough suffering to go around.
Anyone who lives long enough gets a piece.
Lately it was all: “You’ve never been in therapy?” Gasp. “You must have so many unresolved issues.” “I would never date a man who wasn’t in therapy.” Sure, I get it, men are assholes. That’s why I watch the Hallmark Channel.
To avoid the judgment of the owls, I pulled out my phone and started mindlessly scrolling. On my fourth makeup tutorial, I remembered what I should really be doing—googling Jeff. I typed Tiffany Amanda Blair Jeff Valentine and bingo:
Tiffany Amanda Blair and Jeff Powers, both of Valentine, are delighted to announce their engagement to be married.
Tiffany and Jeff are Valentine High graduates from the class of 2014.
Jeff is in the family business, growing Christmas trees on the Powers Family Tree Farm.
Tiffany is employed at the general store on Main Street.
She is known for her starring roles in the annual production of Shakespeare in the Park.
The two will be married at the Powers family farm next summer.
So Jeff had been Tiffany’s fiancé. It was a charming announcement, but clearly something had gone terribly wrong. Tiffany had disappeared for an undoubtedly non-fun reason and sold her identity by way of a black-market ID fixer to a vampire.
The good news: Tiffany had a dark side, which was something I could work with. Maybe my version of Tiffany was someone with an edge and a haunting past but who, like me, was trying to make a fresh start.
Mid–Tiffany Amanda Blair research, Dr. Rosetti emerged from her office with a waft of musky perfume and a rustling of expensive fabric. Dr. Rosetti was tall, with dark, curly hair and a smattering of cinnamon-sugar freckles. “Tiffany,” she said, her voice like a bell.
“Dr. Rosetti?”
She held out her hand, warm with life next to my cold alabaster. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “Come in. Have a seat.”
A Persian rug, comfortable chairs, and several paintings of old barns welcomed me in. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that the people most nostalgic for barns were never farmers.
“It’s good to meet you, Tiffany. What brings you in today?”
“I moved to town a few days ago. Tyrone, my neighbor, mentioned that therapy is very popular here. I thought I might get to know my neighbors, understand the town, the people.”
Dr. Rosetti sat back, choosing her words. “Oh. That’s an interesting idea, but you realize that therapy is more of an introspective practice. It’s about gaining self-awareness, not investigating others. Helping you look inside and lead a more fulfilling life.”
I scrunched up my face. “So you’re only worried about my psychology?”
She nodded.
“That sounds very boring. I already spend all day with myself.” I’d spent three hundred years with myself. Learning more about myself—no, thank you. That was the last thing I wanted to do.
“I’m surprised you didn’t know this.”
“People are always talking about their childhood, their work problems, their lovers. I assumed the therapist helped someone understand why other people do dumb things.”
Dr. Rosetti picked up a pen and scratched something on her notepad. “A lot of people find that gaining self-awareness helps them gain understanding of others as well. Your actions and reactions are the only ones you can control.”
This woman was very good at stating the obvious. “So we can’t talk about other people at all?”
“Well, you can talk about other people. It’s expected, but I can’t tell you anything about what others tell me. It’s called doctor-patient privilege.”
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows in question. “I can tell you anything and it’s a secret?”
Sagely, she nodded. “I’m legally bound to keep your secrets. There are limits, though. If you tell me you’re about to commit a crime, I will be obligated to report that to the authorities.”
That didn’t bode well. I ran through a mental list of ten crimes I’d committed in the last week. “Be more specific regarding the crimes you need to report.”
Nonplussed, she said, “Oh-kay.” When she saw that I was waiting for her to enumerate the list, she began. “Any child abuse or elder abuse. If I think you are an immediate threat to yourself or others.”
“But everything else is fine? Like if I already killed someone, that’s okay?”
“I wouldn’t say…okay.”
“So hypothetically, if I tell you I’m a vampire, you won’t tell anyone?”
She smiled benignly. “As long as you aren’t about to bite anyone.”
“Consensual biting?”
She cocked her head to the side. “I’d have to think about that, but probably okay.”
This could be interesting.
While I was considering my options, Dr. Rosetti gave me a scrutinizing look. After sitting with her discomfort for a moment, she smiled as if she’d figured something out. “I bet you feel like a vampire. How long have you been afflicted with porphyria?”
“As long as I can remember,” I said carefully. “I lived in LA until just recently, and it wasn’t as big of a problem there. Even though it’s sunny all day, the city is alive at night. Here, everything closes after dinner, which seems to happen very early.”
“So you haven’t been able to meet people?”
“That’s why I’m here. To learn about my neighbors.”
“I can see how you might feel isolated at first in this community.”
“The bar and, apparently, your practice are the only businesses open past eight.”
“Do you live alone?”
“No,” I said, reluctant to offer any more information.
“I sense some tension in your answer. Who do you live with?”
“I moved here with—” I hesitated. What was Heaven to me? We’d declared a truce. I answered, “I think she could be a friend.”
“Say more.”
“Heaven was my neighbor in LA. We’ve always been friends, but we’re not incredibly close. I turned her into a vampire, mostly by accident, and yada yada yada, here we are in Vermont renovating an inn.” Letting out my truth was better than taking off a corset at the end of a long day.
Dr. Rosetti kept her expression blank. “Is there anyone else?”
“Tyrone invited me over, but you know, he’s a tree farmer and I’m…” I struggled for words.
“A vampire?” she supplied.
“Exactly.” I returned a benign smile.
“I can understand how you might feel unable to be yourself on a Christmas tree farm, as a vampire.”
She understood. No wonder people loved therapy so much.
“Have you made any other big life changes?”
“I’m on this new coconut water diet. It’s sort of a juice cleanse, I guess.”
Dr. Rosetti made another note. “What made you start this diet?”
“It’s an ethical thing. I don’t want anything to die for me to eat.”
She nodded. “Interesting choice for a vampire.”
“Tell me about it. Am I forsaking the core elements of what makes me me or am I just on a diet?”
“Tiffany, when you say you’re a vampire, are you saying you don’t feel like you’re a part of this world?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” Vampires didn’t belong anywhere, except for maybe Reddit forums.
“Where do you think this feeling of existential loneliness, of separateness, comes from?”
“From being a vampire. I am separate. But lonely—I wouldn’t go that far.” What was loneliness even? “I see people. I live with Heaven. Up until recently, I worked as a receptionist at a plasma donation place.”
“Loneliness is a state of mind. You’ve heard of being alone in a crowd?”
“Yes.” I didn’t add that it sounded like something someone who went to therapy would say.
“There is a loneliness epidemic in this country. Did you know that?”
“Like the plague?” My husband and child had died of actual plague.
“Sort of. A lot of people are alone. It has only gotten worse with social media.” Dr. Rosetti glanced out the window.
You could just barely see the glimmer of the tavern’s lights.
“In this social media age, we’re both more connected and more disconnected than ever.
Loneliness is the kind of hurt that bleeds you slowly rather than all at once. ”
I didn’t want to hear it. “It’s not the Black Death or anything. I mean, let’s be honest.”
She smiled like she was humoring me.
“Plague is no joke,” I said. “These days people are alive long enough to be truly miserable. That’s called progress, I think.”
“Very funny, Tiffany. But really, when you describe yourself as a vampire, I don’t think you’re alone. A lot of people feel as if they exist in the shadows, not participating in life. Social media has only intensified that.”
Did they, though?
“Our time is almost up, but if you come back, I will help you learn how to make friends. Like anything, it’s a skill.”
I sighed. This woman didn’t see me at all. I told her I was a vampire, and she came away with Tiffany is lonely.
“Thank you, Dr. Rosetti. It was very nice talking to you.” Not.
“I will save this time for you next week.”
“Thank you, but I’m good. I think I’m much more mentally healthy than I even realized.”
“I’m not going anywhere if you change your mind.”
I waved and smiled. Goodbye forever, Dr. Rosetti.
Dr. Rosetti must’ve never met a lonely person if she thought that’s what I was. I wasn’t lonely. I was a vampire. Lonely people suffered from acute melancholy and didn’t have friends. I had friends. All those bridesmaid dresses were proof.
Back in the hearse, I texted Heaven.
Me: heaven, we’re friends, right?
She responded with a laughing-crying emoji.
My hand slipped along the satin pantsuit I’d worn at Emily’s wedding. Emily had been my friend. It had been a long time, but I could check in with a quick text, just a casual “hey, Em, how’ve things been?”
Her last name was…Kerrigan, right? Like the figure skater?
A search for Emily Kerrigan brought up quite a few people. There were even more Emilys than Tiffanys. A pro golfer, a gazillion moms, and several high school students. When I narrowed the search to her hometown, I gasped in horror.
Emily Kerrigan (1955–2017), a beloved mother, grandmother, and wife, leaves behind her husband of thirty-three years…
One of her wedding photos was included, confirming that this really was my Emily.
I slumped in my seat. Emily had lived a whole life and died. Meanwhile, I was wearing the same outfit as the last time I saw her. My vision blurred over the names of all of her children and grandkids.
Maybe I did need to make friends. I ran through the list of people who I’d met in Valentine. That firefighter, Dylan, had said something about a holiday decorating committee. I sent him a text.
Me: when’s the thing with jessica?
Dylan: hey, good timing.
Dylan: meeting at the tav right now.
I sent back a thumbs-up emoji and drove the hearse approximately half a block to get a prime spot in front of the tavern. I was about to get my holiday cheer on.