Dead in the Family

Bill. Now he could hang around with Judith for centuries, if he wanted to. With the never-aging duplicate of his wife. I made myself smile with gladness.
    When looking happy didn’t make me happy, I did twenty jumping jacks, then twenty push-ups. Okay, that’s better, I thought, as I lay on my stomach on the living room floor. Now I was ashamed that my arm muscles were trembling. I remembered the workouts the Lady Falcons softball coach had put us through, and I knew Coach Peterson would kick my butt if she could see me now. On the other hand, I wasn’t seventeen anymore.
    As I rolled over to lie on my back, I considered that fact soberly. It wasn’t the first occasion I’d felt the passage of time, but it was the first occasion that I’d noticed my body had changed into something a little less efficient. I had to contrast that with the lot of the vampires I knew. At least 99 percent of them had become vamps at the peak of their lives. There were a few who had been younger, like Alexei, and a few who had been older, like the Ancient Pythoness, but most of them had ranged in age from sixteen to thirty-five at the time of their first death. They’d never have to apply for Social Security or Medicare. They’d never need to worry about hip replacements or lung cancer or arthritis.
    By the time I reached middle age (if I was so lucky, since my life was what you would call “high risk”), I would be slowing down in perceptible ways. After that, the wrinkles would only grow and deepen, my skin would look looser on my bones and sport a spot or two, and my hair would thin out. My chin would sag a little, and my boobs would, too. My joints would ache when I sat too long in one position. I’d have to get reading glasses.
    I might develop high blood pressure. I might have a blocked artery. My heart might beat irregularly. When I got the flu, I would be very sick. I’d fear Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, a stroke, pneumonia . . . the boogie-bears that hid under the beds of the aging.
    What if I told Eric I wanted to be with him forever? Assuming he didn’t scream and run as fast as he could in the other direction, assuming he actually changed me, I tried to imagine what being a vampire would be like. I would watch all my friends grow old and die. I would sleep in the hidey-hole in the closet floor myself. If Jason married Michele, she might not like me holding their babies. I would feel the urge to attack people, to bite them; they’d all be walking McBloodburgers to me. I’d think of people as food. I stared up at the ceiling fan and tried to imagine wanting to bite Andy Bellefleur or Holly. Ick.
    On the other hand, I’d never be sick again unless someone shot me or bit me with silver, or staked me, or put me out in the sun. I could protect frail humans from danger. I could be with Eric forever . . . except for that bit where vampire couples usually didn’t stay together all that long.
    Okay, I could still be with Eric for a few years.
    How would I make my living? I could only take the later shift at Merlotte’s, and that after dark had fallen, if Sam let me keep my job. And Sam, too, would grow old and die. A new owner might not like having a permanent barmaid who could only work one shift. I could go back to college and take night classes and computer classes until I got some kind of degree. In what?
    I’d reached the limit of my imagination. I rolled to my knees and rose from the floor, wondering if I was imagining a slight stiffness in my joints.
    Sleep was long in coming that night, despite my very long and very scary day. The silence of the house pressed in around me. Claude came home in the wee hours, whistling.
    When I got up the next morning, not bright but way too early, I felt sluggish and dispirited. I found two envelopes shoved under my front door on my way to the porch with my coffee. The first note was from Mr. Cataliades, and it had been hand-delivered by his niece Diantha at three a.m., she’d noted on the envelope. I was sorry to miss a chance to talk to Diantha, though I was grateful she hadn’t woken me. I opened that envelope first out of sheer curiosity. “Dear Miss Stackhouse,” Mr. Cataliades wrote. “Here is a check for the amount in Claudine Crane’s account when she passed away. She wanted you to have it.”
    Short and to the point, which was more than most people I’d talked to recently. I flipped the check over and found that it was for a hundred and fifty thousand