She noticed something about the final entry, the one that was written five years ago. It wasn’t written in the same back-and-forth style as the others. It was posted eleven months later than the original flurry. No one responded to the late post, which read simply: They will get blood, one way or another. Let this be a warning.
In the studio, Rhea squints into the spotlights. “About how many people watch, do you think?”
Gabriella bends the papers on her lap, then folds her hands over them. She has a helmet of shiny hair and fake eyelashes that look like spider legs up close. “Considering this will be aired straight through on our parent affiliate, it’ll be roughly two million.” The corners of her lips twitch. So this isn’t a big deal just for Rhea, then; good to know.
Rhea wriggles now, trying to find a comfortable position for her back. Seven minutes, that’s all she has to get through. Seven minutes without screwing anything up.
This is about risk and reward. If she can get through this, she’ll have scored free promotion to literally millions of viewers, and this promotion is about to be buzzy as hell. Watch out; those investors are going to be lined up around the block.
“Three … two…” The producer with the headset holds up his fingers; there’s one more chance to change her mind, to do the right thing. But do the right thing for whom? “One.” Before it’s gone.
“I’m Gabriella Becker sitting down today with the mother of one of the students at Little Academy, the preschool where a young teacher’s brutal murder on campus has rocked the nation and brought to light a mysterious medical condition that’s been plaguing the student body. Meanwhile, a killer remains at large. Rhea Anderson, welcome.”
“Thank you for having me, Gabriella.”
“Rhea, as the mother of one of Erin Ollie’s students, maybe you can start by telling us a little about your and your son’s experience with her as a teacher. What was she like?”
“Wonderful.” There goes Rhea’s first lie. “She had an infectious smile. She loved the kids … like they were her own. I miss her already.” Followed swiftly by the second.
“I’m sure you do. I’m hoping, then, that you can also shed some light on the strange set of circumstances that led up to her death. There’s something of a phenomenon affecting a number of the children in Erin Ollie’s class, isn’t that right? Some are calling it a vampire syndrome. What can you tell us about that?”
“I can tell you it’s not referred to as a vampire syndrome—”
“But the children drink blood. Correct?” Gabriella’s maple, artificially curled hair slides over a silk jewel-toned blouse perfect for TV as she tilts her head.
They will get blood, one way or another.
“Some of them have certain cravings for blood.” Rhea won’t give her the satisfaction of coming off as defensive; this will not be that kind of interview. “Or maybe just what’s in blood, like some sort of vitamin deficiency, or something like that we don’t—”
“You mean like maybe they’re anemic and this is their reaction?” Gabriella cuts her off again.
“Not anemic per se.” Rhea aims for thoughtful. “We tell children in lots of different contexts to listen to their bodies. When we’re potty training or trying to instill healthy eating habits, for example. When we nurse babies. And this is no different. It’s all very natural and should, we believe, be normalized.”
“I’m sorry? You think that drinking blood should be—did you say normalized?”
“I think lots of aspects of parenthood can feel foreign and even scary at first,” says Rhea, feeling the seconds of the interview slip by, wondering when and if Gabriella is going to get to Terrene. “But then you realize how beautifully and organically designed the whole process of becoming a mother or father to these children is and you think it’s not just worth it, it’s incredibly rewarding.” That was the line she practiced. Stay on message.
“Incredibly painful, I imagine, too.”
Rhea lets a beat pass.
“How have you handled your son’s condition at home?” Gabriella tries.
She knows then. Call it intuition, call it a vision, call it whatever you like, but Rhea understands all at once that she was a fool to think Gabriella had any intention of segueing into talk of Terrene. She isn’t even here to give her side of the story, not if Gabriella can help it. She’s here to fuel more headlines, and, once the camera has stopped rolling, Gabriella Becker will apologize, not particularly profusely, for running out of time and make hand waves at how KNT News should have her on again sometime, only they’ll both know that sometime will never get there.
So Rhea lets the moment stretch another uncomfortable second before she puts Gabriella Becker out of her misery by answering, “With love.” She smiles, and not that TV dinner smile straight out of the frozen section that Gabriella holds so dear, but one pulled from her heart when it faces toward the sun. “In fact, I have based a whole company on love. Love for our natural bodies and our natural universe. It’s called Terrene; that’s T-E-R-R-E-N-E.” Rhea keeps going, no pause, careful not to leave so much as a breath in which Gabriella can jump in. “And if you go to the website”—Rhea then makes sure to enunciate each letter of the web address—“you can find all sorts of natural, accessible, easy-to-use homeopathic remedies that embrace pure, organic restoratives. We are not trying to cure. We want to help find balance in a natural state. That’s our philosophy at Terrene. And,” she adds, “at Little Academy.”
The tendons in Gabriella’s neck are guitar strings, but then the camera probably won’t pick up on that, just as it doesn’t yet reveal the way Gabriella’s lipstick bleeds into the emerging creases around her lips or the crusting concealer beneath her eyes and in the crevices beside each nostril, but someday in the not too distant future it will. For now, what’s done is done and Rhea’s the one who’s seen to it.
“But someone killed your child’s preschool teacher. Aren’t you worried that this natural state you speak of could actually be … deadly?”
“Deadly?” Rhea’s voice flatlines. The words from the message board surface—one way or another.
“Yes, deadly. That’s the question.”
Rhea pictures Bodhi’s face and the mound of his tummy over pull-ups at night and the downy hair just starting to grow on his legs. The way he still calls TV TB and pronounces except as expect. And then she laughs. The laugh of a second-rate daytime talk show host. Ha, ha, ha. “They are four years old, Gabriella. Four. Tell me what four-year-old could overpower a grown woman. That’s what I’m trying to get through here. These are normal children. They weren’t bitten by radioactive spiders. They’re just our kids.”
“Well, you can certainly at least understand the public’s fascination. Did your son’s pediatrician offer any kind of prognosis? How long do medical professionals expect something like this to last?”
“He didn’t offer a prognosis,” Rhea answers carefully. “No one can know for sure when the children will grow out of this stage, but one thing I do know is that as far as I’m concerned, there’s no rush. We have to support them. That’s not just our duty, but our honor as parents. We are joyfully available to meet their needs, all of them, whoever our children turn out or desire to be. Anyone who would think to do otherwise isn’t fit to be a parent, end of story.”