The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

For a moment Denise hid her eyes. I noted the stubby fingernails, clean and coated with clear polish but entirely functional, the nails of a middle-aged mother and grandmother who cooked and cleaned and gardened and played and otherwise put her hands to use. Her lack of self-consciousness about her hands was disgusting, and I looked for solace to my own slim, smooth, tastefully ringed fingers on my glass of iced tea. To my horror, the polish on the right thumb had a minuscule but perfectly obvious chip, and on the left ring finger the cuticle was not perfectly smooth. For the rest of the lunch I did everything possible not to draw attention to my hands, which were usually one of my best features; I'd have to make an emergency call to my manicurist as soon as I got home, since obviously I couldn't wait for the standing weekly appointment.

"It's such a shock to see her like this," Denise said. "You've been with her all through it so you must be almost used to it, but I didn't imagine this. What am I going to say to her?"

Amy came up behind Kit and put a thick arm around her thin waist. Always on the chunky side, Amy had put on even more weight since the last time I'd seen her. Maybe she wouldn't be called obese in any clinical sense, and she certainly wasn't slovenly; her turquoise dress looked nice, and her loose chignon accentuated her flawless skin and wonderful green eyes. But she was fat. The contrast between them was breathtaking: Kit translucent, ethereal, used up; Amy substantial to a fault.

Under the table I rested my hands on my own flattened belly, murmuring to Denise, "I think I'd kill myself if I looked like that." Denise looked at me as if this were a bizarre thing to say.

When Kit and Amy approached the table, Denise sprang to her feet, smiling and over-enthusiastically exclaiming, "Hi! Amy! Kit! It's so good to see you! You look great!" She hugged Kit first, very gently, and pulled out a chair for her. After Amy settled her into it, she and Denise embraced; from the stiff angle of Amy's upper body I guessed she was taking pains not to compromise her hair or make-up or clothes just for the sake of human contact, and my estimation of her rose a few notches. Denise, on the other hand, hugged her fiercely, and spent the rest of the lunch with one side of her hair sticking out. How any woman could care so little about her appearance is beyond me.

I smiled at Kit and touched her skeletal wrist. I really did care about her. "Hi," I said softly to her, under the din Denise was making. "How are you doing, sweetie?"

The others had taken their seats before Kit had gathered herself to answer, "I'm tired, Madyson. I don't have much left. I'm almost done."

Without brows or lashes, her facial expressions were all but impossible to interpret, but I thought she looked at me then as if she suspected something, unlikely as that seemed. Guilt broke through and set my stomach roiling, followed by the terror that is never far away. Mortality, which is to say death, took its place with us at the table, and I hurriedly excused myself. As I passed behind Kit, I touched the chill back of her neck, in a gesture of love and apology, gratitude and farewell.

Charon's has a truly remarkable ladies' room. In the spacious anteroom are three-way floor-length mirrors, a long vanity with tissues and cotton balls and individual mirrors, dispensers for lotions and astringent cleansers, little squirt bottles of antistatic and hairspray, nail buffers, a vending machine dispensing individual vials of various scents at a cost per ounce as exorbitant as if it were Parisian perfume. The lines for Charon's ladies' room often stretch out the door.

That day only two or three other women were ahead of me, and while I waited I took stock. I'd checked myself at home, of course, as part of my morning regimen, and again at the gym, but you couldn't be too sure. Under cover of smoothing my clothes, I assured myself that the work on stomach, breasts and buttocks was holding. Thighs below the leather mini-skirt were firm and free of varicosity. There was no loose flesh on the backs of upper arms, no crow's feet at the corners of my eyes or mouth. All exposed skin, of which there was a considerable amount, was taut and moist. My hair swung nicely in the simple, youthful shoulder-length bob my hairdresser had recommended, his expert highlights creating exactly the right aura of light and lightness around my face. Although I was still not entirely satisfied with my lips and nose, my brows arched perfectly and my breasts finally were the size and shape I wanted.

But as I regarded myself in every possible mirror and combination of mirrors, I saw death encroaching. Saw my organs ageing, my hair greying and thinning, the skin of my elbows wrinkling like dried fruit. Saw the crabwalk of deterioration advancing.

The effort it took to keep all this at bay — one day, one procedure, one friend at a time — was staggering. I could scarcely do anything else.