One Foot in the Grave: An Almost Zombie story

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE WRATH OF MOM.

I'm not really paying much attention to anything when I walk up the steps to my apartment building; after all, I've lived here for close to six months. It's home. My inattention is my downfall, as it turns out. The apartment door is ajar. Not a lot, but enough to be worrisome because I'm 99.999% sure I locked it earlier. I fumble in my pocket for my pepper spray until I hear a very familiar voice.

"Isis, is that you?"

"Mom?" Seriously, she's home? She didn't say anything about coming home when I talked to her last week. What's going on? "Are you okay?"

"Quit yelling at me from the hall," she chides. Never mind that I'm not yelling at all. I'm practically at the door by now. "You sounded weird on the phone, so I cut my trip a little short."

I dread what she's going to say once she gets a good look at me. It's not like I resemble anything close to healthy. In the span of one week, I've gone from pasty white to, well, undead; a kind of yellowing ivory. I'm definitely not anything remotely attractive anymore. I push the door all the way open and walk inside.

"Great good gosh, what's happened to you?" My mom totters forward on her 3" heels, still one of the shortest women I've ever seen.

I fold my arms across my chest. "I...uhhh..." My mom is a force of nature when she wants to be; she's like a tiny tornado wrapped in 4'8" of long skirts and hippy-esque tops. I'm not sure how to handle it.

Her eyes narrow. "What are you hiding, Isis? What's that marking on your wrist?" She grabs at me, but I move away.

"It's nothing, Mom. Honest."

I've been finding little tubes of crazy glue in Ziploc baggies on my doormat, along with the same handwritten note: 'Dearest Isis, I hope the glue helps with your prosthetic wrist. Let me know if you need any screws. My grandson works in hardware supply. Yours truly, Rohanda Castemar.' It's both hilarious and creepy. But it's better than walking around with an Ace bandage all the time.

"Sit down. I'll make you..." I pause. Double crap. I don't have anything in the blasted 'fridge except raw brains. I mean, why stock food I'll never eat?

"I looked in the refrigerator already. Isis, what on earth is going on?" She stares at me, her arms crossed and a familiar, determined look plastered on her face. There's no way I'm going to be able to lie my way out of this.

"You'll think I'm crazy," I hedge. "I mean 'lock me up, throw away the key' crazy."

Mom nods, though I'm not sure if it's in agreement with my statement, or a gesture for me to continue.

I pull my wrist out of her grasp. Gently, because I don't want to risk the glue coming loose. "Remember Andrew?"

"Sure, the nice boy you were dating before I left for China."

I try to stifle a snort of laughter. 'Nice boy', indeed. "He got me, uhh, sick."

Mom's eyes widen. "Did he give you A.I.D.S, Isis? I swear to the Father, if he gave you A.I.D.S. I'll kill him."

If only she could. "No, Mom, I don't have A.I.D.S." I blurt out the truth. "He gave me H.V.V."

'He gave you...what? I've never heard of that." She taps her foot on the carpet. "Whatever you're trying to say, just spill it."

"I'm a half zombie, Mom." There. I say it and wait for her response.

It looks like Mom's eyebrows are going to crawl into her hairline and hide. "A half zombie,' she says. "How'd it happen? Is it reversible?" She's taking the whole thing a lot calmer than I did.