Phantom

At home, Eric has regained consciousness. His feet and hands are firmly bound, and there is duct tape over his mouth, but he has somehow managed to squirm his way so that he is sitting upright in the far corner of the spare bedroom. His eyes are wide with fear as I approach him with a syringe. It is hard to blame him. As I kneel by his side, I start to stroke his head but he trembles under my fingers so I stop.



"I'm sorry," I say. "This isn't easy for me either. I wish I could explain the whole situation to you but I can't. But I can promise you that you're not going to die. I swear this to you, Eric, and I keep my word. At the same time, I'm going to have to keep you here for a few days. I'm not exactly sure how long. And while you're here--please don't freak out over this--I'm going to have to occasionally take some of your blood."



The last sentence does not go over well. Eric's eyes get so round I'm afraid they're going to burst from his skull. He shakes his head violently from side to side and tries to wiggle away. But I pull him back.



"Shh," I say. "It's not going to be as bad as it sounds. I have clean needles, and am better trained than most doctors. You can lose a little blood and it won't damage you in the slightest."



He works his mouth vigorously. His meaning is clear.



"If I remove your gag," I say, "will you promise not to scream? If you do scream, I'll have to shut you up quickly, and I don't want to have to hurt you any more than I have to."



Eric nods rapidly.



"OK. But you mustn't raise your voice." I tear off the tape. Ouch.



Eric gasps for air. "Who are you?" he moans pitifully.



"Well, that's an interesting question. I am not Cynthia Rhodes if that's what you're asking, but I suppose you know that already." I pause. "I'm just a stranger in the park."



"What do you want with me?"



"I told you. Your blood. A little of your blood."



"But what do you want my blood for?" he cries.



"That's a long story." I pat him on the shoulder. "Just trust me that I really need it, and that in the end you're going to be OK."



He is breathing heavily. He stares down at his leg and looks so pitiful it breaks my heart "You broke my knee. It hurts. I need a doctor."



"I'm sorry. You can see a doctor later, in a few days. But until then you'll have to stay here. You'll have to eat here, and sleep here, and go to the bathroom here. Now you see that bathroom over there? I will let you use it from time to time if you just cooperate with me. In fact, if you're real good, I won't have to keep you tied up at all. You'll be able to walk around this room, even read and listen to music. But I warn you, I'm going to board up all the windows as soon as I take care of other business. And if you do try to escape, well, let's just say that wouldn't be a good idea."



He is a little slow. "Would you kill me?"



I nod gravely. "I would kill you slowly, Eric, by draining away all your blood. It's not a pleasant way to die. So don't mess with me." I fluff up his hair. "Now stick out your arm and don't move."



He tries to back up. "No!"



"Don't raise your voice."



"No!"



I ram the heel of my palm into his nose, which stuns him. White he tries to refocus his eyes, I replace the duct tape and grab his arm. I have the tourniquet on in seconds. His veins are big and bulging. Before he can pull away, I have a needle in his vein and blood flowing into a sterile tube. I lean over and whisper in his ear.



"Don't fight me," I say. "If you force me to hit you again, it won't be in the face, but in a much more sensitive spot." I tug on his earlobe. "Understand?"



He stares at the tube as his blood drips into it. He nods.



"Good boy." I kiss his cheek. "Just think of all this as a nightmare that will soon be over."



Kalika is waiting in the living room with Ray when I bring out the blood in a flask. She has a book on her lap. I assume it is one of the picture books that I have recently bought for her, but I am mistaken. Sitting beside her on the floor, I see she has been paging through an anatomy textbook that was in the house when we rented it. I don't ask if she knows what it is. I'm afraid that she might. Her dark blue eyes brighten when she sees the blood. Her little hands shoot out.



"Hungry," she says.



"Is that all you took?" Rays asks. "She's been waiting all day."



"The less I take the more often I can take it," I say, handing Kalika the flask. I am curious if she will notice the difference between my blood and Eric's. Actually, I wonder if she will drink it at all. But that doubt is soon dispelled. She wolves it down in a few gulps. The flask is thrust back into my hands.



"Hungry," Kalika says.



"I told you," Ray says. "You have to give her at least a pint."



I stare at Kalika, who stares back at me, and a curious sensation sweeps over me. There is a coldness in my daughter's eyes, but also a great expansive feeling. Few people in the West, who know anything of Vedic deities, understand the meaning of Kali or Kalika. To most she is simply a dark, bloodthirsty goddess. Yet that meaning is superficial, and I certainly would not have named my daughter after a monster with no redeeming virtues.



Actually, Kali is black, but this is because she represents space, the abyss, that which is before the creation, and that which will exist after. Her necklace of skulls symbolizes how she cares for souls after life, not just through one incarnation. Even the funeral pyre she sits on is representative of the many sins she burns to ash, when she is pleased. Kali is a destroyer, true, but she also destroys evil. Many of India's greatest saints worshipped her as the supreme being.



And they say she is easy to please--if one is careful.



Staring at my daughter, I am reminded of Krishna.



Yet Krishna had love as well as infinity.



Kalika has never been an affectionate child.



There is a bloodstain on her right cheek.



"Hungry, Mommy," she says softly.



Sighing, I take the flask and trudge back into the spare bedroom. Eric is upset to see me again so soon. Now this won't hurt a bit. I have to hit him again to get him to sit still, and I hate myself for the cruelty. I hate Krishna as well, for forcing me into this situa?tion. But I know it is useless to hate God. It is like screaming at the night sky. The stars have no ears, and besides, they are too far away to hear. They just keep on shining, I must keep on living until death reaches my front door, or my own daughter comes for my blood in the dead of night. I have no doubt that, in a few days, she will be capable of killing me.