The Many (3 page)

5

The next morning, Karl waited patiently for an opportunity to confront Stacey about her disturbing late night visit, to see if she remembered any of it. While he’d been scared stiff at the time, in hindsight he realized she was probably just sleepwalking. It was the first he’d heard of sleepwalking in the family, but from a program he once saw on TLC, the disorder could be brought on by extreme stress or psychological trauma, giving more weight to his theory that something terrible had happened on the night of her blind date. Something her conscious memory was refusing to acknowledge.  

But now that he was ready to voice his concerns, Karl couldn’t seem to get his sister alone. During the family’s Christmas morning routine – making egg nog, stuffing the turkey and listening to carols on the radio – Stacey never left her mother’s side. Even when Karl spotted Mom heading upstairs, presumably to powder her nose before lunch, Stacey quickly locked herself in the guest bathroom, staying there until Mom returned to the kitchen ten minutes later. It was obvious she was avoiding him – presumably she’d had flashbacks of her sleepwalking episode and felt embarrassed. Or perhaps she knew her brother was preparing to bring up the date rape theory again. Either way, Karl was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of Stacey’s bizarre behavior. And this time, he wouldn’t be frightened off by her counteraccusations.

The Morgan tradition was to open presents straight after the turkey went in. Karl was still desperate to corner Stacey but when his mother sealed the oven and entered the lounge with a big, knowing smile on her face, imagining her son had been waiting all morning for “present time”, Karl decided to put his concerns on hold. She seemed happier than she’d been in a long time and having the kids together at Christmas was obviously doing her the world of good. The serious stuff could wait until after lunch, when the combination of too much turkey, sticky Christmas cake and a few glasses of wine was guaranteed to send his mother to sleep in front of the TV.

Karl even felt a wistful, childlike thrill as they handed out the brightly colored, oddly shaped boxes and envelopes scattered around the tree. There weren’t too many gifts to go around, since the Morgans had never been big on extended family, but they’d always managed to prolong the excitement by unwrapping their presents carefully and one at a time. Karl had blown the last of his savings on Christmas shopping – a book on herb gardens for Mom, a
Forever 21
voucher for his sister – and he hoped the envelope from his mother would include the usual cash “surprise.” Otherwise, he’d be forced to survive on instant noodles and Rice Krispies when he returned to the hostel.

His face broke into a wide grin when a handful of twenty-dollar bills fell out of the card. Mom also got him a three-pack of his favorite crewneck tees, and an obligatory box of chocolates.

Karl was nervous when he opened his present from Stacey, fearing she’d bought him something wildly inappropriate. But while the DVD came as a relief, he was still left struggling for a response. “Wow,
The Hunger Games
,” he said, turning the case over. “Guess I’ll have to dig out a DVD player.”

“I’ve seen them all,” Stacey said excitedly. “But the first one’s the best.”

“The Hunger Games,” Mrs. Morgan said, frowning in concentration. “Is that a movie?”

Karl nodded, showing her the cover. “Yup. It’s supposed to be good.”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard of The Hunger Games,” Mrs. Morgan said proudly. “That young actress is in it, the one who’s in all the magazines. What’s her name again?”

Mrs. Morgan looked expectantly at Karl, but the truth was, he didn’t have a clue. He hated popular movies and all the crap people of his generation were supposed to like. He’d rather smoke a joint and listen to music. And his sister should’ve known that. But he didn’t want to highlight her poor choice of gift in front of his mother. “I always get her name mixed up with that other girl,” Karl fudged.

“Is it J-Lo?” his mother asked.

“Something like that,” Karl said.

“It’s Jennifer Lawrence,” Stacey said, shooting her brother a disgusted look, as if he’d forgotten the name of the goddamn president.

“Jennifer Lawrence, that’s it,” Mrs. Morgan said happily. “Pretty girl – I think she won an Oscar recently. So you’re a big fan are you, Karl?”

“I’m always a fan of pretty girls, Mom. Anyway, it’s an awesome present. Thanks Stacey.”

“I thought you’d like it,” she said with a satisfied smirk.

Karl went to give his sister a quick hug but Stacey pulled him in close and squeezed him tight. Instinctively, Karl’s body stiffened, like an overfriendly stranger was embracing him. But Stacey didn’t seem to notice, flashing him a too-wide grin when they broke apart.

The last item under the tree was a large, spongy looking present that Karl had been eyeing with suspicion since they’d sat down. Stacey’s gift to her mother, which she handed over with a creepy smile. For some reason, she’d decided to wrap it in no less than seven different types of paper. Each time a layer was removed, another color emerged underneath, sending Stacey into hysterics and obliging Mrs. Morgan and Karl to laugh along uneasily. Karl held his breath as his mother carefully parted the final layer, hoping for everyone’s sake that there was some point to the exercise. Her eyes brightened with excitement but then clouded over, uncertain. She lifted the lump of white toweling from the paper in her lap. Black lettering was printed across the front.

“It says reserved,” Stacey explained. “So no one steals your spot by the pool.”

“A beach towel,” Mrs. Morgan said slowly, like she was speaking a foreign language. Karl pulled at the arm of the sofa, feeling her discomfort. As far as he was aware, his mother hadn’t been near a pool or beach in her life. She couldn’t swim, for one. And her fair skin reddened just thinking about the sun.

“That’s right,” Stacey said, watching her mother intently. “Do you like it?”

“You know I can’t swim, dear.”

Stacey’s eyes became green slits, as if her mother were being deliberately negative. “That doesn’t mean you can’t relax by the pool. Or have the occasional paddle. Just because you can’t swim doesn’t mean you have to sit inside all day.”

“Or you could use it as a bath towel,” Karl said quickly, standing up to break the tension. “Or maybe a knee pad when you’re gardening.”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Morgan smiled. “And it’s a lovely big towel. I’m sure I’ll put it to good use.”

“It’s a beach towel,” Stacey said deliberately. “You’re not using it in the fucking garden.”

Mrs. Morgan’s smile froze. Karl glared down at Stacey, fighting back a strong urge to slap her in the mouth. They
never
swore in front of their mother – it was an unwritten rule in the Morgan family. And Stacey hadn’t just let out a cuss word by accident. She’d spoken with intent. Fixing her mother with the same reptilian stare she’d turned on Karl a few weeks earlier.

The carriage station clock on the mantelpiece seemed to tick louder with each unfilled second. It was Mrs. Morgan who eventually broke the silence, respectfully placing the beach towel on the armchair next to her and busying herself with the discarded wrapping paper. “What a nice lot of presents,” she said in a nervous, singsong voice. “And we can use most of this paper next year.”

“I’ll get the paper, Mom,” Karl said, bending down to help her. “Why don’t you check on the turkey?”

“Oh yes, it should almost be done,” she said, grateful for an excuse to leave the room. “I’ll just be a minute.”

When he heard the oven door creak open, Karl turned angrily to Stacey. “What’s wrong with you?” he whispered.

Stacey replied with an ugly half shrug, half sneer, as if he was the one with the problem. Karl went towards her on the sofa, balling his fists. She looked up defiantly, her sneer lifting into a taunting smile. Taking pleasure from his anger. She was daring him to strike out, to let go of his temper. But the vileness of her expression gave Karl pause. He blinked, allowing his hands to relax, his blood to cool. When he refocused on the strange eyes in front of him, his fury gave way to sadness.

“I don’t know you anymore,” he said quietly.

Stacey threw her head back and laughed. “Of course you do, Carlito,” she said, using his childhood nickname to prove the point. “I’m your big sister.”

Karl shook his head. “My big sister isn’t a heartless bitch,” he said, keeping a wary eye on the kitchen doorway. “You’ve changed, Stacey. Ever since you went out with that English eye doctor. He did something to you.”

“Of course he did,” she said with a lascivious smirk. “He shoved his massive cock inside me. More than once, if I recall.”

“Ugh, that’s not it. And I think you’re just saying that stuff to throw me off. He’s got inside your head, somehow. Do you even remember coming to my room last night?”

“Oh yeah, in your dreams,” Stacey scoffed. “You really are a perverted little fucker.”

“You were sleepwalking,” Karl continued, ignoring her insults. “Jabbering on about a tall man leading you to a black tent where there was something horrible waiting in the shadows. Something you didn’t want to face. Tell me Stacey, was that the eye doctor you were talking about? Did he make you do things you’re ashamed of?”

Suddenly, Stacey’s guard slipped. The blood drained from her face, and her eyes began to widen, slowly filling with horror.

Karl sat next to her, thinking he was onto something. “What did he do to you, Stacey?” he asked gently. “Why don’t you get it off your chest before it eats you up inside. I promise you’ll feel better.”

“You can’t help me,” she said in a hollow voice.

“I can, Stacey. You’ve just got to trust me.”

“You can’t help me,” she repeated in a whisper.

Karl reached out to touch her cheek, but his hand pulled back when he heard his mother’s canvas shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. The thick, smoky smell of turkey followed her into the lounge and she smiled when she saw her two children sitting together on the couch. “Lunch is only ten minutes away,” she said brightly. “Have you both washed your hands?”

Stacey was already on her feet. “Lucky you mentioned that, Mom,” she said cheekily. “My hands are absolutely filthy.” She gave Karl a not-too-subtle wink before disappearing into the front hall. It was like a switch had been flicked and she was back to her evil self again.

“And what are you shaking your head for, young man?” his mother enquired with mock seriousness. Mrs. Morgan knew Stacey had been teasing her and she thought Karl’s exasperation was part of the act. She loved it when her children played with her. 

“No reason,” he said, forcing a smile. “I should give my hands a scrub, too.”

“Make sure you do,” Mrs. Morgan said, doing a fine job of sweeping the earlier tension under the carpet.

Karl was happy for his mother to remain blissfully unaware of Stacey’s inner turmoil. There was nothing to be gained from adding to her stress load. But while the unpleasantness over the beach towel appeared to have been forgotten, Karl resolved to keep a close watch on his sister over the next twenty-four hours. If they could just get through Christmas without further incident, he would convince Stacey to seek help once they were back in Portland.

6

Mrs. Morgan put on a traditional, belly-warming spread for Christmas lunch and the family washed down the abundance of roast turkey, potatoes and pumpkin with a bottle of fancy champagne Stacey had received from a corporate client. The table conversation ranged from the terrible mess the politicians had made of the economy and whether the New Year would bring any improvement (only Mrs. Morgan believed it would), to light-hearted gossip about the latest engagements, break-ups and pregnancies in Cave Creek.

The combination of lively conversation and generous portions meant lunch extended late into the afternoon. At the first sign of dusk, Mrs. Morgan scurried around the house and closed the curtains to keep the heat in. Dessert was served under candlelight, the height of sophistication in Mrs. Morgan’s book, and Karl savored the warm rush of nostalgia that the flickering light invoked.

Following two helpings of hot fudge cake and ice cream, Karl returned to the living room and collapsed into the sofa, daring to believe they might get through the day without another hitch. His mother was in the kitchen washing up (at her insistence), Stacey had retreated upstairs to read her Christmas haul of trashy mags, and Karl was contemplating a brief nap before the
Dancing With The Stars
special Mrs. Morgan had scheduled in for family viewing. But even though his eyelids were leaden and his thoughts were beginning to jumble, he resisted the magnetic pull of his bed, unwilling to risk Stacey and his mother finding themselves alone together.

He’d watched his sister carefully over lunch and her bubbly performance hadn’t fooled him for a second. The odd way she held her knife, using her thumb as a brace instead of her index finger. How she waited a half-second too long to laugh at jokes, needing others to react first before joining in. And once, while Karl was retelling a story about his senior prom, he’d caught her peering narrowly into a corner of the dining room, like she could see something moving in the walls, but whatever demons Stacey was grappling with, he was determined not to expose his mother to them again.

He only realized he’d dozed off when his head jerked up with a loud snort, his stomach knotted in fear. His eyes rapidly circled the room, looking for a clue to his sudden, panicked state. A strange noise had woken him – like a child’s whimper. But he was alone in the living room, and the house was now ominously silent.

“Mom?” he called out, loud enough to travel up the stairs. “Stacey? Where are you?”

He held his breath, waiting for a response. But when the echo faded, he heard another sound. A dull knock, like an elbow hitting a drawer. Coming from the kitchen. He stared at the closed door, feeling his chest tighten. “Mom?” he called again.

But there was no answer. Only the ticking of the mantelpiece clock and the quickening beat of his heart, getting ahead of time. He rose to his feet, moving across the living room, pulling opening the kitchen door.

At first he saw only Stacey. She was standing in the corner of the kitchen, her back to him. Her hands were spread on the eye-level cupboards above the kitchen counter, her head hanging down, like a weary jogger might rest against a wall after a long run. But then Karl noticed the white canvas shoes behind Stacey’s black blizzard boots. The thin legs trembling behind her dark jeans.

“Stacey!” he barked when he realized his mother was caged between her arms, forced back against the counter. “What are you doing?”

Karl had paused just inside the kitchen doorway, reluctant to charge forward and manhandle his sister. He’d hoped his sudden entrance and the power of his voice would be enough to diffuse the situation. But Stacey refused to back away, continuing to stand over her mother, like a schoolyard bully intimidating a smaller child. Mrs. Morgan’s face was obscured but Karl could hear her tense, shivering breath. Too frightened to cry for help.

“Get away from her,” Karl warned as he stepped forward and clamped a hand on Stacey’s shoulder. She reacted instantly, wrenching her shoulder away and whirling around to confront him.

Her green eyes had darkened to gray. She wore a creepy, lop-sided grin. The face of a stranger, barely recognizable as his sister.

A cold new fear slithered across Karl’s shoulder blades. It felt like he’d stumbled on an intruder, someone who wished him serious harm. He hesitated for a second, adjusting to the heightened threat, and it was only when he heard his mother’s faint whimpering in the background that he managed to speak. “Stacey, it’s me,” he said as calmly as he could manage, taking a small step sideways to avoid crowding her. “Your brother. Why don’t you come into the living room with me?”

She stared at him. “I don’t think so,” she said in a disturbingly flat tone. “I haven’t finished with our dear mother.”

“Yes. You have,” Karl said firmly.

Stacey shook her head slowly. “She’s still behaving like an ungrateful cunt.”

Without thinking, Karl slapped her hard across her left cheek, snapping her head to the side. But the rest of her body remained square and before she’d even realigned her head Stacey began to chuckle gleefully.

Incensed, Karl struck her again, his palm smacking into her jawbone, and this time she was thrown off balance, reaching out for the counter to break her fall. She just managed to stay upright, crouched over the sink. She was breathing heavily, no longer laughing. And suddenly, watching her white polo neck tighten over her ribcage as she sucked in air, Karl saw her as his sister again. A terrible guilt rose in his stomach.

“Jesus, are you alright?” he asked, taking a tentative step forward.

Stacey continued to rasp into the cast iron sink. Karl wanted to comfort her but he held back, thinking she might be luring him into a trap. Waiting for him to get close enough to pounce. Alerted to the danger, he then noticed her right hand. It was curled around the thick black handle of Mom’s carving knife, the triangular blade still gleaming wet from suds. She must’ve swiped it from the dish rack when she’d crashed into the counter.

Karl’s muscles seized in panic. His eyes were glued to Stacey’s white knuckles, wary of the slightest twitch. He thought of how the knife had methodically dismembered the turkey, slicing through flesh and hard gristle with ease. The good carving knife was legendary in the Morgan household. Mom used a whetstone to grind the steel to an ultra-fine edge and the children had been forbidden from using it growing up. But now it was in the hands of his demented sister. The slightest nick could sever arteries, dice fingers.

He had a quick decision to make – step forward and risk being cut, or wait for her to make the first move. When he noticed Stacey quietly repositioning her feet, angling back towards Mom, the choice was made for him. She wasn’t about to rush the strongest person in the room. She was gunning for the weakest.

“Stacey, put the knife down,” he ordered, hoping to draw attention away from his mother. “I’ll give you to the count of three and if you haven’t let go, I’m going to step forward and take it off you. And that means both of us could get hurt. You don’t want that, do you?”

Mom’s groans lengthened at the explicit mention of violence. From the corner of his eye, Karl could see a dark stain in the crotch of her beige slacks.

“One,” he began, the tremor in his voice betraying his confident pretense. Stacey was unmoved, forcing his hand. 

“Two,” he continued, watching the kitchen tilt in the blade’s reflection. Adjusting her grip? He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to pounce.

But in the half-second extra he held the “three” on his tongue, he noticed the peaks of Stacey’s knuckles flatten and the skin on the back of her hand loosen. Slowly, her fingers unfurled and the knife clattered into the sink.

Karl exhaled deeply, permitting himself a quick glance at Mom. She’d stopped making distressed noises and was now staring at him questioningly, as if she’d just walked into the room. Already in the process of burying the unpleasantness. “It’s okay Mom,” he said, turning his attention back to his sister. Stacey was still hunkered over the sink, breathing rapidly. “I think Stacey’s had too much to drink.”

“Ah, that’s what’s wrong,” she said, her confused expression creasing into a frown. But then she noticed the dark patch that’d spread beyond her crotch and begun to trail down one leg. Her nose screwed up in disgust, smelling her own fear.

“I think you’ve spilled something down your trousers,” Karl said quickly.

“Oh dear, so I have,” she said uncertainly. Then, with more confidence: “Yes, it looks like washing liquid.”

“You should go upstairs and change before
Dancing With The Stars
. I’ll finish up in here.”

But before Mom could escape to her bedroom, Stacey lifted her head from the sink and slowly righted herself. Her eyes were empty, her body limp, like her skin weighed heavily on her bones. She looked at Karl, then back at her mother. Either deep in shock or utterly oblivious to what had just taken place.

“Stacey?” Karl tested, needing to hear her speak.

“I don’t feel very well,” she said quietly, her voice still eerily flat. But the undercurrent of malice had gone and Karl felt his nerve-ends recede.

“Yeah, you’ve had a reaction to something,” he said.

“It’s probably that French champagne,” his mother offered hopefully, desperate for an innocent explanation, no matter how ridiculous. “I’m sure they add all sorts of chemicals to the bottles to preserve them.”

Karl cringed, thinking his sister might react unfavorably to Mom’s silly comment. But from Stacey’s lost expression, her thoughts were turned entirely inward. Struggling to make sense of the last few minutes.

“Yeah, she’s definitely had a reaction to something,” Karl repeated, contemplating whether he should attempt to hug his sister, console her. His heart reached out to her – she was clearly dealing with issues he couldn’t begin to imagine. But he decided the wisest strategy was to lead Stacey directly upstairs and put her to bed. A tearful, emotional scene in the kitchen would only unsettle his mother further. “C’mon Stacey, you look about ready to crash,” he said.

She stared at his outstretched hand, still catching up on real-time. “I need a glass of water,” she said after a long pause.

“Of course,” Karl said, moving behind her to the glassware cupboard, his mother shuffling aside. The only reason she was still in the kitchen with her urine-stained slacks was because she was afraid to walk past her daughter. Karl didn’t even want to think about the dialogue that’d passed between them before he’d arrived.

“And maybe an aspirin,” Stacey added.

“In the bottom drawer, dear,” Mom said. “Next to the fridge.”

“I know,” Karl said. He crossed the kitchen and bent down to rummage through the dead batteries, dried up ballpoints and old coins that had crammed the Morgan’s bottom drawer ever since he could remember. There were usually a couple of half-empty boxes of Advil buried amid the clutter, but on this occasion Karl couldn’t locate one.

“I can’t find any, Mom,” he said, still sifting through the junk pile. “Have you taken some to the bathroom?”

Mrs. Morgan didn’t answer immediately. And when Karl stopped rattling about, he heard a strange banging coming from the other end of the kitchen. He turned his head, then gasped in shock.

His mother had been lifted onto the kitchen counter, propped up so her spindly legs dangled over the cutlery drawer, like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Stacey was leaning into her work, her hands scrunching the gray hair above Mrs. Morgan’s ears, carefully smacking the back of her head into the cupboard knob behind her. She’d already lost consciousness, her eyes turned to white film, her jaw shaking with each sickening blow.

Blood trickled down between Stacey’s fingers, collecting on her sleeve. The banging was changing tone – becoming flatter;
wetter.
 

Karl wasn’t sure how long he remained crouched by the junk drawer, paralyzed with fear, unable to believe his sister was attempting to brain his mother to death. But at some point he must’ve found his feet, because later he remembered throwing his arm around Stacey’s neck and pulling her away from the bench. She tipped backwards on her heels, pulling them both to the hard linoleum floor, but even as she lay on top of him, Karl kept his forearm locked on her throat, squeezing the venom out of her. He only released the pressure when she began making choking noises, then spluttering coughs that turned into distressed, gut-wrenching sobs.

His mother, perhaps stirred by Stacey’s sobbing, let out a long groan from the kitchen counter. Karl watched her eyes flutter open and her head slowly lift from her chest. Just in time to hear her daughter’s haunting plea, “Oh God oh God oh God, please help me. I want them out of my head. Please God, get them fucking out….”