F Wilson - Sibs

It was Jill, tired, rubbing her eyes.

"I can't sleep with all that noise," she said above the blare of the opera.

The sound ebbed as Kara's thumb pressed the volume control.

"And you didn't kiss me good night."

Had Kara's muscles been responsive to her moods, they would have bunched into cramped knots. The thought of Gabor kissing Jill…

"Sorry, my dear. Let's get you back to bed."

"And how come you keep calling me 'my dear?' "

"Because you are my dear."

"What do you usually call her?" "Honey." Or "Bug."

"How quaint."

He led her down to the bedroom and did a decent job of tucking her back in.

"Don't forget my kiss!"

Kara's body bent and her lips kissed Jill on the cheek.

"And a hug!"

Kara felt Jill's arms go around her neck and squeeze.

"I love you, Mom!"

Had she eyes and tears, Kara would have wept. That hug and those words were meant for her and Gabor was stealing them. She raged blindly.

I'll get us out of this, Jill! Someway, somehow, I'll get free of him!

A calm, monstrously self-assured voice replied.

"No you won't."

February 27

8:22 A.M.

"Where you going with that food, Mom?"

You freeze for a moment. You were doing what you always do: preparing breakfast for your body in the basement. You reached into the pantry for some junior foods to take downstairs, but you forgot the child.

Up to this point, the morning has gone quite well. Jill is a charming child, bright, intelligent, good-natured. She stirs some lost, long-dormant part of you. A child. Progeny. The future. You realize with a pang of loss that you will never have a child of your own, that an entire wing of the Gati family has reached its terminus in you. That perspective has escaped you until now. The tragedy of it makes you grieve.

But now the child has seen the baby food and wants to know about it.

You tell her, 'I'm going to take some of it downstairs. To make more room up here."

"How come it's here?"

"Someone with a baby probably lived here before we moved in."

"Why'd they leave it?"

"I don't know," you say, unable to keep a snap out of your voice. "Stop asking so many questions."

The child starts as if she'd been slapped.

Don't talk to her like that!

"I'll speak to her the way I choose. Doesn't she ever stop asking questions?"

Never. How else is a child to learn? How do you think you learned?

"By stealing. I never had a childhood of my own. I had to siphon it off from others."

Asking's better than stealing.

"I had no choice."

Awww. I'll get some violin music for you.

You don't know how long you can tolerate sharing a body with this woman. Her contempt for you is a cold damp wind on the back of your neck. Her rage at having control of her body torn from her is a palpable thing, a growing weight on your shoulders. Her sense of self is too strong, too deeply seated to allow you a comfortable coexistence.

If only you had known. So many people live their lives with no sense of direction, no firm sense of self, easily influenced by the latest fashion, allowing themselves to be blown hither and thither. Life would be so much easier now if Kara had been one of those.

But what alternative do you have? You are stuck with her until other arrangements can be made.

"Want me to help you bring some of those downstairs?" Jill asks, her wide brown eyes looking up at you, unsure of what she's done wrong, anxious to make amends.

But the last thing you need is this child trailing behind you down to the basement. You cannot let her learn that you live down there.

"No, thank you, dear," you say as gently as you can. "I can handle this myself."

"Okay," she says.

You pull a spoon from the drawer.

"What's that for?"

Another question. You bite down on your tongue.

"Nothing, dear."

You start toward the basement but she's right behind you.

"You stay up here, dear. I'll only be a few minutes."

"I don't want to."

"Go up to the top floor and turn on the television. You can watch cartoons on the giant screen."

"I don't want to. I don't like being up there alone. I want to come with you."

"Well, you can't."

Her lower lip starts to tremble. Tears begin to rim her dark eyes.

"Mommy, I'm scared up here!"

You try, but you can't keep the edge off your voice.

"That's too bad. You'd better get used to it because you're going to have to stay here alone lots of times, starting now."

You step into the stairwell and close the door behind you. There's a latch inside the door. You snap it home.

As you hurry down the stairs, you hear her terrified cries as she bangs on the door.

You beast! You bastard! How could you—

"Enough! My patience is frayed. I can see that your child is going to be a terrible problem. Something will have to be done about her."

Kara's voice is suddenly conciliatory.

She'll be all right. She's just got to get used to this place. And when she gets into a school around here she'll be out most of the day. She's no trouble, really.

"I'm sure everything will work out," you say.

But privately you know that the present situation is intolerable. Despite whatever precautions you may take, it seems inevitable that the child will discover the reason for your multiple daily trips into the basement. And what about those times when you want to leave Kara's body and re-enter your own for brief periods, or return to some of the other bodies that you've used in the past? What will you do then? You will have to leave Kara in the padded cell in the office. What are you going to do with the child—hire a babysitter?

No, this will never do. You need complete privacy in your house. Three's a crowd, as the old adage goes. You must be rid of Jill. Perhaps a private school in another state, a sleepaway academy during the school year and summer camp the rest of the time. Plenty of parents do it. That might work. And then again it might not. You need a solution you can be assured of, a permanent solution.

And suddenly you know.

Your fondness for the idea grows as you spoon the cereal into your mouth. Because it might solve the problem with Kara as well.

And it can happen toady. You've already planned an 'accident'—a fatal one—for Detective Harris. Why not involve the child in that same accident? A tragic pair of deaths. And as a possible lagniappe—the breaking of Kara Wade. Witnessing the deaths of her child and her lover, watching her own hands cause those deaths and being utterly impotent to do anything to save them will break her will, crush her spirit. It has to.

And after the accident, life within Kara Wade will be much more pleasant, and far more secure. Not only will there be no police detective sniffing around her, but the child will be gone. You will have your house all to yourself again. And Kara Wade will have learned to be a compliant, submissive hostess.

Life will be good again.

You glance at your watch. Detective Harris will be here soon. You'd better get upstairs and set the stage.

▼

Jill opened the front door for him. Rob's throat tightened at the sight of her. His voice became husky.

"Good—morning, Miss Wade. How are you today?"

"All right, I guess," she said and turned away.

Rob caught her arm and gently pulled her around to face him.

"That was the most unconvincing 'all right' I've ever heard. What's up, Jill?"

She sniffed. "I don't like it here."

He went down on one knee beside her and put his arm around her waist. Touching her gave him a warm feeling like he'd never known. Her dark hair and complexion—they were his. He could see that now. Part him was part of her. The realization awed him.

"Nobody likes a new place if they still like the old place, but there's lots of neat stuff here."