Meg O'Brien - Crimson Rain

He reached for her, and this time an aeon passed that he wouldn’t remember later. He had gone into another world, a world where nothing mattered, not even the sex. Lacey did that for him. She took him to that blank slate where, for a few moments, at least, nothing existed—not even Lacey herself.

Gina Bradley opened her front door and stood for a moment, listening for signs of movement. Shifting the bags of groceries in her arms, she shook her head and sighed. For heaven’s sake, who did she listen for?

Certainly not Paul. It was only five, and he had been coming home later and later these past few months. In the beginning, she would hold dinner for him, warming it in the oven at seven, eight, nine. In recent weeks she hadn’t bothered, taking a sandwich for herself up to their room and watching television or reading until he came home. Often it was after midnight when she would hear his car pull into the driveway. The Infiniti’s headlights would sweep the room quickly, leaving as faint an impression as Paul’s presence when at last he would tiptoe quietly into the bedroom with a mumbled apology.

His excuse, always, was that he’d been working late, and Gina had no reason not to believe it. Paul became moody and withdrawn every year before the Christmas holiday. Losing little Angela sixteen years ago had changed her husband in ways even she couldn’t comprehend.

Not that she herself didn’t still miss the child. But it was a long time ago, and Gina had tried to move on, to build a career she could exist inside, like a hermit crab. If her work as an interior designer didn’t always satisfy, she accepted that as natural, given the circumstances. Losing a child—even a child one had adopted and lived with for only four years—had left a hole in her heart. Not just a break, the kind country-western songs were written about, but an actual hole as seen in medical journals, the kind that led to death, or at the very least, drastic surgery.

For a while, Gina and Paul thought that, because of their grief, they might actually die. However, they had somehow pulled themselves together and had been saved—if saved was the right word—by the surgical removal of memories. Clean, antiseptic cuts were called for, as in the giving away of clothes and toys, the burning of photographs, the removal of everything that might remind them of Angela.

Everything, that is, but Rachel, her twin.

They had wished for identical twins at first, little girls they could dress in the same outfits, a cutesy look that would have people stopping in the street to coo over two-seater strollers and rhapsodize, “Oh, how precious.” They came to be grateful, however, that Rachel and Angela had been fraternal twins instead. The fact that they didn’t look alike helped after Angela was gone. And as Rachel grew, she took on more of Gina’s and Paul’s traits, so that eventually the reminders of Angela were diluted in that way, as well.

Except at Christmastime. If they lived to be a thousand, they would never be able to wipe away the memory of Angela in her new white dress with the wide scarlet sash, the knife in her hand as she stood over Rachel, a look of pure evil on her face. Then, as Paul and Gina had screamed in unison, there was that awful, unbelievable moment as Angela had thrust the knife down, slicing at Rachel’s tiny five-year-old chest, while tree lights twinkled and carols played.

As Paul had said later, it was as if the devil himself, not the Lord, had arrived that night. The devil in the form of a five-year-old girl, a girl they had raised in almost exactly the same way as her twin, whom they had adopted, too, thinking that keeping the girls together would be a blessing for all concerned.

That one of those girls would turn out to be a killer, they could not have foreseen. A “bad seed,” to coin a term. But one didn’t coin terms when one loved a child. One simply stood by in horror and disbelief as signs of evil began to show themselves, growing in intensity until that evil reached a crescendo on a holiday night that was supposed to be a warm, loving, family occasion.

It was all Gina and Paul could do to survive the shock—and then to remove all traces of Angela from their home.

Unpacking groceries, Gina wiped away tears. Often, when she allowed herself to remember Angela, tears sprang to her eyes and her collarbones ached from the emptiness in her heart. The last sight of that child as they turned her back over to the people at the orphanage was frozen in memory for all time.

That was the hell of it. Angela could be so sweet, so affectionate, convincing everyone who knew her that it wasn’t possible she could have done something so terrible. Then there would be an incident, like Rachel falling down the stairs, or rat poison from the garden shed ending up mysteriously in Rachel’s milk.

More than once, they’d had a scare like that with Rachel. And more than once, Angela had been nearby. They’d had no proof that she’d caused these “accidents” in any way, and Rachel herself said she had tripped over stuffed animals on the stairs. But the question remained, who had put those stuffed animals there, in a corner of the stairs that was so dark they were unlikely to be seen? And though it was hard to believe a five-year-old would think to take rat poison from a high shelf in a garden shed and put it in her sister’s milk, who had placed the step stool by that shelf and forgotten to put it back? Who, but someone short enough to need it?

On the other hand, to suspect Angela of such monstrous deeds was, at first, unthinkable.

It wasn’t until that terrible Christmas Eve that Gina and Paul were forced to admit they had a killer on their hands. That Rachel hadn’t died that night was a miracle. Paul had gotten to her in time, saving her from more than a shallow wound. It was enough, though, to convince them that Angela could never be trusted alone with her sister again.

They’d had to make a decision, and it was the most difficult one they’d ever faced. On the advice of Victoria Lessing, the psychiatrist they’d been consulting for months, they took Angela back to the orphanage.

Though on the surface it seemed cold to do that, Saint Sympatica’s was known for its private funding by wealthy patrons, and for having psychiatric care for its children. It was because of the high quality of care that it had been recommended to Gina and Paul when they first announced to friends their intention to adopt a child. The long flight to Minnesota to apply, then the following investigation and paperwork, were well worth it when they finally got to hold the twins in their arms.

Gina could remember the first time she realized that Angela was Paul’s favorite. They both did their best not to choose favorites, but there was some link, some bond between Paul and Angela that drew them together. Angela was outgoing and could make Paul laugh with her antics, while Rachel was timid and reserved, standing back and watching while her sister danced like a windup bear and made funny faces that stole the show.

This, of course, had the effect of making Gina show more attention to Rachel so that she wouldn’t feel left out. When Angela was old enough to notice this, she became angry over Gina’s preference for her twin, as she perceived it. At first she threw tantrums, stamping her feet or kicking things. Around the age of four, however, she began to hit Rachel. When she blackened one of her sister’s eyes, Gina and Paul began consulting Victoria Lessing. Victoria at first told them that, though a black eye seemed a bit extreme, fighting amongst siblings was normal. Perhaps Angela hadn’t realized what the consequences of her actions would be? Now that she did, her love for her sister might temper her actions in the future.

The problem, as Gina saw it, was that Angela did not seem to have the usual twin’s love for her sister. There were times, in fact, when Gina was sure that Angela hated Rachel.