My Sister's Keeper -- Halloween Special

part 4


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“Well?”

Phoebe stared at the bathroom mirror as if hoping to find some answers as she felt her sister lick her lips nervously.  “Let me try something else.  Take the top off, please?”

Phoebe almost ripped the offending garment off, posing topless.  She felt the faced behind her head vanish and Deborah’s head pop out to the left of their own.  “At least I can still reconfigure.”

“But not retract into me.”  Phoebe just wanted to cry.  She loved it when Deborah could manifest longer, because it was more like having a real sister again, but…permanently? They’d locked her up for just talking to Deborah aloud!  And now…James…”What are we going to do??”

“What can we do?” Deborah said, reaching over with the hand on her side and rubbing Phoebe’s cheek.  “Take it one day at a time, I guess.”

“This isn’t how I wanted it,” Phoebe whimpered, lowering her head.

Deborah didn’t say anything at first.  As the minutes stretched, she replied. “I love James too.”

Phoebe’s head snapped up.  “What?”

“How could I not?” Deborah demanded.  “He made you smile.  He treats you well, he listens to you…I was so jealous because he loved you.” Deborah’s eyes welled with tears of shame.  “Because you could have a lover, and all I can have is secrets.”

Phoebe’s thoughts struggled like birds in a net.  “Deborah…”  This didn’t sound at all like her sister.

“Don’t deny it,” Deborah said softly, tears still streaming down her cheeks.  “It’s true, isn’t it?  I’m a secret you can’t share with anyone.  Violet’s a lucky fluke, nothing more.  How do you think James will react, huh?  A-and if I tell h-him I love him t-too?”

“I don’t know,” Phoebe said desperately.

Suddenly, it happened, except it happened slowly. Deborah’s grieving face wavered like melting wax, running back down onto itself and into Phoebe’s body.  She could feel the sensation in Deborah’s manifested head grow dimmer, as if being smothered.  She wanted to grab it, but her hands felt locked onto the sink and all she could do was observe the whole horrible show, until no visible trace of her sister remained.  “Deb??”

No answer.  

“DEB!”” Phoebe shrieked, clawing at herself. For the first time since the first time it happened, she felt no sign of her sister.  No feel of a presence within, nothing.  Phoebe hugged herself and slumped to the floor.  “Please,” she begged aloud.  “Don’t leave me. I love you, I’m sorry, don’t leave.”  She lowered her head.  “Don’t leave.”

Her voice, to her own ears, sounded like a plea to the dead.


#


Much to James’ annoyance, the punch was almost virginal in construction.  The number of partygoers had grown, as had the outrageously kinky nature of their costumes, but right now he could care less.  So, James thought to himself as he wandered out of the parlor, the woman you’ve loved unlike any other is damaged goods – mentally, that is.  He had a cousin who was a psychologist, and one thing had been made crystal clear to him: insanities got worse without treatment, not better – and Phoebe was crazy even by the mildest definition.  It was one thing to pray silently to or for a dead relative, but to talk to them as if they were still present and capable of acting?  He almost wanted to hate Violet, despite the fact she’d done him a favor.  Or had she?

“Whoa there, buddy!”

James startled.  In front of him was someone in a good scarecrow costume, button eyes and yarn grin, old farmer-style clothes and heavy boots.  Actual hay stuck out in places, but the nicest – or creepiest touch, was the gloves hands which bore rusty brown stains like dried blood.  “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

“That was some thought to be lost in,” the figure drawled in a Maine accent.  “Call me Sam.”

“Hey Sam,” James replied automatically.  “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude-“

“Then don’t.”  Sam put an arm around his shoulders and steered him into what looked to be a teenagers’ bedroom.  “You look like you could use a little liquid fortification.”  Before James could react, Sam pulled a bottle from the dresser.  “Take a swig of this.  Careful now, it kicks like a mule and it’s bitter as all Hell.”

James looked at the bottle.  The clear liquid sloshed invitingly against the old-fashioned glass.  Alarm bells screamed in his head, but he told them to go fuck themselves and took a deep pull.  It burned all the way down and, as promised, tasted as bitter as loss.  “Good God,” he coughed, handing the bottle back.  “What is that stuff?”

He shrugged.  “It’s my home brew.  I call it ‘Regret’.

James cracked a festering smile.  “Ha.  Yeah.  That’s a good name for it.”

“I thought so.”  Sam sat on the bed.  “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Wanna talk about it?  Last time I saw someone with a face like yours, he French-kissed a shotgun.”

“No,” James lied.  “Look, I have to get back to the party.”

Sam shrugged.  “Suit yourself but if you change your mind, I’ll be here.”

Not likely, James thought to himself as he left the room.  As his feet crossed the threshold, a sudden wave of nausea struck him and he staggered forward.  I think I need the bathroom.  He brushed his hair back with one hand.

Several things immediately occurred to him as he steadied himself.

One:  he felt weary; not just tired, but weary, the bone-weary one gets after a very bad day.

Two:  there was something on his right ring finger.  When he looked at it, a tarnished wedding ring mocked him.  His nails were stained and yellowed, the nails of a smoker.

Three:  His gut caught his eye.  His now expanded gut.

Four:  He was back in the parlor.  And there were a lot less people around.

“Wh-“  James looked around.  There were Amy and Kate, still in their conjoined costume, still playing hostess, but there were only four guests now all wearing different and much tamer costumes.

Kate looked up.  “James, are you alright?”  She sounded slightly annoyed.

“Yeah,” he lied.  His voice!  Good lord, it sounded like he licked a frog!  “I’m fine.”

The two came over to him.  “Come on James,” Amy told him.  “Get over that bitch already, okay?  You’ve been moping for over a year now. Divorce happens.”

Divorce?  He almost said it aloud.  Was he going nuts?  “Maybe you’re right.”  He didn’t sound convincing even to himself.

The two gave him a look that clearly said they’d heard that one before, but they seemed to let it slide and wandered off to talk to some other guests.

James dug through his clothing for his wallet and took it out. A familiar woman in a wedding dress beamed up at him.  It would have helped if he’d known who she was but considering the next picture – of the bride and him in a tux sharing cake – he knew what she was.  He’d gotten married, and it had obviously gone very, very wrong.

Suddenly, mingling sounded like a good idea to James.  He knew he wasn’t drunk, so something was going on here and he was going to find out what.


To Be Continued


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