The Wicked Sister

by Karen Dionne

  He reaches for my hand again. “I know you’re upset, Jenny,” he says as I let him take it. “But maybe Char is right. Diana could have been telling the truth and you misread the situation. I agree that she and Rachel shouldn’t have been alone in the woods together, and that Charlotte should have kept a better eye on them, but really—skinning and mounting a human being? You’re talking Silence of the Lambs. That’s pretty far out, even for our daughter.”

  “You weren’t there. Rachel was locked in a cage. She’d eaten a bucketful of candy. For all we know, the candy was drugged and Diana was only killing time in her taxidermy studio while she was waiting for Rachel to fall asleep so she could go back and kill her. You didn’t see what I saw.”

  “Okay,” he says slowly. “Assuming this is true, what do you think we should do?”

  “We have to send her away. We’ve tried everything. Nothing has worked. There’s nothing more we can do. None of us will be safe as long as Diana is living with us at the lodge.”

  “You want to send her to a mental hospital?”

  “I don’t want to. But yes. It’s time.”

  It breaks my heart to say this. We tried so hard for so long. Put up with so much. But I can’t see where we have a choice. Walking back to the lodge with Rachel, all I could think about was sending Diana away. I am absolutely convinced that this is the right thing to do. But speaking the words out loud hurts more than I would have thought. I understand that we are not the only parents who have had to face the fact that their children are monsters. School shooters, child abusers, kidnappers and rapists and murderers all have mothers and fathers. We did everything we could. We spent a fortune on counseling, moved north so Diana wouldn’t be around people, made a home for her where we thought she would be safe. But what about us?

  “I can tell you’re ready to do this,” Peter says, “but I have to be honest: I’m not so sure. Once we start down this road, there’s no going back.”

  Frankly, his indecisiveness surprises me. This is not the first time we’ve talked about committing Diana. Never in such definite terms, always more along the lines of an eventuality that we might one day have to face, but I’m genuinely surprised he can’t see that the day has come.

  “Let me call Dr. Merritt. I’ll make an appointment for just the two of us. We can tell him what happened and see what he thinks.”

  I have no doubt that after I lay out the facts, Dr. Merritt will take my side, but if putting him in the position of decision-maker will help to preserve my relationship with my husband, it’s worth it. More important, Dr. Merritt can advise us on the next steps.

  “All right. I guess it won’t hurt to see what he thinks.”

  I grab the Suburban’s keys from the hook by the door to drive out to the nearest pay phone to make the call before Peter changes his mind. Not until I have driven through the security gate do I pull to the side of the access road and let the tears flow. I feel like such a failure. It breaks my heart to admit that after all this time, and so much effort, we were wrong. My only consolation in all of this is that my dear, sweet Rachel is too young to understand that something unimaginably terrible very nearly happened in these woods.

  TWENTY

  NOW

  Rachel

  I stare at the knife in my hand. Diana knows I’m here; probably has from the first night I came. I was a fool to think that I was fooling her. Diana has always been smarter than me. More devious. More ruthless. Now she’s playing with me as a cat with a mouse, letting me think that I had the upper hand while she’s been holding aces all along. I have no idea how she figured out that I’m here. It’s possible she saw me eating breakfast in the kitchen yesterday while she was working in her studio. I thought I stayed well away from the windows, but she could have spotted a hint of movement behind the glass, or a reflection that didn’t belong, or a shadow. It’s possible that when I put the frying pan back the handle was turned in a slightly different direction, or the pan was a few centimeters off. She might have noticed that two eggs and four slices of bacon were missing, or that the coffeepot that had been left nearly empty was now dry, or that her boots and our father’s coat had disappeared. Or maybe it’s as simple as my therapist calling or leaving a voicemail telling them I’d signed myself out. For all I know, that might have been required.

  More important than how Diana figured out I’m here is the message she’s sending. I know you’re here. What are you going to do about it?

  What indeed? There are so many ways this could end: humiliation, debasement, physical harm. Not for her, but for me. If there’s one lesson I learned as I was growing up, it’s that anyone who underestimates my sister does so at her peril.

  But I refuse to panic. My sister operates entirely without emotion. So can I. I am not the meek and timid little girl she used to bully. Fifteen years in a mental hospital took care of that. I first learned the power of my convictions the day I stood up for Scotty. I’d gone into the bathroom I shared with seven others to find four of my roommates standing in a circle around him giggling and pointing. This wing of the hospital was restricted to women, so Scotty wasn’t even supposed to be there. He was wearing a blindfold and his lips were pushed forward like he was puckering up for a kiss. One of the girls had a piece of meat that was as dark as liver; the hospital often fed us organ meat to cut costs. “Do you want to kiss me?” she asked Scotty after she saw me come into the room and tossed off a grin, no doubt assuming I’d want in on the action. “Yeth,” Scotty replied. “I want to kiss you.” It sounded like ah uh ki oo, but I knew what he said.

  I tackled the girl before she could press the meat to his lips and sat on her stomach and shoved the meat in her mouth. It smelled really bad, as though they’d found it in the garbage. I wasn’t going to hurt her aside from literally giving her a taste of her own medicine, but I still got a week in solitary for my trouble, which gave me a lot of time to think. Standing up for Scotty felt good. It showed me the kind of person I could have been. I should have stood up to my sister long before now. This time, I will.

  I go to my closet and slide my hand along the top shelf until I find a small pillow. It’s a sweet little thing, all ruffles and lace and yellow gingham with hand-embroidered chicks and bunnies that Aunt Charlotte said my mother made for me while she was waiting for me to be born, though I have no memory of my mother ever doing needlework. I hold the pillow to my nose. If there are remnants in this cloth of the baby that I used to be—skin cells, baby spit-up, dried-up baby drool—I can’t detect them. After I found this pillow in a box in the attic and my aunt told me what my sister had done with it, I saved it against the day that I could somehow use it against Diana. It seems that day has come.

  I tuck the pillow under my arm and carry both it and Diana’s knife to the master bedroom. I pause in the doorway before going in. The first and only time I went into Diana’s room without her permission, I was looking for our shared book of fairy tales—at least, I thought the book belonged to both of us because Diana and I often read the stories together, though I found out soon enough that she thought otherwise. And while I was careful not to touch anything because I knew that my sister was very particular and she would know if something had been moved, somehow, she knew I’d gone in. After she caught me out, I told her I was sorry and promised that I would never go in her room again, but she said sorry wasn’t good enough and that I still needed to be punished. At that time, her preferred method was pinching me on the soft skin of my belly where the marks wouldn’t show. According to her rules, if I flinched or cried out when she did this, she got to pinch me again. Even though I knew what was coming, I lifted my shirt when she told me to. It’s embarrassing now to think how completely I was under her control. To this day, I have scars on my stomach from her mistreatment.

  I go inside. Instantly, I am slammed with memories. This room was a cheerful, friendly place when my parents were alive, with bright colors and fresh flowe
rs and pictures on the walls; a place where I was always welcome to come in and plop down on the bed and snuggle up with my mother and father to read or to talk. Now, without my parents, their bedroom feels cold and spare.

  I go over to the bed and place the pillow in the depression where my sister sleeps and stick the flensing knife into the pillow up to its hilt and leave it there, then stand back to admire my handiwork.

  Yes. I’m here. What are you going to do about it?

  Next up: a weapon. I could have kept the knife she left me, but if I needed a knife to protect myself, there are dozens in the kitchen that would do a far better job than this tiny curved scimitar. Better yet is a rifle. I go downstairs to the gun room and search the cases until I find a Remington identical to the one Diana took. I fill my pockets with ammunition and load the rifle and sneak out the front door and through the woods and stash the rifle and ammunition behind a hay bale in the barn. I don’t want to use it, but I will if I have to.

  I tiptoe over to the connecting door and crouch on my heels outside their studios. Diana is a creature of habit. She used to eat lunch every day exactly at noon. I’m betting she still does.

  When the studio door opens and bangs closed precisely at twelve o’clock as I expected, I go to the side of the barn that faces the lodge to make sure that Charlotte and Diana are headed for the kitchen, then open the door to their studios and go in. I’m giving myself half an hour. There are so many things that I could do in this room, from outright vandalism to simple mischief, but I start with the least invasive option. I can always escalate later if I have to.

  Diana’s desktop is as spare as her bedroom. No family photos, no travel mementoes, no personal items whatsoever. Still, there are enough items for my purpose: a pad of lined paper, three pens and a stapler, a word-a-day tear-off calendar, and a desk lamp. I arrange everything into a mirror image of what it was, then do the same with Charlotte’s desk. A part of me feels uneasy, as though I’m being drawn into something bigger than I realize and this is all a giant mistake, but I can’t sit back and wait for Diana to make the next move. The only way to prove to her that she can no longer push me around is to get out in front of her.

  Things are not as they seem, a small voice says.

  I look down. It’s a wolf spider, a nondescript, splotchy brown member of the family Lycosidae, which is Greek for “wolf.” I’ve never spoken to a wolf spider, because wolf spiders are nocturnal solitary hunters who don’t spin webs, and thus people rarely see them. That this spider has come out during the day to speak to me gives weight to what it has to say.

  “What isn’t as it seems?” I ask, speaking as softly as I can because, despite their name, wolf spiders are extremely timid.

  The spider skitters to one side and then the other and waves its front legs as though it wants to get my attention, though it already has it. Or maybe it’s just nervous. I stay absolutely still. If I could stop breathing, I would.

  Thingsarenotastheyseem, the spider says a second time, running the words together so quickly that I almost can’t make them out before it scurries away.

  I purse my lips. I appreciate the effort that this spider went through to deliver its message, but a little more information would have been helpful. I don’t know why my conversations with the insects and animals at the lodge are so limited. Getting information from them one scrap at a time is downright painful. It’s as if none of them understands the whole and each can supply only one small piece. Interpreting their messages is like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded.

  Things are not as they seem.

  All will become known.

  Remember.

  I’m trying to.

  Still, the spider’s words are clearly meant as a warning, even if they’re not as specific as I’d like. I’m missing something. Something important enough for a shy nocturnal spider to come out during the day to tell me that things are not as they seem. I have no idea if this has to do with the question of my guilt or innocence regarding my parents’ deaths, or if it has to do with Diana trying to have me declared incompetent, or if the spider was commenting on the war of nerves that Diana and I have embarked upon. I guess I’ll find out.

  Across the yard, the kitchen door slams shut. I grab a granola bar and a bottle of water and hurry back to my part of the barn. I crouch next to the connecting door. The studio door opens. I can hear footsteps on the old wooden floor, and Diana and Charlotte talking, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I wonder if Diana found the pillow I left for her, if she has noticed that I rearranged her desktop, if she understands the message I am sending.

  “So, what are we going to do?” Charlotte asks suddenly. Her voice is so loud it sounds as though she’s standing right on the other side of this door. I hold my breath and strain to hear Diana’s response.

  “Wait,” Diana says just as clearly, as if she, too, has moved close to the door and is speaking for my benefit because she knows I’m hiding behind it.

  “Shouldn’t we call the hospital and let them know she’s here?” Charlotte asks. “Maybe ask them to send an ambulance to come and get her?”

  “All in good time,” Diana answers. “First, we’re going to have a little fun.”

  Fun. I draw back and shudder. My stomach clenches. Hearing my sister speak that word triggers a flood of memories, and none of them good. “This is going to be fun,” Diana said the day we played Robin Hood and the rope on which I was supposed to swing over the ravine snapped and I broke my arm. The rope that, when I went back later to check because it seemed inconceivable to me that a brand-new rope should break, had been sliced nearly through with a knife. “This will be fun,” Diana said as I climbed into the trunk of Charlotte’s car at her command for the ride to the Cobblestone Bar where Max would sometimes play because we were pretending that I was Jack the Giant Killer and Diana was the giant’s wife and she was hiding me in her husband’s treasure chest, though by the time we arrived, I was dizzy with exhaust fumes and the ride wasn’t nearly as fun as Diana had promised it would be. “Watch,” she said as we knelt beside the girl who got lost at the roadside park after we found her at the bottom of a steep gully. “This is going to be fun.”

  I close my eyes. Long-forgotten details of that day bubble to the surface like water from a spring. Details too terrible to consciously retain. I remember that the girl opened her eyes when she heard us talking and blinked as though she was waking up from a nap. I remember she started to sit up, but instead of helping her as I expected her to, Diana pushed the girl down and threw a leg over her and sat on her chest. I remember I watched as Diana pulled the girl’s pink scarf from around her neck and wadded up one end into a ball and pushed the ball into the girl’s mouth. I remember that when the girl tried to pull it out, Diana grabbed her wrists and told me to hold them above the girl’s head and pushed the fabric in farther and pinched the girl’s nose until she was still. “Do you understand what just happened?” Diana asked as she stood up and dusted her hands on the seat of her pants and helped me to my feet. I nodded, numb with shock. “You just saw someone die. Wasn’t that fun?” I nodded again because I knew that this was what my sister wanted me to do, though when I looked down at the dead girl, I felt sick. I remember that Diana gave me the girl’s scarf and told me to hide it inside my jacket and said that if I told anyone I had it, she would tell the police that I was the one who killed her, and so I did.

  I did as my sister told me.

  I helped kill a girl.

  I feel like I’m going to faint. I can’t believe I was so in thrall to my sister that I would help her commit murder. My sister should be in prison for what she did, and I should be in the cell alongside her.

  And there’s more. A postscript to this unimaginably awful thing I did that is so much worse, I can hardly breathe. During the days after the girl died, my mother kept asking me to describe exactly how Diana and I had foun
d her. When I finally broke down and told her the truth, my mother thanked me for being honest and said that she would take care of everything and I shouldn’t worry about Diana’s threats and that I wasn’t in trouble. But later, after I heard my parents arguing in their bedroom about sending Diana away, I told my sister what they said.

  I told Diana that my parents were going to send her away. Days later, my parents were dead. I don’t know how she did it, but I am one-hundred-percent certain that Diana killed them. Then somehow staged their deaths to look as though my father murdered my mother and killed himself.

  All will become known, the raven promised. Things are not as they seem, the spider warned. Remember, the raven’s mate urged.

  And now I have. This is my fault. I killed my parents. If I hadn’t spoken up out of misguided love for my sister, our parents would still be alive. Diana may have been the bullet, but I was the rifle, the means by which the bullet was delivered.

  I swallow hard, gag, and take off for the far end of the barn so they won’t hear me lose my breakfast and retch again and again. When my stomach is empty, I raise my head and make my way on trembling legs to the horse stall where I spent the night.

  There I see that Diana has left me another gift.

  In the hollow where I slept, tied into the shape of a hangman’s noose, is a pink scarf.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THEN

  Jenny

  It’s Rachel’s eleventh birthday, and despite everything that’s happened, I am determined that this day is going to be fun. Rachel has selected Tahquamenon Falls as her birthday destination. It’s a great choice. The falls are truly magnificent: two hundred feet across and fifty feet high, and with the autumn colors only just past their peak, both the drive and the falls are going to be magnificent. Peter and I took in the falls when we toured the Upper Peninsula on our honeymoon, but Rachel and Diana have never seen them—mainly because the falls are four hours and two hundred miles from our home, which puts them at the upper limit of where we could reasonably go for a day trip.