Betwixt

by Tara Bray Smith

  Everything is fine. If it isn’t, I will make it so.

  She rubbed her eyes, pinched her cheeks to get the color back into them, and walked barefoot into the kitchen, smiling. K.A., Sunday-morning casual in a black T-shirt and jeans, looked up from the stove.

  “Well, if it isn’t the midnight rambler —”

  Morgan panicked until she realized he was joking about the way she’d left the party. She cast her blue eyes down, playing sheepish. K.A. opened his arms and she leaned into his chest, small and quiet. There was the old comfort there, but other faces intruded: Moth’s, and Neve’s. The tramp.

  Her brother must have felt her tense up, because he squeezed her, then stepped back.

  “So what happened to you? Last I heard you were with that Moth dude, then you were gone. I looked around Portland all night. I kept calling but Mom was at Todd’s. No one answered and your cell was off….”

  Morgan stayed quiet. She tried to match her breathing with K.A.’s. Tried to concentrate on where she was now: in her kitchen, in the morning, where everything was bright and fine.

  Her brother cupped her chin with a flour-dusted hand, tilting her face upward. “Hey, Sis. I was worried about you.”

  She managed a tight laugh. “Well, I’m here now.”

  He held her gaze for a moment longer, then looked down. She followed his eyes. Her feet weren’t dirty, they were filthy, blackened by a crust of mud.

  “Oh, man.”

  She pulled away, wishing she’d showered first.

  “That was when I was a kid, K.A.” She opened the fridge and peered into it, not knowing what else to do. “I just took a while getting home, that’s all.”

  “Barefoot?”

  He was looking at the silver sling-backs sitting next to the door: Manolos, her one pair. Her eyes followed his. She tried to keep her voice light. “Anything for the shoes! Now where’s the OJ? I’m starving!”

  K.A. gestured to the dining room, though his face was still worried. “Table’s set.” He stopped. “Were you there when Jacob showed up?”

  She shuffled to the table, pulling the cotton robe closer around her. “Clowes? Isn’t he a little old to be crashing high school parties?”

  “I guess someone told him Neve was there.”

  Pouring herself some juice, Morgan kept her face impassive, but inwardly she was rejoicing. So Neve hadn’t gotten into K.A.’s pants after all! Thank god for small favors.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know really. I mean, one minute Neve was with me. And then she got up to hit the can —”

  “Charming,” she interjected, but K.A. didn’t smile.

  “And she just didn’t come back. The next thing I know she’s sitting on goddamned Tim Bleeker’s lap, and before I could break his face, Jacob showed up and took her home. It was, I don’t know, weird.”

  Morgan couldn’t help herself.

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “That Jacob was there?”

  “That Neve is, you know, into drugs. Dust.”

  K.A.’s face clouded, and she knew she’d pushed too far.

  “How can you say that? Neve is your friend!”

  Morgan tried to wave it away. “It’s just … whatever. I’ve heard some things. Look, you’re the one who saw her on a dealer’s lap, not me.”

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation —”

  She shook her head. “It’s too early for this moment-of-truth crap, Kaka. I need coffee.”

  Morgan set about making coffee in the French press she wouldn’t let anyone else in the house use or wash (she had a line about ruining the oils in the bean, but the truth was, she was afraid it would get chipped or broken, like her grandmother’s plates). She liked making coffee. She’d have to, working at the Krak. The place was packed seven to eleven and Morgan was assistant manager. She liked the method of it, the precision of the process. Right now, she liked the fact that it got her away from K.A., gave her something to do with her hands, which were trembling.

  When she came back to the table, he spoke of light things — his time at the party, who was there. He must have known something was up. Or maybe she’d pissed him off with her insinuations about Neve. What did she care? Neve was an unloyal double-dipper. A slutty little Penwick ho. How easily the lie about dust had rolled from her lips. Anyway, the bitch had it coming. You don’t make moves on your best friend’s brother. Not without asking first. And if Neve had asked, the answer would have been a resounding hell no.

  While K.A. prattled on, she ate mouthful after mouthful of his signature blueberry sourdough pancakes soaked in maple syrup, much more than she’d usually eat. Food wasn’t so interesting to Morgan. She blamed it on working in a restaurant, though she’d been that way her whole life. Really, she wanted to seem busy so K.A. wouldn’t talk about anything heavy. Still, somewhere behind the bittersweet pop of blueberries in her mouth and her brother’s plans for his upcoming soccer trip to California, the events of the night before kept looping through her mind: buying booze at O’Brian’s, getting ready at Ondine’s, standing in Ondine’s bedroom window showing Moth her —

  There again: that slicing in her torso. Pulling her yukata tighter, she took another sip of coffee and tried to concentrate on what K.A. was saying. She couldn’t. The beginning of the party, the low music. Seeing Moth; dancing with him in the pulsing shadows; the hot, soft kisses, then—nothing. What had she done? How far had she gone? Come on, Morgan, remember. It wasn’t the blacking out that scared her. She was home; she was safe. It wasn’t even Moth that pissed her off, or — ugh — Ondine, whom she knew she’d have to apologize to.

  It was her dirty feet.

  Her dirty feet and the sticks in her hair and the slashes of mud on her ankles and calves, the tiny red pricks, as if she had been running through —

  She placed a hand around her brow and looked down. The dark wood of the table opened up and Morgan let herself sink into it.

  “Morgue? Morgue?”

  She looked up. She had sunk halfway into her chair. The long black hair she had brushed minutes earlier trailed through the syrup on her plate. K.A. cleared a strand from her face.

  “Where’d you go?”

  Where had she gone? When would she go there again?

  “I didn’t —”

  K.A. furrowed his brow. “You were sleepwalking last night, weren’t you?”

  She shook her head and opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

  He put down the fork he was holding and cupped his sister’s hand in his own. “How long has it been? God” — he winced — “six years?”

  Morgan took her hand away and dragged a piece of pancake through a pool of syrup.

  “Five,” she replied. “And I didn’t sleepwalk last night. I was drunk. I blacked out.” She stared at her brother. “Look. I’m home, aren’t I? I went to a bar, K.A. I left the party and went to a bar. I got plastered, okay? My name is Morgan and I’m an alcoholic. Okay? Then I walked home.” She set her fork down and pushed her plate away. “Barefoot.”

  K.A. frowned. “Look. Something happened last night and you’re not telling me what …”

  Morgan tucked a stray lock of hair behind an ear, her ever-present nervous habit, though she knew how ridiculous she must have seemed. Had she even gotten all the sticks out? She pulled her feet under the chair. She remembered mornings like this years ago, when their father was with them, when she was sleepwalking almost every night, so often that her mother and father kept watch over her in turns. She’d hear them fighting in the morning about how much sleep they’d gotten. Phil Jr. had always wanted to take her to see a psychiatrist — “It’s not normal,” he’d said — but Yvonne never let him. “She’s just got a lot of energy,” she’d argued. “She’ll grow out of it.”

  Grow out of it she did. Not because she got older. She grew out of it because one night she woke up on one of her walks. She was twelve. It was dark — the deepest, blackest dark she’d ever seen �
�� and she was in the middle of the forest. The place Morgan was more terrified of than anything.

  She was standing over something. She couldn’t tell what it was, so she picked it up. It was warm, soft, wet — gross — but she made herself carry it to a place where the trees were sparse and the moonlight filtered through. She saw that it was a little animal. A rabbit, she figured, though she couldn’t be sure. Its skin had been stripped from its body. All that was left was a bloody carcass: lidless eyes; lipless mouth, snarling. When she dropped it she saw that there was blood on her hands, and she told herself that it had gotten there when she picked the animal up. Later that night, though, in the shower, she had to use a file to dig the scarlet flesh out from under her nails.

  From then on Morgan stayed awake at night. She’d drink coffee, study. Her grades had always been good, but after seventh grade they were perfect. For a full year she went to sleep when the birds started chirping; she’d sleep just a few hours before school started, until she was convinced she’d broken the habit of sleepwalking. They let her come to school late because of her “sleep disorder,” though Yvonne would never admit her daughter had an actual problem.

  She could hear her mother’s voice now, explaining to the school counselor: “She’s just got a lot of energy.”

  Now Morgan was looking down at her dirty feet. Red scratches embroidered both ankles; one big welt embossed her right calf. Although she had just eaten, her stomach felt empty.

  She got up from the table. “Listen, I’ve got work to do today. I’m on at the Krak this afternoon and I’d better do the dishes —”

  “Morgue.” K.A. stood. “Don’t worry about the dishes. Listen, maybe we should tell Mom. I don’t think we should just let this go. I don’t want this to start again —”

  “I told you. I’m not sleepwalking. I was drunk, I walked home, I stopped at a bar along the way. And you definitely do not need to tell Mom.” She paused, shaking her head. “Anyway, according to Coach Gonzalez, you shouldn’t have been within a mile of that party last night. You have soccer camp in two weeks. Drinking will get you kicked off the team, Kaka. So I wouldn’t be telling too many people — especially Yackity-yack Yvonne — about how big sister got trashed at a party little brother was not supposed to be at.” She picked up her plate and lifted her chin. “Don’t you think?”

  K.A. sat down and set his jaw, crossing his arms over his chest. He was used to Morgan bullying him. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She started clearing the plates like her mother usually did, stacking them in her arms. Their weight felt good. “Now let’s move on. I think I’ve got some apologizing to do to Ondine. She’s probably worried —”

  “Uh, yeah. You were a real bitch last night.”

  Morgan flicked her hair over a shoulder. “I’ll deal with that.”

  “And Neve? You were really mean to her, too.”

  “Of course.” Neve’s china-doll face popped up in front of her and she felt like slamming it down again. The little maggot. “I’ll apologize to Neve. Neve’s my friend.”

  She picked up the last of the dishes and headed into the kitchen, feeling better, clearer, more in control.

  “Listen,” she called out, “don’t worry about me. And don’t worry about the dishes, I’ll take care of them.” She poked her head past the doorway. K.A. was sitting at the table, his arms still crossed, eyes down. “Thanks for the p-cakes, Kaka.”

  He didn’t look up. “Yeah, whatever.”

  Morgan frowned and returned to the kitchen. She’d deal with him — and Ondine and Neve — later. Right now she needed to get her head straight. She needed to figure out how long she’d been gone last night. What had happened after she walked out. Why she had left. How long she had been in the woods.

  She poured the lemony soap out — clean, clean — and started wiping the dishes, silverware first, then glasses. Then plates. She liked the feeling of the warm water running over her hands, but she was still angry. She wanted to do something, make something change. Why now? Why the sleepwalking again? Morgan let her eyes roam around the room, looking for an answer. They lit on a band of knives, hanging on a magnetized strip above the sink, like a column of fat medieval soldiers in a line. A vision of that old movie Carrie flitted through her mind. What if they came at her? Realistically Morgan knew they wouldn’t, and anyway, she’d prefer them to be aiming at Moth, the disgusting creep. Shaming her like that. She pictured his face, terrified, as a phalanx of knives sailed toward his head. It made her feel better. If she could just … if she could just have a little more control —

  She found herself whispering while she moved the plates back and forth under the stream of water. “Move move move —”

  Nothing did, of course. Not the slightest. She tried speaking it quickly, like a machine. She tried slowing it down. She tried saying please. Finally she just screamed.

  “Move, you motherfuckers! Move!”

  “What?” K.A. called from the living room, the sounds of Spanish fútbol in the background. “Morgue, you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just trying to scrub a pan.”

  How long had it been since she’d cried? All she could manage were the same dry heaves. She felt ashamed and powerless — a powerlessness made worse by the memory of the night before.

  Abruptly she turned from the sink. Fuck him. Fuck Moth. And fuck Ondine. Past the dining room table she walked, swiping her keys up, then putting on her jacket.

  “I’m going to the store,” she called back. “I need to get some soap.”

  What she needed to do was find Moth. She’d feel better once she’d seen him.

  She slammed the door behind her, and whether from the force of the door or something more sinister, the knives, the entire phalanx of them, clattered into the sink.

  “THAT JERK!”

  It was the first thing Ondine managed to think the morning after her party. Even before she fully woke up, James Motherwell’s jade eyes crowded her thoughts, along with his voice, reedy, overconfident: I never fly to a light that’s not lit. What was his problem? He talked like a comic book character. Moth. He disgusted her. Greasy hair. Flavor Saver. She sat up and got her bearings. Somewhere downstairs music was playing — the Flame. Again. Orange wings — white wings — blue wings — green. Filaments of fire — unspoken and unseen.

  God, she was so sick of that band.

  Though Ondine knew all the words to every song on their first collection, Fly, something about the voice of their kittenish, spacey lead singer made her feel cold.

  Her eyes drifted to the other side of the bed. It was rumpled, the pillow slept on. Who had put her there? Who had slept next to her? She knew she had fallen asleep on the landing last night. She was even in the same clothes — black T-shirt, jeans — she’d worn the night before, but someone had taken her lace-up black sandals off and, she realized as she ran her hands over her shoulder-length braids, untied her red scarf. She put her hand to her ears. Who had taken off her earrings?

  Another name popped into her head.

  She sniffed at her tank top, expecting the reek of cigarette smoke with a nice undercurrent of dried sweat, but instead smelled Trish’s fabric softener, as if the shirt had just come out of the dryer. Huh, Ondine thought. Well, at least I don’t stink.

  Again she heard the music from below. Though the singing irritated her — it seemed so aggressive, taunting her, boring into her head like some insidious worm — she couldn’t help but hum along. I will make you happy. You will rue the day. You and I became one. A stranger and a twin.

  Shaking off the last bit of drowsiness, she headed downstairs.

  “Nix!” she called out from the landing. The silence that greeted her made her feel less confident. “Nix?”

  She scanned the living room below. He wasn’t there, nor were the kids who had passed out the night before. In fact, nothing was in the living room — no backwash cups, no cigarette butts, no empties. No Jackson Pollock painting of red-wine
stains, no ashtrays. Everything had been cleaned up and was exactly the way it had been when Trish, Ralph, and Max left the day before.

  It was as if the party had never happened.

  Ondine was trying to figure out how she’d slept through the vacuum cleaner, when the phone rang. Considering most of her friends called her cell, Ondine knew it was Trish or Ralph. She thought about the cops and felt her stomach flip-flop as she ran down the stairs.

  “Hello?”

  “Ondine, honey!” Ralph Mason’s voice was warm and crackly over the unsteady line. Ondine could tell he was in the car, driving. She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It read eleven. They must have reached the Midwest, she reckoned.

  “Dad! Where are you?”

  “We just got out of Nebraska. Jesus, that’s a big state. We didn’t have cell service forever, and then we hit Omaha. You wouldn’t think Midwesterners drive like bats out of hell, but they do. But things have calmed down, and I wanted to call and make sure your first night went okay, before we disappear into another dead zone.” He paused. “Miss us, baby?” Ralph chuckled and Ondine could hear the wind over his voice. She imagined clean Midwestern air streaming in through the open windows.

  She laughed. “Yeah, Dad. I do. I miss you a lot. Is everything … okay?”

  “Okay?” He pulled away from the phone. “Trish, hon, is everything okay?” She heard a distant “Sure is,” and then it was Ralph’s voice again. “Well, yeah, honey, everything is fine except for the fact that we haven’t seen anything much higher than a Jesus Saves billboard in a day and a half and we miss our only daughter and Ivy crapped in the car twice. Other than that, everything is fine. But you? You okay, hon?”

  “Oh yeah.” Ondine found a confident note and turned it up. “All good.”

  “All good,” her father repeated. “What’d you do last night?”

  She looked around at what she hadn’t noticed before. A clean kitchen. No. Spotless. Hospital clean. Her voice raised its pitch. “Hung out with Morgan D’Amici?”