Touch Therapy Ch. 00

"Last one in's a rotten egg!" he yelled over his shoulder, and then fled toward the den, ducking around the blanket he had nailed up as a makeshift door, and quickly changing into his trunks.

The second he had his shoes off, he was darting through the kitchen and out the sliding glass door, covering the distance to the pool with five or six quick slaps of his feet, and then launching himself up into a perfect cannonball.

When he came up, spluttering, he saw Rachel standing inside the house, watching him with a slightly wistful expression on her face.

"Come on!" he yelled, "the water's great!"

Rachel just shook her head slightly, and then headed upstairs toward her room. Greg dashed water out of his eyes with his fingertips, frowned slightly, then gave up trying to understand, and rolled onto his back.

Sunlight dazzled off the water around him as he floated, warming his skin at the same time that the breeze brought up gooseflesh on his chest. Beneath him, the cool water sloshed and cradled him. He was happy.

Robert and Elaine left sometime around 4:30. They popped out to say 'bye' to Greg, who was napping on a chaise lounge by the pool. Rachel was upstairs studying, they said, and there was a Netflix dvd on the kitchen table, and dinner in the stove. Elaine ruffled his hair, and suggested that he try to get Rachel to take a break and watch a movie. Greg nodded sleepily and then drifted off again.

Rachel shook him awake at 7:30.

The sun was almost down, and the sky had the fleeting blue/purple cast that marked the transition between dusk and nighttime. The moon was three quarters full, and as Greg slowly broke the syrupy surface of slumber, he saw a visible sprinkling of stars in the sky, and the slow red blink of a distant jet. There was also a slight hint of eucalyptus in the air, and the smell of wet grass from the neighbors' lawns. Rachel's hand was very cool on his shoulder, and Greg suddenly realized that he probably had vicious sunburn.

"Get up" Rachel murmured. "Mom said I had to make sure you ate. I heated up the lasagna." She paused for a moment, and then touched him gently again on the shoulder. "Come on. I set up some plates outside. It's still pretty warm inside the house, especially since the stove's been on, it's prob'ly nicer out here."

"Ok," Greg said, rolling out of the chaise and going up on his toes, arms up over his head as he stretched. When he finished blinking the sleep from his eyes he saw Rachel looking at his torso, and he glanced down, wondering how bad the sunburn was. When he looked back up and met her eyes, she flushed slightly.

"You should probably eat," she said mildly, looking away, "you keep starving yourself for wrestling you're gonna end up with some sort of weird eating disorder."

Greg laughed and sat down at the table, reaching for the spatula and plates. Rachel had lit a citronella candle to ward off mosquitos. The last of his sleepiness falling away as he took a swig of the lemonade she had brought out, he suddenly turned to her. "Why didn't you come out earlier" he asked. "I thought you wanted to swim."

Rachel wouldn't meet his eyes, but shrugged slightly as she sipped at her own lemonade. She was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe that covered her almost to her ankles, but its neckline was deeper than anything he had ever seen her wearing before, and he noted, almost idly, that she had no tan lines; the creamy paleness of her cheek and throat extended unbroken onto her upper chest.

"I'm just not comfortable with it," she said quietly, glancing up at him with huge dark eyes, and then quickly looking away again. "you were out here, so I just figured I'd wait until you were done."

"Whoa." Greg said. He started to say "that's just weird," but then bit it back, wondering if that might rub her the wrong way. So much seemed to rub her the wrong way.

He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I didn't realize that, and it was kind of selfish of me. If you'd like, I'll go inside and watch TV," he gestured behind himself at the pool and hot tub. "You can have it all to yourself."

"Well," Rachel said, setting down her lemonade, "I could just go in the pool now, while you eat." Her hand bunched the throat of the bathrobe together as she stared at him seriously, "but I'm a little self-conscious, so you'd have to promise not to turn around. I don't want anyone looking at me in a bathing suit."

Weird. Greg thought again. Just freakin' weird. Did she think he was some kind of perv that was gonna check out his sister while she was swimming? I mean, granted, she wasn't --really- his sister, and granted, she was pretty damn. . . Greg reigned in that line of thought abruptly, thinking to himself, "that's EXACTLY why she doesn't want you watching. Because you ARE a perv, you perv, you.

"Sure" he said. "I get it. You want a little privacy. No problem. I'll be a 'gentleman'" he laughed, adopting a plummy British accent, "and, as they say, avert my eyes."

Rachel actually laughed. "Ok then. Thanks," she said. She stepped behind him, dropping her bathrobe across the back of his chair as she approached the edge of the pool.

Feeling rather pleased with his own elaborate courtesy, Greg stared studiously ahead—at the sliding glass door that led into the now dark kitchen.

The Citronella candle, the deck lighting, and the subsurface lamps that limned the walls of the pool, all combined to turn the sliding glass door into a near perfect mirror.

He almost choked on the mouthful of lasagna, but forced himself to chew, although it now tasted like cardboard in his mouth. He felt something throbbing in his temples, and realized it was the hammering of his own pulse. Rachel, he suddenly remembered, was beautiful. He had seen it the first time they had met, and in the reflection of the glass door, he was seeing it again, now.

She was wearing a one piece swimsuit that was entirely modest, but to him, seemed impossibly erotic. The black suit set off her creamy skin, accentuating the long smooth lines of her limbs and torso.

Her hips were small, but swept into her tight butt with undeniably feminine softness. Her short black hair, always slightly fluffed out in a way that made him think of cute little baby chickens, riffled in the evening breeze. She shivered slightly, throwing one arm across her breasts, as she bent a knee and swept a small foot through the water, testing the temperature.

"it's not bad!" she called back over her shoulder.

"No" Greg choked out in response, his eyes locked on the smooth play of muscles in her long thighs and calves. "No, it's not bad at all." I'm in love, he thought, his mind spinning up a random bit of flotsam. I'm in love with her feet. She has the cutest goddamn feet.

She hit the water in a smooth flat dive, and Greg suddenly remembered his promise. With a herculean effort, sweating as though he was walking across hot coals, and feeling utterly disgusted with himself, he forced his eyes back down to the food in front of him. He forced himself to cut small pieces and put them in his mouth. To chew. To NOT LOOK. To swallow. To fumble blindly for his glass and sip lemonade, and NOT LOOK.

It felt like she swam for an eternity behind him. Like he was being tormented by some vicious Fury, as if he was both Prometheus, and the eagle that savaged the doomed god's guts, torn between pain and hunger.

He was so preoccupied with wrestling his own lust, self loathing and despair, that he was startled when Rachel, once again wrapped in the terrycloth robe, plopped down into the chair and shoveled a couple of forkfuls of lasagna into her mouth.

"I'm starving," she mumbled at him, one cheek bulging. "And that felt great. I've been wanting to do that all day."

She eyed him curiously as he mutely stared back. She seemed more relaxed then he had ever seen her before, but he was suddenly as tense as a bent bow, and he was being very, very careful about speaking. He feared he might say some irrevocable, horrible thing that would bring the night sky crashing down around them.

She arched a suspicious eyebrow at him. "What's wrong with you? You choking or something? Don't think I'm going to Heimlich you, 'cause that's just not happening."

She kicked him playfully under the table, and the brush of her toes across his calf awakened 'the beast' with a suddenness that shocked him. Keeping his face carefully neutral, Greg took a sip of lemonade and then placed the glass carefully back on the table.

"Why are you being nice all of a sudden?" he blurted out.

The question seemed to stop Rachel in her tracks for a beat, but then she finished chewing, swallowed, took a sip of lemonade.

. . . god, I'm in love with her throat. She has a beautiful neck. I could watch her drink lemonade all. . .

"You were right, you know." Rachel said quietly. "The other day. When we were at breakfast, and your dad got so mad at you. But it was true. I was a total bitch. I've been a total bitch to you since you got here."

She fiddled nervously with a fork, and there was something tremulous in her voice as she continued speaking, her huge dark eyes locked on Greg's as she forced herself not to look away.

"You didn't deserve it. You really tried to be nice to me, but," her voice faltered for a moment, "that freaked me out. It reminded me of someone that I spend a lot of time trying not to think about."

Greg just stared at her, afraid to speak. This was it, he thought. He was about to learn what everyone in this fucking house had been tiptoeing around for months.

"I had a brother," Rachel said. "He was my big brother. Four years older than me, and he took care of me. He always took care of me."

Rachel's voice caught slightly as she continued. "It's an old story. So old it's downright cliché. TV special of the week cliché. My dad was a drunk. He wasn't a monster, at first, but he got there, eventually. Jimmy was really just a kid, himself, but he always put himself in front of me, in front of mom."

She related this in the matter of fact, toneless fashion that betrayed deep emotional damage. Greg recognized this tone of voice. He'd heard his father use it while reporting the news of his wife's death to friends, to estranged family members, to unknowing coworkers. Greg knew that tone of voice, and it made his flesh crawl.

"He was a good brother," Rachel intoned, "but it was a bad situation, and it broke something inside him. He started feeling sorry for himself, and then he started feeling like he was," Rachel halted, and Greg suddenly realized that she was crying. That she couldn't speak, because she was struggling not to break down into wordless sobbing.

Finally, she continued. "He started to feel like he was owed something. Like he'd paid the price in broken bones and lost teeth. Like it was his due, and he had it coming."

Greg suddenly realized what she was saying, and he burst in, "Stop! Please. Stop. I don't want to hear this. I don't need to hear this. You don't have to explain this to me."

Rachel angrily waved him to silence. "Yes I do," she blurted out. "I loved my brother. And it's not like he ever physically forced me."

She was crying openly now, and the words came out in a rush, spilled onto the table between them, and her dark eyes were locked onto his face, looking for some sort of answer.

"He never forced me. He just made me feel guilty. He made me feel bad, like I didn't love him unless I wanted to, to," she trailed off into silence.

Greg was dizzy now, his head pounding with rage, and self loathing for the way that he had just been looking at this girl.

I'm a monster, he thought. He wanted to flee, but he was numb, and afraid to move, afraid to look away from Rachel now that she was suddenly opening up to him. Clearly, she wanted something from him, but he had no idea what he could possibly give her.

"Anyway," Rachel continued, her breathing becoming more regular, her voice calmer, "it fucked me up pretty good. I've been seeing a shrink about it. Dr. Griggs. She's very good with this kind of thing, or that's what I've been told, anyway. That's where mom and I go every Monday, you know. We say it's girls' night out, but it's actually mom driving me to Dr. Griggs' office. Sometimes she comes into the session, and sometimes she doesn't."

"Does my dad know?" Greg asked.

Even in the twilight gloom, Greg could see the flush creep up Rachel's neck. "Yes. He knows. I have problems going out in public ever since . . . then. And I have issues with . . . control. If someone's nice to me, it makes me suspicious, and angry, like they're trying to control me. It's all so," Rachel paused, fighting tears again, "it's all so humiliating. They treat me like a little baby, and I hate it. I just hate it."

She looked up at Greg. "I don't think I could make it without you. Until you and your dad came to live here, I wasn't going to school. My mom was looking at a GED program, or homeschooling. But when you came, I could start going again. Didn't you ever wonder why I was still a senior in high school even though I'm almost twenty?"

Sudden understanding dawned on Greg. "They're not sending you to look after me," he said, slowly. "They're sending me to look after you."

Rachel nodded slowly. "And I hated you for it. I still do a little bit. You have to understand, sibling," she paused, looking for the right word, "relationships are complicated. Dr. Griggs has done a lot of research into this. And while it's utterly taboo, all the evidence indicates that," she paused again, searching for the right word, "mutual relationships are not a statistically significant source of future dysfunction."

What the hell? Greg thought. What is she trying to say? What does that mean?

Rachel recognized his confusion, and waited with growing impatience, as he failed to grasp her meaning.

Finally, she blurted out "fucking your brother doesn't turn you into an utter freak if you're into it. It's a whole different thing if he forces you, or coerces you."

Greg was taken aback by the stark crudity of her outburst, but he understood what she was saying. "This is the doctor's theory?" he said, disbelieving.

"It's not just a theory," Rachel said. "It's science. There's a whole body of research that explains why siblings don't end up having sex with each other, and why some incestuous relationships can cause significant problems, while others don't seem to."

She waved her hands impatiently at him. "It doesn't matter. What I'm trying to tell you is that I've been getting better. And Dr. Griggs says that you're a big part of it. She explained it all to your dad before you guys even moved in, because he was worried that it might end up hurting you."

"Me?" Greg wondered out loud, "how would it hurt me?"

Rachel's fingers toyed with the fork, and Greg could see her knuckles whitening as she idly stabbed at the lasagna. The question clearly made her uncomfortable, and she was hesitant in her response. "Projection. Surrogacy." She finally mumbled.

"hunh?"

"Surrogacy," Rachel said, louder, lifting her eyes to meet his, and then quickly looking away again. "Griggs has a theory that some of my dysfunction, my esteem issues, could be ameliorated by situational re-creation."

"Ok," Greg said, "I'm pretty sure that wasn't even English."

"I experienced incest," Rachel said coldly, distantly, not meeting his eyes. "In a situation that was emotionally coercive. I didn't feel that I had any control over my environment or myself. Since you've moved in, though, I've felt a bit more in control. My interactions with you," Rachel cleared her throat uncomfortably, "they help me feel more in control."

Her voice took on almost a pleading tone as she looked up again. "That's really important to me, you know? And that means that you're really important to me."

Rachel started playing with her food again, clearly avoiding his eyes while she continued in an almost clinical tone. "Dr. Griggs was pretty sure that this would inevitably lead to a certain amount of what psychiatrists call projection. She thinks that, in some way, I'm projecting some aspects of my relationship with my brother onto you."

Rachel locked onto his gaze as she continued, taking care to speak slowly and clearly. "She also thinks that this might not necessarily be such a bad thing. That re-creating a sibling . . . relationship, particularly one in which I have control over myself and my environment, could help me heal."

"But surrogacy is considered questionable by a large part of the psychiatric community," she continued, "It's technically legal, but doctors have been sued, and lost their licenses over such things."

Her gaze wandered out toward the pool. "Griggs convinced mom, but Robert just wouldn't hear of it. " Rachel paused, "he just thought it was too risky."

Greg suddenly realized what she was saying, and he felt queasy as he pushed himself away from the table and stumbled to his feet.

"Me," he said. "You're talking about me."

His mind raced as he flashed back on Rachel's sudden rage in the breezeway after the incident with Keener. On the knowing looks that had passed between his father and Elaine, the whispered conversations in the kitchen, the furtive glances.

"Oh God," he mumbled, clutching his head and turning away from the table, "Oh God." He leaned over, suddenly dizzy, and fought to get his breath back. "Holy shit."

From behind him, he could hear Rachel speaking, and there was something strained and desperate in her voice. "I'm sorry. I really am. My mom wanted to go ahead and do it anyway, despite the risks. She wants me to get better. But your dad wouldn't have it. He was too worried about what it might do to you."

Greg heard Rachel's chair scrape against the ground, and then her voice grew nearer as she approached him from behind. He straightened, still fighting for breath, but did not turn toward her.

Greg stared out at the green luminescence of the pool, the ripples in the water. As his panicked mind absorbed the full implications of what Rachel was saying, the spinning world slowed, stopped, and locked into place with an almost audible 'click'.

The shimmering water, the coolness of the night breeze, the haylike scent of mown grass. Rachel's warm breath between his shoulderblades as she spoke. The smell of chlorine and eucalyptus wafting from her hair and skin. It was all so immediate, so close, so intense that Greg felt as though he had swollen immensely and was, like a snake, about to burst through his own skin.

"I understand," Rachel said from behind him, her voice brittle and strained, "how disgusted you must be. With me." Her voice cracked, and she coughed slightly, clearing her throat before she continued. "And again, I'm sorry. I just thought . . ." her voice trailed off to almost a whisper, "I was hoping you could help."

He heard her return to the table and pull her chair out. Heard the chair frame creak as she settled into it, the scrape of glass on the table as she idly toyed with her lemonade.

"I really hope," she continued, in a voice that sounded sadly defeated, "that you can at least bring yourself to keep taking me to school. At least until I'm, you know, well enough to do it on my own. I'll understand, though, if you don't feel like you can."

From where she sat, Rachel could see the glow of the pool lights behind Greg as he turned toward her. The backlighting, and the shadows cast by the flickering Citronella candle, obscured his expression. The silence drew out horribly. Rachel found herself a bit dizzy and, feeling silly, forced herself to start breathing again.

"I'll do anything you want," Greg said bluntly, almost casually.

Rachel wasn't sure she had heard correctly. He had seemed so horrified. So disgusted. She had thought, for sure, that she had wrecked everything.