Chapter 6: Sibling Rivalry
The fight started playfully, as most things did now. A dispute over the remote, a mock scowl from Mary as she tried to wrestle it from John’s hand. But her fingers, once quick and clever, were now just strong. He felt the plastic casing creak in his grip as she effortlessly pried it loose, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“My show’s on,” she said, her voice a low thrum.
“Since when do you watch documentaries on deep-sea fishing?” John asked, rubbing his wrist.
“Since now.” She flopped onto the bed, the entire frame groaning in protest. The mattress tilted toward her weight.
That’s when Susan bounded in, a whirlwind of black hair and energetic limbs. “Movie night! I picked a comedy.” She waved a Blu-ray case, then spotted the remote in Mary’s hand. Her face fell with an exaggerated pout. “Hey, no fair. We agreed.”
“We didn’t agree on anything,” Mary said, not looking away from the screen where a submersible was descending into the black.
“John,” Susan pleaded, turning her wide, dark eyes on him. “Tell her. You wanted to laugh, right?”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m Switzerland. I’m just the guy trying to go to sleep.”
“Not yet, you’re not,” they said in near unison, and the shared glance between the sisters was electric, competitive.
Susan launched herself onto the bed, landing with a force that bounced John a good inch into the air. “Then it’s settled. We’ll tussle for it. Winner gets the remote, and winner gets to tuck Papa Bear in.” She winked at John, a gesture that was becoming unnervingly familiar.
Before he could protest, Mary moved. It was a fluid, powerful roll, pinning his shoulders to the mattress with one arm. It wasn’t aggressive, not quite, but the casual strength behind it was absolute. He was stuck. The bone and muscle of her forearm were like a warm, living bar across his chest, immovable.
“I think I’ve got this one, Suz,” Mary said, a note of triumph in her voice.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Susan scrambled forward, her knees landing on either side of John’s legs, her weight settling firmly, pinning his lower half. The thin cotton of his pajamas was no barrier against the solid pressure of her thighs. She grabbed for the remote still clutched in Mary’s hand.
What followed was not a fight between two women. It was a seismic event. They wrestled over him, their laughter sharp and giddy, their bodies straining against each other. The bed shook. John could only lie there, a prisoner in his own bedroom, the air thick with their exertion and the faint, clean scent of their soap. He watched the play of muscle in Mary’s shoulders as she resisted Susan’s pull, the definition in Susan’s back as she leveraged her weight. Their nightclothes—a soft tank top on Mary, a silky camisole on Susan—stretched and pulled across backs that were now mapped with new, formidable geography.
“Give… it… up,” Susan grunted, her hair brushing his face.
“Never,” Mary shot back, her bicep bulging as she held fast.
Their competition was a spark looking for tinder. The playfulness was curdling, evolving into something raw and primal, a contest of dominance with him as the trophy. Their breathing came in short, sharp gasps that were too close to his ear. He felt a jolt of pure, animal fear, quickly followed by a shameful, flickering thrill at the sheer physical power they wielded so carelessly.
The bedroom door swung open.
“Good heavens, what is all this racket?” Patricia stood silhouetted in the doorway, her hands on her hips. Her floral robe was tied neatly, but it couldn’t conceal the V-shape of her torso, the way her shoulders filled the frame. She took in the scene: her two daughters locked in a struggle over their pinned, wide-eyed husband.
She didn’t shout. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone stilled them.
“We’re just… deciding who tucks John in,” Mary said, her voice suddenly small.
Patricia’s gaze swept over them, a dry, knowing look in her eyes. “You’re acting like children. Look at him. He’s exhausted.” Her focus landed on John, and her expression softened into something proprietary. “You two have worn him out. This is no way to treat the man of the house.”
She marched to the bed, and without a word, she reached down, not for the remote, but for John. Her hands, strong and sure, slid under his arms. “Come on, dear. You’re not sleeping in this zoo tonight.”
With a single, smooth motion, she lifted him from the tangle of his wife and sister-in-law. It was effortless. His feet left the mattress, and for a dizzying moment, he was suspended in her arms, cradled like a child. The humiliation was a hot flush across his skin, but beneath it was a shocking, undeniable sense of relief.
“Mom!” Susan protested, sitting up.
“He’s my husband,” mary added, her voice tight.
“And you’ve both forgotten how to take care of him,” Patricia stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. She adjusted her grip, one arm under his knees, the other supporting his back, and carried him from the room. He caught a final glimpse of Mary and Susan on the ravaged bed, their faces a mix of confusion and thwarted possession, before the door swung shut.
The hallway was quiet. The only sound was the soft shush of Patricia’s slippers on the carpet and the hammering of his own heart. She didn’t take him to the guest room. She carried him into her own bedroom, the air smelling of lavender and face powder. The bed was meticulously made.
She laid him down in the center of it with a surprising gentleness. The sheets were cool. “There now,” she murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed. “A little peace and quiet.”
She began to rub his back, her palm broad and warm through his pajama top. The pressure was firm, unlocking knots of tension he’d carried for weeks. It felt good. Too good. Her thumb traced the line of his spine with an intimate, maternal certainty.
“They don’t appreciate you,” she whispered, leaning closer. Her blonde hair, free from its ponytail, brushed his cheek. “All this new energy, and they just get more demanding. They don’t see the toll it takes.”
He wanted to argue, to defend his wife, but the words wouldn’t come. The rhythmic motion of her hand, the solid presence of her, was dismantling his will to fight. He was so tired.
“I see it, though,” she continued, her voice a soft lullaby. “I know what you need. A little looking after. A little… appreciation.”
Her hand stilled for a moment, then resumed, lower on his back, slower. The candle on her nightstand flickered, throwing dancing shadows across the walls. The last thing John was aware of was the immense, quiet weight of her beside him, and the deep, silent blackness that welcomed him as he finally, completely, passed out.