Morgan's Exploration
Chapter II
Confusion
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All material copyrighted by Vola Novikov 2017.
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A big thank you goes to Aree, Cass, and Jordan for their edits. Neil is responsible for keeping the suspension high, and acting as a sounding board. Somehow, eloquent delinquent kicked the story in high gear.
This story is light years better for having had your help.
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Morgan turned to the ottoman in front of one of the chairs opposite the couch. It held blankets for chilly evenings, or days when Morgan stayed home sick from school, but wanted to be downstairs and stay warm.
She grabbed the leather handle on the side and lifted the lid. Inside were a few fleece blankets. Morgan chose a thick red one. Grabbing the blanket with one hand, she knocked the lid shut with her other fist, hearing it close with a soft thump.
Morgan draped the blanket over her mother's oh-so-close naked body. Her eyes inadvertently darted again to her mother's breasts—still mostly covered by the bra—before the red fleece fell, concealing them from view for what some part of her thought might be forever.
Morgan stood alongside her sleeping mother. The fleece concealed Karen's womanly curves. Her large breasts were now gentle mounds of red. The girl noticed a bare shoulder, and reached out a hand to tug the blanket into a new position. She frowned. A wrinkle had been created; fixing it wouldn't matter at all, but the irregularity irked her unconscious aesthetic. She moved to smooth it out.
Her hand stopped. Within the last few seconds, she had closed her eyes, but couldn't explicitly remember when or why. Something had changed under her hand. Her fingers were no longer a flat radiant. They were now gently curved downward, cupping something. The lump in Morgan's throat returned, and she squeezed her eyes tight. It's not what I think it is.
A new and mean voice snapped back against her, Yes. It is exactly what you think. Even better, it's what you want.
"No," she whimpered aloud. Whether to herself or the new voice was uncertain.
Squeeze, the voice urged her.
"Please don't do this," she whispered again. Her knees bent a few times, shaking her body in a weak tantrum.
You've wanted it for so long, the mean girl said.
"Stop it right now!" Morgan exclaimed. She shook her head, and took her hand away. How ridiculous. I am making up voices in my head.
Morgan went along the couch, carefully tucking the edge of the blanket in between her mom and the couch cushions. Lastly, she came to the end of the couch and her feet. She had never really looked at her mother's feet before. Well, why would I have?
A few dark body freckles contrasted sharply with the paler skin. Morgan noticed the nails had faded and worn shades of purple. A few weeks ago both she and her mom had a spent a weekend morning being silly and playing around with some nail polish.
Morgan reached out a hand and touched her mother's foot with her fingers. She's chilly!
Without thinking, she let her hand slide down her mom's foot, across her ankle, and under the blanket. I just want to make sure she isn't too cold.
But she didn't stop. Morgan had to bend at the waist so her body could keep up with her sliding fingers. When she finally sensed warmth, she knew why.
I'm between her thighs, again. The heat made her fingers tingle, and come alive in a way nothing else ever had. She strummed her fingers in the confined space like the strikers on an old typewriter against paper. The tips of her fingers and her knuckles alternated touching opposite sides of her mother's thighs. The flesh was smooth, with just the tiniest and occasional hint of newly grown hair. She wanted to grip her mother's flesh harshly. Spread her legs, bite her, consume her...
No! I can't do this. You have to stop. Morgan bit her lip, her eyes wincing at the pain of leaving. But it's so warm... Get out! She interrupted herself. This is horrible, you're horrible.
Morgan withdrew her hand slowly so as to not mess up the blanket. Her posture straightened, and she glanced away from her mother's body. Maybe something from the fleece tickled her nose, because she moved to scratch it away.
Her mother's moist scent had clung to her fingers, and now it was inside her nose. Morgan's mind disappeared, and the aroma filled her consciousness. I'm back. I want more.
I told you, the mean girl whispered in her ear. It smells so good, doesn't it?
Morgan's mind flashed with anger. The affair with her mother's romantic scent vanished as abruptly as it appeared. Her eyes flashed open and wide.
I've got to stop doing that. Ugh! And, and you! Whoever you are—stay out!
She looked down at the couch. Despite her attempts, she had jostled the blanket anyhow. She sighed. Fix the blanket, you perv; and cover her feet, too.
She tucked her mom's feet under and away. With the blanket tugged into a curl just beneath her mom's chin, she looked like maybe Morgan did when she was sick and spent all day on the couch: snug and resting.
Morgan checked her watch and frowned. She was not certain how many minutes had elapsed since bringing her mom to the couch. I can't believe I allowed myself to do those things when I should have been focusing on caring for Mom. As for why she had not been aware of the time previously... well, she swept her mind away from that disturbing memory. She shuddered in revulsion as she fought not to relish where her hand had been moments ago—what her mind had urged her to do. Clenching her hands into fists, she forced herself to focus on the next challenge.
Despite her recent boldness, the young woman had suddenly grown shy. Everything that had happened so far had occurred in the privacy of their own home. It was her secret thus far—until Mom wakes up. Nobody would know unless she told someone or invited others into the house.
Morgan found herself confronted by the hardest decision of the evening. Who should I call? Morgan certainly thought of 911, but the image of EMTs trundling across the clean carpet with big, dirty boots and finding her mom in such a state of undress shocked and embarrassed her. As if she could be any more so after what she had already done—I mean, really, she chastised herself.
She imagined the questions the EMTs would ask of her: "Who undressed your mother? Was it you? Why did you do that?" Her mind continued the imaginary scenario: Would they take her outside like that? —to the ambulance? —no doubt the commotion would draw a crowd from all the neighbors —and into the ER? —past all those patients with cuts and bruises, and sickness? Such treatment lacked the compassion she wanted for her mom. Karen needed more individualized attention, Morgan decided.
Morgan knew that as soon as she invited any outsider into this situation, she would lose whatever authority she currently possessed of her mother. Her control would be forcibly surrendered to whatever group of emergency personnel knocked down her front door. Of course, they would do it with professional necessity. They would be polite, but also seriously firm, with no room for argument, or negotiation. And especially no time to listen to her long-winded explanations. Hard-eyed professionals who lacked a daughter's sense of compassion for her mother's comfort, would make all future decisions based on memorized checklists. Hell, they would probably even drag her away if they thought she was going to be obstructive.
Despite her paranoid imagination, it was possible the ambulance crew would overlook, or ignore, Karen's clothing. They might even believe whatever bullshit story Morgan told them. But even if the emergency medical team missed otherwise obvious signs, it would be at the hospital where her story would really unravel. Escape was not certain; not at all.
She curled her toes in anxiety at the thought of how easily this whole situation could get out of hand—Okay, yes. The situation was already clearly out of hand.
The few occurrences in which Morgan had chosen to lie had subsequently ended poorly after being easily caught by an authority figure. On each occasion, she had profusely apologized, and promised never to do it again. She simply was not good at telling falsehoods.
No doubt, after a few curious questions from hospital staff, combined with a confused look at her answers, and a sidelong glance of suspicion, a supervisor would engage a quick conference with another attendant, and they would both turn to stare at her; arms folded, mouths quirked over in impatience and this situation would end as had previous incidents: the story tumbling out of her mouth, all helter-skelter, this part-before-that, continuously interjecting and amending her own sentences, finally ending with everyone else involved knowing that they were dealing with a total moron.
Once they knew Morgan had undressed her mother, how long until they also discovered what else she had done—both with, and to, her mother's body? Try as she might resist this avenue of thinking, her imagination dragged her further into a warren of other troubles the doctors would ultimately lay at her feet: namely, innumerable hours with a psychologist to determine the nascent root of her lesbian tendencies, secretive incestuous desires, and an obvious clinical inability to control her sexual compulsions. Years of therapy lay ahead.
She knew that after the medical staff had made a diagnosis and administered treatment, things would settle down. Eventually, a friendly nurse would step into her mother's room, smile sweetly, and then gently escort Morgan out and away from her mother's bed—ostensibly to get her a drink of water, or a snack.
Then, when she wasn't even there to protect herself with the explanation of how everything had begun so innocently—only for her to be somehow made subservient to a foreign maleficent desire that twisted her, forced her through a series of actions and behaviors that filled her with utter self-hatred, and weren't even who she really was—would the doctor tell Karen what her own daughter had done to her while she had been unconscious.
Karen would then know there was something wrong with her daughter, even if not exactly why—Morgan barred herself from contemplating it any further. She groaned audibly as she remembered again how she had dipped her head—Stop! No way will anyone ever learn about that. Ever. Morgan nodded her head in physical agreement with her thoughts. If her mom somehow learned what had occurred, she would never be able to let go the embarrassment of her own shameful behavior.
Morgan screamed inside herself. She had only been thinking about her perception of the situation. How was it that up to this point she had failed to consider how her mom would react once she knew what she had done? Her mother would forever perceive and treat her daughter differently. Morgan could anticipate that despite all her mom would do to conceal her new unease at the knowledge of what Morgan had done, their relationship as mother and daughter would irrevocably be tarnished—injured beyond healing. No more `Sundae Sunday' trips; visits to the movies together, and, no more nights of staying up late to share secrets and tell stories. Karen would do all she could to distance herself from Morgan. Mother would shun daughter; and the natural relationship would corrode into something ugly and unrecognizable, until it collapsed completely into broken shards of insults and the blinding dust of hate. Morgan shivered.
The world suddenly seemed too big for her to deal with. Misplaced, and completely irrelevant, thoughts to the matter at hand swamped her thinking: today's homework going undone, the upcoming project on the French Revolution that she needed to begin next week, the summer jobs she needed to start applying for, Keegan at school with his cute smile, the gymnastics tournament near the end of the school year. Indeed, she was being inundated by her life's calendar. She fought a flash of vertigo by closing her eyes for a moment and flexing her core until she trembled. You do not have time to deal with anything else. Your only concern is for Mom right now.
Until now, she had only needed to focus on getting her mother comfortable: remove her restrictive clothing, check her heart rate, and keep her warm. These were simple things; anybody could have done them; what came next, she was not sure. Her health class had only watched the single training video—and just the once at that! —on how to treat an adult who had fainted. Who knew she would be putting that lesson to use so quickly?
Her mom's diagnosis of neurocardiogenic syncope almost certainly meant that this was not a serious matter, but that she needed professional medical advice was a given. Now that she had solved her mom's initial difficulties, and had settled a bit from the initial shock, this should have been a very manageable situation, but where was the line between what was necessary and what was overblown? Her mind battled internally for a moment, but soon forced herself to accept that she could not let her own embarrassment, or even that of her mother's, get in the way of proper medical care.
Morgan bit her thumb, her eyes beginning to water. Chin up, girl! You are almost sixteen, and sixteen-year-old girls do not act like babies. Okay. Morgan wiped the small wetness away from her eyes. Something nagged at the back of her mind; something her mom had said earlier in the evening... What had it been? Umm... Oh, yeah, Doctor Jackson!
Morgan said aloud, as if to reassure herself that this was the correct decision, "I can call Doctor Jackson." Perfect. She will be able to help, but will keep all of this private. She isn't going tell anyone; a bunch of doctors and nurses will never see my mom's naked body, and I will not have to repeat more than once how this whole thing happened—at least my version of it. I can probably get away with just saying mom fainted. Why would my mom's physician care about anything beyond her immediate safety?
A smile broadened across the girl's face as she settled upon what she considered to be a well thought-out, and mature decision that solved all of her problems. Where Morgan had until a few moments ago been a mesmerized captive of her mother's nearly disrobed flesh, she now recognized it as a liability, to herself and to her mom. This decision would protect both of them.
Morgan knew that Doctor Jackson lived a short drive away, although she could not recall exactly where. A few weeks ago, she and her mom had been returning home from a trip to the town's local history museum. As the car passed one neighborhood with an especially large collection of early-19th century Victorians, her mother had remarked, "You know, my physician lives in one of those houses."
It will all work out, thought Morgan.
* * * *
Morgan hurried to the kitchen and grabbed her mom's cell phone off the counter. Fortunately, her mom had left the `Location' function on, so when Morgan swiped the screen to life, it did not revert to a pattern lock. Karen had showed Morgan the unlock gesture, but in her still-present agitated state, she was unsure she could have remembered it. One less thing...
The screen brightened, and she tapped the contacts icon. She ticked `D' with a finger and scrolled down a few names until she got to `Dr. Jackson'. There were two listings; one labeled as `Office', and the second as `Work Cell'. She chose the second and waited for the call to connect.
Her heart thumped loudly in her chest, and she hoped her nervousness wouldn't affect the pitch of her voice while on the phone. She didn't want to be flustered when Doctor Jackson answered. She thought of how ridiculous people sounded on 911 recordings, tripping over their alarm in an attempt to say everything at once.
The phone continued to ring. What if she does not answer? Morgan had not considered her call going unanswered, and now that she had finally settled on this decision, she did not want to be rendered back to a few minutes ago when everything looked hopeless.
"Hello, Karen. Why are you calling so late, dear?"
"Mrs.—uh, I mean, Doctor Jackson?"
"Yes, this is she." The voice took on a note of curiosity.
"Hi. Um, well we haven't met, but my name is Morgan. Karen Ghent's daughter."
"Oh, yes! Hello, sweetie. Actually, we have sort of met. Your mother showed me your photo during her last visit."
She did? Ugh, she probably said really embarrassing stuff about me, too. She'll never stop.
Dr. Jackson continued, "How can I help you this evening?"
"Well, something happened to my mom."
"What is it? How can I help?" Doctors Jackson's voice went from light and mildly distracted to professionally direct.
"Well, I think she fainted, but I am not sure. I checked her breathing, and her heart rate." Morgan paused briefly, "I watched a video in health class on what to do if someone fainted. Now she is sleeping—I mean, I hope she is sleeping—on the couch. But I don't..."
Morgan's voice caught in her throat as tears welled up again at the corners of her eyes; deep inside, she knew she would not be able to stem the tide of emotion indefinitely. Morgan swallowed a lump, and wiped an eye on each shoulder of her shirt. No, I can't. Not now. It must wait until after Dr. Jackson takes care of my mom, and goes home. The other side of the phone remained silent. She pulled the phone away from her mouth and cleared her throat before she continued.
"I thought calling 911 seemed unnecessary—given her condition—but she still might need help. I was wondering if you are willing to come over—check to see if everything is alright?" That might have been enough, but Morgan felt the need to apologize in advance for asking the doctor to pay her mother a house visit. She well knew that such requests were a matter of history—this wasn't 1880, or even 1980.
"I know this is not an ordinary thing for a doctor to do, but calling an ambulance seemed rather dramatic. I don't have my license, so I cannot bring her to the hospital, either. I've never been alone when it happened to her. I'm scared."
"Of course, Morgan. I am happy to help. I have your mom's home address in my work phone. I can be there in about ten minutes. Make sure she is warm and remind yourself to remain calm. I'm sure everything will be okay."
"Thank you, Doctor Jackson."
"Happy to help."
The call disconnected.
It heartened Morgan to know there was now a responsible adult involved.
Morgan hung up the phone and went back to the living room. She put her hand to her mother's forehead; it felt slightly cool, but not damp. She was not quite sure what being damp meant, but she knew that was a thing nurses and doctors checked for when examining patients—Right? The first aid class was not until next week, maybe she would find out then. Morgan slipped her hand under the blanket to her mother's arm and felt goose bumps. She's still cold! Good thing that Dr. Jackson reminded me to check. I'll add another blanket.
Morgan got another fleece—a blue one now—out of the ottoman. She folded it once and covered the red blanket with the new one. Then she dragged the seat closer to the couch, plunked herself down and stared at the door.
A few minutes later, Morgan heard a newer model car pull up in front of the house and turn off. A door opened, then closed. She heard footsteps on the wooden stairs to the porch, the storm door opened, and a knock a few seconds later. Morgan leapt up, threw the locks back, and opened the door.
An African-American woman stood in the doorway. She was tall and slim. Her hair was pulled back into a professional bun. She had wire rim glasses. She wore a short sharp skirt, matching gray blouse, and dress sandals. A white doctor's coat covered the business attire. She stood with one foot on the threshold, with a black medical bag in the opposite hand. The other was still raised in a knocking gesture.
"Hello, Morgan." The doctor smiled warmly. She lowered her arm.
"Hello, Doctor Jackson." There was an obvious sense of relief in Morgan's voice as she greeted the doctor. She'll make everything right for Mom. "Please come inside."
Morgan stepped back as the door swung further inward, inviting Doctor Jackson into the front room. The doctor's sharp eyes seemed to absorb every detail of the room: the current state of dim lighting, the clearly worried daughter, and especially her patient lying on the couch, covered by blankets.
Morgan shut the door and walked a few paces to the center of the living room.
"My mom, she... she collapsed and I caught her. I—I carried her to the couch." Morgan pointed at her mother who lay unmoving, eyes closed.
Morgan continued; confused about what to say that would best help her mother. "I don't know what happened for sure. Occasionally she faints. It doesn't happen often, just occasionally. I..." her voice trailed off.
Dr. Jackson looked at the girl's frightened expression.
"Morgan. I have been your mother's primary care physician for quite a while now. I am fully aware of her condition. Take a deep breath please and tell me what happened."
Morgan fidgeted, nodded uncertainly. "Okay—"
"Stop. I said take a deep breath." Dr. Jackson's voice was stern, clinical.
"Oh." Morgan looked down at the rug. "Sorry." The girl looked back up, squared her shoulders, and took a deep breath.
"Good. Now, go ahead." The woman's voice was softer than a moment ago.
"Well, I was sitting by the window watching Aunt Leslie go home."
"Who is Aunt Leslie?" Dr. Jackson asked.
"Oh, she's my mom's younger sister."
"Is she returning here tonight?"
"What? No. She's out on a date."
Dr. Jackson nodded. "Continue, please."
"Aunt Leslie had just left. My mom and I were chatting. I asked her a question, and she didn't respond. I thought maybe she was distracted, but after a few seconds I turned around to look at her. Her face was pale, and she was short of breath. She wasn't looking at anything. When she shut her eyes, I immediately remembered the video from health class about what to do when someone faints. I caught her and moved her to the couch. And covered her with blankets." A pause. "Then, I called you."
"Thank you. I'd like to examine your mother. May I sit down?"
Morgan understood that even though it was framed as a question, it wasn't really. This woman certainly knew how to take charge.
"What should I do?" she asked lamely, unsure what her role was now that Doctor Jackson had arrived.
"Nothing. Please just sit in that chair and wait a few moments. I'll listen to her heart and lungs and check her other vital signs. Please be quiet while I conduct the examination."
Morgan sat down automatically; Doctor Jackson's voice commanded the room, and subsequently her own presence within it.
"Okay," Her voice was meek with apprehension. What will Doctor Jackson say when she sees my mother isn't wearing any clothes? Morgan visibly winced at how she was going to explain it all.
Morgan felt real fear.
* * * *
story codes: F, f, first, inc, nc, no sex, rom, teen, voy