Finally, she relents. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I know I’ve heard enough ghost stories to last a lifetime, yet every one ends with more questions than answers.”
“Well, the farmhouse is over a hundred and fifty years old.” She takes a deep breath before she lays it on him. “A lot of people have lived and died on this land.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think my fall was accidental.” Deborah shrugs out of his grasp. “Someone shoved me down the stairs.”
He looks incredulous. “You were pushed down the stairs?”
Her face burns crimson.
Robert’s eyes convey the dread that Deborah feels. “By whom?”
“I don’t know.” She sighs. “But I felt a hand grip my shoulder.”
“Whose hand?” His eyes drill into hers.
“It felt cold . . . too cold, like it didn’t belong in this world.”
“You think a ghost made you lose your balance?” He snorts. “Come on, Debbie, you can’t honestly expect me to believe some evil spirit pushed you down the stairs.”
Deborah silently counts to ten, trying to maintain her composure. She knows how this must sound.
“Maybe it was the ghost of Jonathan,” he adds disdainfully. “Or Edward?”
Ignoring his scorn, she hurries on before she loses her courage. “It didn’t feel as heavy as a man’s touch. More delicate, like a female.”
“A dead woman pushed you down the stairs?”
“Maybe Cindy,” she muses.
“Don’t bring her into this.” His eyes narrow in annoyance.
Defensive, Deborah says, “I think someone wants to hurt me.” Tears start to cloud her eyes, and seemingly taken aback by her emotion, Robert shifts uncomfortably on his feet.
“I know since they built that prison, this place hasn’t felt safe,” Robert says empathetically. “And I’m sure that random act of violence didn’t help matters.”
“How can you be so sure it was a random act?”
“I think they thought you’d have cash or jewelry, a robbery gone bad. One of our other neighbors got their place cased for the very same reason.”
She says, brooding, “Do you think I’ll ever know who wanted to hurt me?”
“Doubtful.” He sighs. “If they stole something, there would be serial numbers to trace or something to find.”
Rankled, Deborah stares off into the distance at nothing but fields and an endless highway. She wishes she could go back in time, before she knew of anyone named Jonathan or Robert, before she had to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders.
“Maybe you’ll remember specific details along the way,” he offers. “Has your memory been jogged since you came home from the hospital?”
Unsure if she should admit this, Deborah says quickly, spitting the words out in a jumble, “I swear they had blond hair.”
“Because of what?”
“They had light-colored eyebrows. That’s about all I could see in the eye slits.”
“What about their eye color?”
“Unnaturally dark, like charcoal.” She automatically tenses up. “I could only see for a moment on the porch.”
“You think it was a guy with blond hair and dark eyes?”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “But it definitely was a man.”
Deborah thinks about this as they pack up their fishing gear. If it was a chance encounter with a stranger, then why does she have an unsettled feeling of being watched?
Shuddering at this idea, she doesn’t hear what Robert says until he lightly taps her on the shoulder. Deborah leaps backward before she realizes he’s asking her a question. “Are you okay?” He frowns.
“Yeah, I, uh, I just was thinking about all of this.” She waves a hand around. “It’s a lot.”
“I know,” he agrees. “That’s why I just asked if you had given any more thought to my suggestion.”
After the assault, Robert asked if she’d consider seeing a psychologist, psychiatrist, or hypnotist. Sensitive about her past and feeling harped on, she told him to drop it.
“Look,” Robert says, “you told me you can’t sleep since the . . . since the incident. You’re sleep deprived, and I’m sure it’s not helping you function. I mean, you’re skin and bones, and you didn’t have the weight to lose to begin with.”
Without looking at him, she stares straight ahead. “You think a shrink can fix me because I’m crazy?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” Robert clears his throat. “That’s not what I mean. I’m worried about you.” She stiffens when Robert lays a hand on her arm. “What happened to you was disgusting and senseless. Random or not, it doesn’t matter. There’s no way to escape unscathed from something that awful. You’re a strong woman, but dammit, there are limits, Debbie.”
“I know,” she murmurs.
He hunches his shoulders. “I’m just scared, is all. I don’t want to lose you.”
Flippant, she asks, “Are you afraid I’ll lose my mind again or that someone will finish the job?”
“Both.” He shakes his head sadly. “Both, Deborah.” It’s not the answer she wants, but it’s the truth.
“I don’t want you to be worried for me.” She threads her small fingers through his large ones as they walk back toward the house.
Deborah can’t help but notice his troubled expression at the sight of the thin gold wedding band she has on. “How could you still wear that?”
“It comforts me.”
“That ring isn’t symbolic of peace. A lot of lives got ruined.” His tone is harsh. “I’d hardly call that reassuring.”
“It reminds me of how relieved I felt when that night was over,” she explains. “It was like a resurrection of sorts.” Deborah could breathe again, and it was as if she had risen from her own grave, even if it meant putting Jonathan in his.
And it felt good.
Wholesome, even.
She can tell by Robert’s clenched jaw he disagrees. “That might be why you feel Jonathan’s presence. Maybe it’s time to think about a change.”
Not wanting to rock the boat, she tugs on his fingers. “Do you really think trying to talk to a professional again will help?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” he chides her. “We need a fresh start, Debbie.”
“I’ve been burned before,” she divulges. “I don’t want to be taken away and force-fed pills.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen to you.”
Inside, she screams, You let it happen before, but she knows that’s not fair. It was a different time, and there were others to consider. It was selfish to ask him to put her needs above everything else.
“Being assaulted had to be traumatic for you.” He tightens his grip on her hand. “I hate that it happened and I wasn’t around to protect you. But if it hadn’t . . .” His voice trails off.
“What?”
“I doubt we’d be standing here right now.” His sorrowful eyes peer deeply at Deborah, the mood becoming somber. “It’s a terrible thing to say. I just . . . I’m glad we reconnected.”
His old pickup truck is pulled around the garage, hidden in the brush, just in case his kids or their neighbors drive by. They both agreed they aren’t ready for tongues to start a-waggin’ again, at least not this soon.
After setting his fishing pole and tackle box in the bed of the truck, he slides his hands gently around her waist to give Deborah a warm embrace.
After they separate, Robert gives her a kiss and climbs up into the driver’s seat. “Wait.” He opens the middle console, rummaging through the contents until he finds what he’s looking for. “Ah, here it is.” Pressing a business card into her hand, he seems ambivalent. “A friend gave me this card a while back, you know, when I was dealing with my wife’s death . . . or I should say, when I hadn’t dealt with her death.” He takes a deep breath. “This doctor comes highly recommended.”
Unsure of how to respond and on rocky footing with the topic o
f his wife’s death, she closes her palm around the heavy cardstock. “Thank you.”
“I won’t bring it up again,” he promises. “I just want you to feel better. PTSD is a real thing.”
Though her external injuries have healed, her renewed terror at living on the farm alone hasn’t. After every sunset, at the first trace of dusk, her insides clench in apprehension as Deborah imagines a stranger waiting in the gloomy night, ready to pounce and finish the job.
“I know.” She nods her head. “But even with seeing someone, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again.”
“It might be time for a change.” Robert is grim.
Before he drives off, he gives her hand one final squeeze, and Deborah can’t imagine giving him up for anything. If Robert thinks she should seek help, then maybe she should. It might even make him more inclined to want a relationship with her, especially since he witnessed the fallout from before. She doesn’t want him to think she’s unstable. Or deranged.
That’s all in the past, isn’t it?
But in this moment, Deborah is suddenly unsure.
CHAPTER 3
Deborah
Sitting in her vehicle until 8:00 a.m. on the dot, Deborah clasps the now-tattered business card in her hand. She arrived early for the appointment, but her nerves got the best of her. Distrustful that this quack doctor would be any different or wiser, she circled the block, then opted for a parking spot behind the building, instead of in plain sight. She’s had enough curious and threatening stares over the years in this tiny town.
Robert recommended this woman, she reminds herself, and he’s not like Jonathan; he’s better. Kind. His concern is from a place of caring, not selfishness.
With this in mind, Deborah hesitantly enters the office from the back door instead of the front entrance. After shutting it softly behind herself, she’s tempted to open it and run back to the safety of her automobile.
The shades are drawn in the waiting room, if you can call the small area that, but Deborah doesn’t spot a receptionist, which is a relief. In fact, there’s no check-in desk or bell, and there’s always a bell to ring for service.
When she announces her presence aloud, it’s garbled, and even her name sounds foreign to her ears.
She starts to pace the small room, and fighting the instinct to run, she forces herself to take a seat in a plush chair in the corner. Then, unable to relax in the elegant chair, Deborah fiddles with the strap of her purse.
Staring at the pale-blue walls, she’s reminded of an article she read in one of her home-improvement magazines, or maybe it was O, Oprah’s magazine. It said the walls of doctors’ offices are painted soft colors like this shade of blue or light green because the colors have been shown to be soothing.
Though she despises bright, vibrant colors and loud wallpaper, the pastel tone isn’t warming her up to this visit. Deborah agreed to come only to show Robert she was serious about starting the healing process and merging their lives.
Suddenly, as if Deborah had snapped her fingers, a woman in her midforties appears. Too much of her face is covered by thick black glasses, a contrast to the platinum hair. The picture Robert showed her on the website when she scheduled an appointment online matches the woman perfectly, minus the white lab coat and black dress with Dr. Alacoy, Clinical Psychiatrist on it. Today she’s more casual, wearing linen pants and a flowered tunic.
At first glance, she appears harsh—cold, even, not a strand out of place in her stern updo—but when Dr. Alacoy opens her mouth, the crinkles at the corners express her desire to smile, and it transforms her demeanor instantaneously.
Deborah feels an immediate warmth and familiarity with this woman. Maybe it’s because they’ve bumped into each other around town, but she feels like a kindred spirit.
“Deborah Sawyer.” The doctor not only shakes her hand but allows her soft one to linger over Deborah’s trembling one. “I’m Alice Alacoy, and I’m so glad you could make it.”
“You came highly recommended.”
“That’s sweet of you to say.” She lets out a slight chuckle. “I’ll ignore the fact this town has limited options, and there aren’t many choices.”
This is true, as Deborah’s previous doctor has retired.
Unsure what to say, she simply stands to follow the tall woman into an adjoining room, an exact replica of the one she just came from. Painted the same color, it has coordinating furniture. The only difference is the large, polished mahogany desk sitting astutely in the middle. It’s uncluttered and empty, save for a laptop and printer.
Dr. Alacoy points to the sitting area on the left, where an overstuffed chair and a small leather couch beckon them. A little side table rests between the two pieces of furniture. “Take your pick.”
“Where will you be sitting?”
“On whichever one you don’t choose. That is, if you’re comfortable with it.” She motions to the desk. “Or if you prefer, I can sit here and take notes. It’s just not as easy to hear you across the room.”
Hesitating for a moment, Deborah chews her lip before deciding on the couch.
“Great!” Dr. Alacoy claps her hands. “Before we get started, is there anything I can get for you? Maybe some coffee or tea?”
Deborah rests her purse next to her, though for some reason, keeping the strap around her fingers feels oddly therapeutic, so she keeps the leather loose around her knuckles. Deborah winces as she has a flashback to them bloodied and bruised from the steel-toed boots that stepped on them.
Dr. Alacoy offers to light a candle. “I’ve got either vanilla or a lavender one.”
Deborah read in the same magazine that mentioned relaxing paint colors that flowering plants could alleviate anxiety. Maybe a scent could calm her nerves. “How about lavender?”
“Perfect.” Dr. Alacoy scans the room and locates the candle on the window ledge. After setting it on a mosaic glass platter, she pulls a lighter from her pocket. “Did you know they used to use lavender to help purify mummies?”
“No, I did not.”
Dr. Alacoy sniffs the air. “The camphor is subtle, yet distinct.”
Deborah inhales a deep breath.
Dr. Alacoy smiles at her. “Lavender has been an essential oil since practically the beginning of time, used to soften the skin and cover up odors back then but also as part of the embalming process.”
“I like that it’s not an overpowering smell.”
“Absolutely. That’s the draw of it. The way it sucks you in without being overly potent.” With the candle between them on the side table, Dr. Alacoy casually steps out of her clogs and tucks her bare feet up underneath her, as if they’re old friends catching up and need to be as comfortable as possible.
“First”—she reaches for Deborah’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze before she lets it go—“I’d like you to call me Alice. No ‘Dr. This’ or ‘Dr. That.’ I’m here to act as a guide in your journey to self-enlightenment and healing. I’ll know I’ve done my job if you feel better than you do at this moment.”
Alice fixes her with a caring smile. “This is a judgment-free zone, and it only works if we have open communication lines and trust. I realize this isn’t easy—I’m a stranger, and telling someone your innermost thoughts or feelings can be hard, especially with a shrink. By the way,” Alice mutters, “I hate that word. But”—she gives Deborah’s knee a quick tap—“if I can listen and advise you on the best course of treatment, then we will make progress. But it’s not just up to me; it’s up to you.”
Deborah slowly nods, unclear what Dr. Alacoy is implying.
“You’ll have to do the work, put in the time.” Alice peers at her through the massive lenses of her glasses. “I take it you’re open to whatever type of therapy or recommendation I make?”
Deborah feels her face redden, as if Alice can detect her reservations.
“You’re here because you want to feel better?”
“Yes.”
“You seem unsure,” A
lice points out gently. “I just want to make sure you’re on board. Many people are coerced into seeking help, and the success rate is minimal if it’s not what you want.”
“Of course I want to feel better,” Deborah snaps.
Alice sits back as if she’s been slapped but quickly recovers.
“Sorry, it’s just”—Deborah takes a deep breath—“I’ve had some bad experiences with therapy. To be honest, I’ve seen a psychiatrist before, and I have mixed feelings.”
“Don’t apologize,” Alice murmurs. “It’s quite all right. You’re not offending me.” They consider each other for a moment while Alice rests a finger on her chin. “Was it because of the doctor or the treatment?”
“Both.” She sniffs. “I didn’t like the outcome.”
Alice opens her mouth to speak, but Deborah isn’t ready to address her comment.
“I value my privacy.” Deborah twists the thin gold band around her finger. “Nothing stays quiet in a town this size; everyone knows everyone’s business, regardless if they should.”
“Are you alluding to something public or a breach of confidentiality?” Alice must notice Deborah’s pained expression and adds, “Your concerns are valid. Our conversations and sessions are strictly between you and me, unless, of course, someday you want or need a medical release for other treatment. Also, to be clear, even though you were referred to me by a mutual friend, he isn’t privy to our sessions unless you want him to be.”
Deborah stares down at her lap, silently processing this. Trust is a hard thing to come by, especially now.
Alice’s blue eyes flash with worry. “I want to hear about what brings you here today and delve into the past, but first, let’s start with your medical history so I have the full picture.” She reaches forward and pulls out a notepad from the small drawer in the side table. “Do you mind if I take some notes? This way, I can go back for clarity if I need to.”
“Uh . . .” Deborah twists uncomfortably on the couch. “I guess not.”
Alice starts off with simple yes-or-no questions, as if earnestly preparing Deborah for the easy parts of an exam until she can interrogate her on the harder subjects. And finally, Alice does just that, making a smooth transition by asking Deborah about the “incident” that prompted this visit. Tapping her pen against her cheek, Alice says, “Let’s talk about what happened.”
The Imposter Page 3
