The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  “Okay.” Deborah anxiously tugs at her cross necklace. “About three months ago, in January, I was inside my home when I heard a noise outside.”

  She tightens her grip on the thin chain. “It scared me since I’m on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Besides that, it was nighttime and the middle of winter. I thought I saw something outside, but I told myself it was my mind playing tricks, especially since my night vision isn’t the best.”

  Alice is fixated squarely on her, her pen poised, unmoving.

  “When I went outside to check it out, I managed to slip and fall on a patch of ice.” With a quivering voice, Deborah falters. “I was right; someone was there, and that person hit me repeatedly with my own rifle, kicked me, and left me for dead.”

  The color drains from Alice’s fair skin. “Before we talk about the aftereffects, I have to ask: Is there a police report?” The creases in Alice’s forehead deepen. “Do they have any suspects?”

  “Yes.” Deborah sighs. “There’s a police report, but they haven’t mentioned anyone. Ever since they built that men’s prison outside of town, we’ve had an influx of crime.” Deborah shudders. “Escaped convicts using the farms as their hideout.”

  “I’d like to think they are still investigating this closely.” Alice shakes her head. “How awful.”

  “It definitely has been a test of my faith.”

  “Were you wearing that necklace?” Alice nods at the cross tangled in Deborah’s fingers.

  “I was.” Deborah gives her a small smile. “It belonged to my mother. My father was a preacher.”

  “It might’ve saved your life.”

  “I thought psychiatrists didn’t believe in the power of prayer and God?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. To each their own.” Alice shrugs. “And this is about your beliefs, not anyone else’s.”

  “Speaking of saved lives, I’m lucky I was found and didn’t freeze to death.” Deborah groans. “I spent three days in the hospital while they did some tests.”

  “I’m guessing you had some injuries from this?” Alice asks. “Maybe even concussive symptoms or a hematoma as a result of the fall?”

  “Yes, I had a concussion.” Deborah focuses upward on the ceiling so she doesn’t burst into tears. “As a result, I’m experiencing a lot of headaches. Migraines, actually. I’m dizzy as soon as I wake up, and my ears ring at times.”

  “Did they do a brain scan?”

  “Yes. Both a CT and MRI.”

  Alice stares at her notes, tapping her pen in thought. “First, I’d like to request those medical records so I can review both scans. I’m guessing your brain activity didn’t show signs of tumors or torn tissue?”

  “Correct.”

  “Anything else you’ve noticed since then?” Alice points to Deborah’s leg. “Any issues with your motor skills? I noticed you had a slight limp. Did they do a neurological exam to check your coordination and balance?”

  “That’s from another accident,” Deborah stammers. “I fell down the stairs a week ago.” Ignoring the surprise behind the large spectacles Alice is wearing, Deborah continues, “I live in an old farmhouse, and the steps are wooden and pretty steep. I sprained my wrist and hurt my leg.”

  “How did you fall?”

  “I tripped.”

  “Did anything cause you to trip?”

  “My own klutziness,” Deborah says with a nervous laugh.

  “Any hallucinations? Visual or auditory?”

  “No,” Deborah lies. It’s more than the attack that has Deborah concerned. Lately, her brain has seemed muddled, as if she’s taken a handful of hallucinogenic drugs, like the time in high school when she mistakenly ate some shrooms and objects appeared to take on their own ominous shapes.

  A couple of days ago, Deborah was driving at nighttime when she swerved to avoid a collision with what she thought was a deer, but in reality, it was a telephone pole.

  Embarrassingly enough, she was pulled over as a possible intoxicated driver. The police officer cautioned her about driving in her lethargic state, said being unalert was as dangerous as driving drunk. She couldn’t tell him the wooden posts reminded her of moving animals, the electrical wires impersonating outstretched limbs.

  But she doesn’t feel like confiding in Alice about what happened. If Deborah said it out loud, even to her own ears, it would sound bonkers. She doubts Alice will be able to cover up a judgmental reaction. She’ll probably suggest she be thrown in the loony bin for good.

  Alice tilts her head, as if suspecting her of dishonesty. “Another reason for the neurological exam is to check your vision. You’d be surprised how your body works in conjunction, or against, other muscles, organs, and tissue. Speaking of, when was the last time you had an eye exam?”

  “Hmm . . .” Deborah tries to remember. “I believe it was last year.”

  “I’d suggest both visiting your optometrist and scheduling another neurological exam, since the fall was recent.”

  “Okay,” Deborah consents. “I can do that.”

  “Has a doctor prescribed any meds?”

  “Pain pills—Oxycontin. For sleeping, trazodone.”

  “Wait, Deb . . .” Alice writes something on her pad.

  “Deborah,” she corrects. “I go by Deborah.”

  “Of course, Deborah,” Alice repeats. “Deborah. Got it. Since you were prescribed sleeping pills, can you talk to me about your issues with sleeping?”

  “I didn’t sleep well to begin with, and it’s even worse now. It’s hard to feel like I get a good night’s rest.”

  “What happens when you go to bed?”

  “Nightmares,” Deborah stammers. “About the stranger coming back to finish me off.”

  “Do you know if you talk in your sleep?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t.”

  Alice points at Deborah’s wedding band. “I noticed the ring, and if it’s one thing I know, your spouse will tell you when they don’t get rest because of you. My husband woke the whole household up, including the farm animals, much to our detriment.” Stopping suddenly, Alice shakes her head. “But I’m digressing. My point is they’ll typically mention if you talk in your sleep, flail—heck, even kick or punch.”

  Deborah raises her eyebrow at this. “People punch in their sleep?”

  “Some people have very vivid reactions.” Alice shrugs. “Especially to dreams. Have you ever had a dream that seemed so real you woke up and were mad about it?”

  “Now that I think about it, yes,” Deborah says. “But I live alone, so I couldn’t tell you about my sleep patterns.”

  Alice looks at her with curiosity.

  Deborah explains, “I was married, but I’ve been widowed for a long, long time, and my boyfriend . . .” The word boyfriend sounds so juvenile coming out of her mouth, so Deborah rephrases. “Robert and I tend to sleep at our own houses.”

  Alice claps her hands. “I didn’t know Robert was dating anyone, but I’m glad to hear it.”

  In her head, Deborah mutters a curse word. She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone they were dating; it was what they both agreed to.

  “Do you mind if we keep that private?” Deborah’s face burns with embarrassment. “We . . . we wanted to keep it between us for now. We connected after my attack, and we’re moving slow.”

  “Certainly.” Alice shrugs. “Our sessions are strictly between us. I know you mentioned being a widow, which has to be difficult.” Alice leans forward. “What was your husband’s name? I want to be sure I know who you’re referencing when we talk.”

  “Jonathan.”

  “How long has Jonathan been gone?”

  “About sixteen years.”

  “What was his cause of death?”

  “It’s complicated.” Deborah presses a hand to her forehead, suddenly feverish.

  Alice stares at her in puzzlement. “He’s deceased, though?”

  “Yes. My . . . my husband . . .” Deborah’s heart starts to pound, and she’s sure Alice can hear it
. “Would you mind . . .” She clears her throat, unable to catch her breath. With a racing heart, she whispers, “Could I please have a glass of water?”

  Alice presses gently on Deborah’s shoulder. “Absolutely. I’ll be right back.”

  Deborah’s mind is reeling while she waits for Alice to exit the room. Her footsteps echo across the hardwood when she returns with the water.

  After thrusting the cold glass into Deborah’s palm, Alice hands her a couple of pills. “These are just regular old Tylenol.”

  “Thank you,” Deborah murmurs. “I’ve got the worst headache.”

  “I figured.” Alice motions to the couch. “I could tell by the grimace on your face.” Leaning forward to move a decorative pillow, Alice offers, “Go ahead and lie down if you’d like.”

  “I’m sorry,” Deborah apologizes, moving her purse to the floor so she can lie down. “I’m not feeling so hot right now.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for.” Alice gently helps Deborah reposition herself on the couch, settling the pillow underneath her head.

  “Do you mind if we stop for a minute?” Deborah shuts her eyes.

  “Of course!” Alice shoves her feet back in her shoes and perches on the chair. “We are in no rush. I’m on your timetable.”

  Feeling dizzy, Deborah is relieved Alice doesn’t continue to pepper her with questions but is content to sit there in silence or at least accept the lull in the conversation.

  Though she means to ask Alice a burning question, she quickly forgets what she wants to know, the pounding in her head taking precedence.

  Half-asleep, Deborah feels a cold compress on her forehead and a hand resting on her shoulder.

  Just as suddenly, the warm touch disappears, but the washcloth stays in place.

  A moment later, she hears the door rattle open and shut with a soft thud. Deborah can listen to Alice talking to whoever is presumably the next client, but the voice has a familiar lilt to it.

  She groans; the last thing Deborah needs is someone local thinking she needs to be shipped off to a mental ward again. Even though that would be the pot calling the kettle black, she’s used to the hypocrisy.

  Deborah’s grateful when she overhears Alice say, “My office is currently occupied, so let’s do our session out here today.”

  She doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep until Alice gently tugs on her shoulder. Timidly, Deborah sits up and runs a hand through her tousled hair. Thanking Alice for respecting her privacy, she feels less stressed and more relaxed after her nap.

  “Of course.” Alice ushers her out to the main room. “I can tell we’re going to be in it for the long haul. We’re going to work through this together, all right?”

  Deborah gives her a noncommittal smile.

  “I’ll see you in a week, and we’ll go from there.”

  Hurrying out to her vehicle, Deborah breathes a sigh of relief.

  CHAPTER 4

  Deborah

  The following Wednesday, Deborah shows up at Dr. Alacoy’s office, prompt but nervous. She’s wearing dark sunglasses, her old fears causing anxiety about being spotted in the back lot.

  When she walks inside the building, she’s grateful the shades on the windows are still drawn.

  “Hi, Deborah!” Alice greets her cheerfully and summons her to the back, where she motions for her to pick either the chair or couch again.

  Today Dr. Alacoy is wearing a crisp white blouse tucked into dark jeans with a brightly colored scarf wound around her neck. Her hair is still in a severe bun, and her earrings are simple gold studs.

  Deborah sinks into the soft, buttery leather couch as Alice settles into the chair with her notepad, this time keeping her feet on the floor.

  They make small talk before they dive in. Deborah notices that Alice likes to slide her diamond wedding band up and down her ring finger.

  “So,” Alice asks, “how’re you doing this week?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Your limp doesn’t seem as pronounced. Are you getting along any better?”

  “They gave me a cane in case I need it, but I do okay without it.” Deborah fails to mention she’s able to cope because of the pain pills she’s taking quite frequently. She doesn’t want to rouse concern in Alice that she’s painless only when medicated.

  “How’re the nightmares?”

  “The same.”

  “I want to circle back to your sleep patterns, if that’s all right.” Alice waits for Deborah to nod her head. “Before the nightmares started, did it just take you a long time to fall asleep, but once there, you’d stay asleep, or has falling asleep and waking up in the middle of the night been problematic?”

  Deborah clenches the leather strap of her purse again for emotional support. “I could fall asleep, but I’d wake up a lot, and sometimes I don’t know where I am.”

  “Can you elaborate on that?”

  “I’ll find myself wandering in another room of the house. I’ve fallen out of bed in the middle of the night and woken up on the floor.”

  “Last time we discussed an updated visual and neurological exam.” Alice pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “To rule out issues with your coordination and vision. Have you made an appointment with either doctor?”

  “I made an appointment with a neurologist and my eye doctor. My vision’s been a tad blurry,” Deborah says. “And sometimes objects seem to take on other shapes or get twisted.”

  “Do you drink alcohol?”

  “No.” Deborah makes a face. “I don’t even keep liquor in my house.”

  “Have you ever heard the term ‘REM sleep behavior disorder’?” Alice asks. “Also known as ‘rapid eye movement behavior disorder’?”

  “I haven’t.” Deborah shakes her head.

  “Are you familiar with the typical sleep pattern?”

  “I know there are sleep stages.”

  “Yes, correct. There are two, actually. One is called nonrapid eye movement, and the other is rapid eye movement. In someone with a sleep disorder like the one I mentioned, the REM is either lacking or absent, causing someone to act out their dreams. This can force a person to jump out of bed or take part in behaviors they normally wouldn’t.”

  Deborah tilts her head, unsure of what to say. The room suddenly feels stuffy, and Deborah unbuttons her light jacket. “Maybe I’m getting a hot flash.” She waves a hand toward her forehead in a cooling motion.

  “I can check the temperature and turn on the fan,” Alice offers. “I want you to be comfy.”

  “I’ll survive.” Deborah gives her a weak smile. “I’m starting to fall apart in my old age.”

  “You’re hardly old.” Alice chuckles. “I can’t even believe you have a daughter old enough to be out of the house.”

  “A daughter?”

  “Yes.” Alice gives her an inquisitive stare. “You mentioned her last time.”

  “I didn’t.” Deborah frowns.

  “Yes.” Alice scans the notepad with wire-rimmed glasses that are better suited for her face and not so colossal.

  “No.” Deborah licks her lips. “I wouldn’t have a reason to mention her.”

  “Oh Lord.” Alice taps a hand to her forehead. “Please forgive me.”

  Deborah stares her down, swallowing a biting comment.

  “How unprofessional of me!” Alice shakes her head in annoyance. “But Robert mentioned your daughter in passing. He gave you a compliment.” She rushes to add, “This was before you and I had even met.”

  “Why would the two of you be discussing me?”

  “I thanked him for the referral after you made an appointment.” Alice gives her a wink. “He mentioned he knew you from way back because his son and your daughter went to high school together.”

  “And our farms aren’t too far from each other.” Deborah shrugs. “And we go to the same church.”

  “I know his kids are grown.” Alice grins. “And you certainly don’t look old enough to have one that age, so you better
let me in on your secrets.”

  “My advice is to get knocked up at nineteen,” Deborah says calmly but seriously. Deborah’s mother warned her it was easy to get pregnant at that age, and a giggle escapes her lips when she thinks back to her warning. It went unheeded since her mother’s advice wasn’t always reliable. A lot of the time, it was passed down like an old wives’ tale.

  Alice gives her a peculiar look. “What’s so funny?”

  “Something my mother told me as a teenager.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Alice says. “I need a laugh.”

  “She told me how easy it was to get pregnant. She said just looking at a man would do the trick, and for some reason, remembering her saying it all those years ago and how I didn’t take her seriously made me chuckle.”

  Jonathan’s idea of intercourse was equivalent to that of a farm animal. He’d shove his sweaty body into hers in a frenzy, releasing his aggression after a couple of thrusts and grunts.

  She wasn’t sure they could conceive because it was over so fast, and he never asked if she got any pleasure from it. In her mind, it wasn’t lovemaking, so it didn’t equate to making a baby like in the romance novels she would devour.

  “Tell me about your parents. Are they alive?” Alice asks. “I know you mentioned your father was a man of God.”

  “My father was a preacher, and he died when I was in my early twenties. Heart attack,” Deborah says. “My mother died a few years later, an accidental overdose. I miss my mother the most,” she muses. “She was strong and scrappy.”

  Deborah’s mother wasn’t an affectionate woman; she doled out love sparingly, but when she did indulge her child, she gave the warmest hugs, which made Deborah feel wholly and completely loved. Deborah had promised herself that when she became a mother, she wouldn’t withhold affection or love, and there would be an abundance of it.

  Her thoughts drift from her deceased mother to her estranged daughter. Though the estrangement was entirely unexpected, it shouldn’t have been. She made a solemn vow to be the best possible mother. Yet she feels like a failure.