The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  Alice’s voice cuts into her thoughts. “Did your mother hate being a preacher’s wife?”

  “You mean because that’s what she was known as, with no identity of her own?”

  “Yeah,” Alice says. “It would be hard to have the expectations for you to be perfect all the time. No one can stand on a pedestal and never fall.”

  “She had her moments. But she prized the role, and she knew how to bring out the best in my father. No one could’ve brought out his personality more than her. And he could be difficult.” She gasps involuntarily. “And cunning.” Deborah no longer wishes to talk about her parents, so, deciding on a subject change, she murmurs, “That reminds me, Alice. Speaking of our families, why don’t I know any other Alacoys? Did you not grow up around here?”

  “I didn’t.” She offers a small smile. “Weird, right? I grew up in Ohio.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “Marriage.” Alice shrugs. “And even now, I live twenty-five miles away.”

  “And this is where you wanted to open up a practice?”

  “Not necessarily. I have office space countywide. It’s an easy drive, all highway.” Alice glances at her notes, back to business. “I know you live on a farm. And I’d like to know how you feel living out there, considering the circumstances. Can you elaborate on your mindset since the accident?”

  “I have a security system now,” Deborah mentions. “And the police on speed dial.”

  “Do you ever see yourself moving into town or closer to . . . ?”

  “Civilization?” Deborah chortles. “I know the land is invaluable, especially to certain individuals who want to rezone it for something else.” Deborah sighs. “Unfortunately, everyone has always wanted the farm for their own intentions. I realized too late my husband married me for the stretch of property my folks passed down to us after we got married.”

  “Speaking of your husband. I think you said his name was Jonathan,” Alice murmurs. “Last time before you left, the loss of him was mentioned.” Alice crosses her legs. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, but it seemed to trigger a negative response along the lines of a panic attack. Is this something you want to talk about?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I’m guessing he had to have been very young when he died,” Alice says gently. “If it was sixteen years ago?”

  “Yes,” is all Deborah feels like responding with.

  “Then let me ask you this.” Alice taps her fingernails on the arm of the chair. “Will talking about it help with unresolved issues from the past?”

  Deborah doesn’t answer, focusing on the polished hardwood floor. Her eyes drift to the empty desk, devoid of photographs or wall hangings near it.

  Maybe because Alice isn’t here every day, she doesn’t bother to decorate.

  Or maybe she doesn’t want her clients to have a peek into her homelife. All it takes is one psychopath to threaten your family. Alice probably prefers to keep her personal life private. It’s not going to keep Deborah from asking, though.

  “Do you have children, Alice?”

  “I do,” she says hesitantly. “I have a son and a daughter.”

  “How old?”

  “My son is seventeen. My daughter is in her twenties.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes,” Alice says coyly. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I made a lot of decisions based on keeping my family together, right or wrong.”

  “I can understand that.” Alice abruptly stands. “If you’re not ready to talk about your late husband, we can save that for our next session.” Touching the knotted scarf at her throat, Alice says, “In the meantime, we can look at something to help with your other ailments. Besides what you mentioned last time, are you taking any over-the-counter meds or other prescriptions?”

  “No.”

  “Antidepressants?”

  “Nope.”

  Alice moves to the laptop at her desk. “I want to prescribe something different as a sleep aid and a medication for your migraines. Let’s try these and find out if there are side effects and go from there.” Clicking her nails on the keyboard, Alice confirms, “You said you don’t drink or keep alcohol in the house?”

  “I do not drink.”

  “Good to know, because you shouldn’t drink on these meds,” Alice warns. “Where do you want me to send them?”

  Deborah prefers to handle most of her business in the next town over. Her prescriptions are filled at the small pharmacy there, and it gives her an air of anonymity. Deborah’s relieved Alice doesn’t ask her about using a different zip code.

  After tapping a few more keys, Alice gives her a smile. “Okay, I submitted the scripts. You should be able to pick up today.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d like to see you in a few weeks, if that’s all right with you.” Alice scans her computer screen. “To see how you’re adjusting and to talk about whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  “That works.”

  Alice hands Deborah an appointment card, which is nothing more than a circled date and time. As she’s exiting the office, Deborah makes a quick stop. Twisting around, she turns to consider Alice. “Dr. Alacoy?”

  Barely glancing up from her laptop, she murmurs, “Uh-huh?”

  “What was the compliment, then?”

  Alice peers at her from over the screen. “Beg your pardon?”

  “You said Robert paid me a compliment.”

  “That he did.” Alice grins. “He said you made the best pies in the county.”

  Deborah shrugs. “I did win a blue ribbon at the state fair.”

  “Where I come from, the state fair doesn’t compare to the one here. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to try one sometime.”

  Giving her a thumbs-up, Deborah pauses at the door to retrieve her sunglasses. Sliding them back on, she smiles to herself, thinking of Robert.

  With a glance in both directions, she heads to her car, a noticeable bounce in her step that’s still with her when she gets home. Then, with more energy than she has had in a long time, Deborah goes on a cleaning spree, wiping fingerprints and dirt from the windows, dusting the furniture, and sweeping the kitchen floor. Running the vacuum over the carpet, she maneuvers it through the downstairs rooms until her hip starts to throb. It’s not like I’m going to venture upstairs anyway, she consoles herself. It’s too spooky up there.

  Robert’s coming over for dinner later, and she smiles, remembering the compliment he paid her to Alice. Scouring the cupboards and the walk-in pantry, Deborah checks to see if she has all the ingredients to bake an apple pie.

  By the time it’s in the oven, Deborah has flour smudged on her cheeks and discarded apple cores on the countertop and floor.

  With an hour timer set and feeling sudden fatigue, she crashes in her usual chair, watching mindless television while rocking back and forth, as if she can lull herself to sleep. The constant motion prevents Deborah from thinking about the strange man seated next to her in Jonathan’s recliner. She asks herself why she hasn’t gotten rid of the battered chair, but she doesn’t have a good answer. Mainly because after Jonathan died, she didn’t want her daughter to ask questions or take offense. Deborah supposes she’s had sixteen years to make a change and hasn’t. The man in the usually empty spot seems disturbed, his face covered in bits of toilet paper and shaving cream, as if he didn’t bother to consult a mirror while shaving his stubble.

  Peering at him with concern, Deborah notices a rough patch of skin that looks like a scar, as if something as sharp as a razor is jutting across his face. Perhaps a knife?

  When he notices her looking, he moves his head toward her, as if wanting to engage her in conversation. Trying not to flinch at the sight of his half-closed eyelid, Deborah drops her gaze to her hands clenched on the armrest. She doesn’t want to be rude, but his lid reminds her of something absentmindedly stitched up by a needle and thread.

  His lips move, but she can’t make o
ut the words. Deborah is annoyed by this; she’s always hated when people try to talk over the television. Jonathan used to do that, and she’d eventually get huffy and walk out of the room. Though now that she thinks about it, that was smart of him. It ensured he got the remote and television all to himself, and with only one TV in the house, it was calculated, like everything else he did.

  Though she wants to focus on the chatter of the infomercial, Deborah cocks her head to the side, straining to hear what he keeps repeating beside her. She doesn’t want to look at him, but it’s no use.

  “You owe me money,” he says testily. “You wanna keep the farm, don’t ya?”

  Surprised at this pronouncement, Deborah shushes him.

  “I mean it. Pay up.”

  Trying to keep him out of her line of sight, she goes so far as to pick up the remote and turn the volume louder, a universal signal to be quiet.

  “I’m not leaving until we’re square.”

  “Would you just shut up?” Deborah’s lip quivers. “Please! For five seconds.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I’ll deal with you.”

  But it’s no use; his incessant demands don’t cease, and frustrated, Deborah explodes out of her chair. Tossing the remote into Jonathan’s recliner, she angrily strides into the kitchen. When the timer beeps to signal the pie is done, she can still hear him chanting from the other room.

  Frustrated, Deborah watches the glass pie tin rattle after she sets it down harder than she intends to. Avoiding the living room and the man’s raised voice, she walks the long way around to enter her bedroom. When she’s safe inside the master bedroom, she locks herself in the bathroom.

  After reaching into the medicine cabinet, Deborah fumbles with the bottle. She cups her hands in place of using an actual water glass, tips her head back, and swallows the pills down quickly, imagining them slowing down the rampant thoughts running through her mind. Her brain needs a break from the uncontrollable mania.

  She slowly sinks to her knees and crawls to the corner of the bathroom, resting her back against the wall. With no recollection of nodding off, she wakes to find spittle pooling in the creases of her mouth. After she swipes her hand over her eyes, her vision appears blurred, as if due to a smudged contact lens.

  Wondering why the television is blaring, Deborah drags herself from the bathroom into the living room. At first, she thinks Robert must’ve let himself in somehow, but she enters an empty room. The television’s on a talk show channel Deborah dislikes; wrinkling her nose in annoyance, she searches for the remote.

  Frustrated it’s not in its usual spot, she starts to lower herself to the floor, wondering if it fell underneath the couch or one of the chairs. That’s when she glances at Jonathan’s empty recliner, where it rests innocently enough.

  Odd.

  “What’s it doing in his chair?” she mutters, staring at it in confusion. Scratching her head for a moment, Deborah suddenly remembers the loud stranger demanding payment.

  But for what, she hasn’t a clue.

  Deborah rocks herself slowly back and forth, an unsuccessful attempt to self-soothe. She keeps envisioning the man as she stares out the picture window. Her diminished recollection tells her the memory was real, down to his contorted face.

  But she’s doubtful about their interaction. Involved in an internal battle with herself about what she saw, she’s relieved to hear the wheezing of Robert’s beat-up truck coming up the drive, the exhaust pipe sounding like a smoker’s cough.

  She prefers his presence so she doesn’t have to be alone with her memories. Lately, they’ve been nothing if not frightening.

  CHAPTER 5

  Deborah

  The grocery store is a good twenty miles away, and Deborah waits until she dodges the pothole to call Robert.

  Deborah has learned from experience that half a mile after you bounce over it, cell service becomes available. It’s the reason for many flat tires, yet the city refuses to fix the soon-to-be sinkhole, made worse every year by the snowplows and farm equipment that bump over it. The county says it’s not within their jurisdiction, so she’s left veering off to the side to avoid the natural crater’s jarring consequence.

  “We need to talk,” Deborah says as soon as he answers. “I keep getting all these weird crank calls and hang-ups.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m headed to the grocery store.”

  “Okay. I’ll come to meet you. I’m about to take a lunch break.”

  “Except . . .” When Deborah admits she’s in a neighboring town, he chuckles at her but agrees to drive that way, with a gentle reminder he won’t be able to stay long.

  They agree to meet in the produce aisle, as clichéd as it sounds, before they disconnect.

  Deborah’s wrapping a sprig of rosemary in a plastic bag when he appears by her side. He greets her warmly, his smile making her giddy inside, even though she’s filled with dread.

  “I got another letter from the Department of Transportation.” Deborah tosses a bag of organic carrots next to the herbs.

  “About what?”

  “They want my land to build a road for nothing more than convenience. Can you believe that?” She frowns. “It’s not for sale, but they’re claiming eminent domain.”

  “I heard they wanted to expand, connect the county route to the expressway.” His fingers clasp the metal of the cart.

  “My father would be rolling over in his grave,” Deborah mutters. “And so would his ancestors. Why would I care about accessibility? I live out here for a reason,” she says bitterly. “No one bothers me, and I don’t bother them.” Her shoulders droop. “Or at least, no one used to.”

  “I bet they’ll eventually come for my land.” He sighs. “The economic development they claim will result isn’t as necessary as they want us to believe. Though,” he ponders, “maybe it’s not such a bad thing.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because maybe it’s time for a change.” He cocks an eye at her. “I was hoping someday soon we could talk about our future.”

  Deborah holds her breath. “What do you mean?”

  He leans down to whisper in her ear. “Maybe us starting a life together, if you’ll have me.”

  “Like moving in together?”

  “That.” He guffaws. “Among other things. Potentially moving somewhere else. Somewhere warm.”

  “I didn’t take you as the kind that would want to leave your roots.”

  “I know it’s a lot to consider since my kids are here, but it might be a good change for us.” He squints at her. “You ready to battle another winter?”

  “No,” she concedes. “But the kids don’t know about me; won’t it be a pretty sudden bomb to drop on them?”

  “Yes. Which is why I’m not trying to rush us into making an impulsive decision. I just want us to consider our options. I will tell them soon about us,” he promises. “I’m just waiting for the right time.” She wants to protest he’s been saying this for months, but it’s a useless argument. It’s a sensitive topic. She knows his kids have had a hard go of it, considering they lost their mother.

  Watching Robert walk ahead and grab a carton of milk in the dairy aisle, she’s aware of how time has aged him. His shoulders aren’t as straight as they used to be; now he has a slight stoop from not only time but stress and heartbreak.

  Both of them have shouldered a lot in the preceding years.

  Deborah maneuvers the cart, absentmindedly tossing items in until the cart groans as one of the wheels catches on an endcap display, upsetting the cereal boxes. An overworked and underpaid grocery clerk stops stocking a shelf to gawk at the commotion. Deborah hurriedly fixes the capsized cardboard and keeps moving.

  His voice appears back beside her, a calming presence. “It’ll all be okay.”

  “I don’t know.” Deborah sniffs. “Can we make this work?”

  “Of course.”

  “I need you now more than ever.�
� She gently strokes his thumb.

  “I’m here for you, Debbie.”

  After deciding to make a stew later, Deborah adds beef bouillon cubes and chuck steak to the cart’s contents. Then, realizing she didn’t grab all the ingredients on her initial walk through the produce aisle, she glances up at the fluorescent lighting and scans the colorful array of fruits and vegetables. She likes to watch the misters, the whoosh of the jets as they spray the produce at different times, the cleanness and freshness of this area in particular.

  The sudden thud startles her as a plastic bag with a white onion lands in the cart.

  “You read my mind.” Deborah smiles at Robert.

  “I know exactly what you need.” Robert gives her hand a squeeze before glancing at his watch. “Unfortunately, I’ve gotta get back to work. Talk to you later?”

  Nodding as Robert disappears from sight, she’s amazed at the way he vanishes like a long-ago memory, without a lingering whiff of spicy cologne in his wake.

  It’s better than the alternative, the smell of whiskey and sweat she swore her husband couldn’t scrub off his skin, no matter how hard he tried.

  After moving aimlessly through the aisles, she heads to the conveyor belt to check out.

  As she’s loading her groceries into the back seat of the ancient Ford, Deborah is at first giddy, thinking of having Robert all to herself.

  When she finishes stacking the last of her reusable tote bags, she slams the door. Trying to be a good citizen of the world, she goes to return her cart to the designated corral.

  Her hands pause on the warm metal as goose bumps rise on the back of her neck, signaling that someone is watching.

  Deborah can feel eyes on her.

  Trying to be subtle, she pretends to search for a place to return the cart so she can find out who’s watching her. Using her hand to shield against the direct sunlight, she’s able to slide her gaze across the parking lot.

  Sure enough, a man’s intently staring at her from the comfort of his vehicle. She tries to place where she might know him from, whether it be at church or around town, but there’s nothing memorable about his burgundy truck or his license plate. The plate belongs to a different county, and though she knows most of the people here from the neighboring towns, he doesn’t strike her as a familiar face.