The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  “That old cow was blocking the road,” he protests, handing me back my license. “I hope you know I’ve buried the hatchet with Deborah.”

  As he fixes me with a hard stare, my cheeks redden. My mother always blamed Fletch erroneously for a broken window that wasn’t his fault, but I never set the record straight. I’d scored free concert tickets from a radio station during my junior year of high school. Kristin was dating Bryce at the time, and all four of us went together. Our parents found out, and by the time we got home, we had no idea that we were busted. I had left a ladder hidden, the kind you use to escape a fire, but my dad had locked my bedroom window so I couldn’t sneak back inside. I know he meant for me to come in the front door and face him, but Kristin threw a rock and shattered the glass so we could crawl back inside. My mother blamed Fletch because he stuttered and choked on his words for years at the mention of that night.

  My throat becomes dry when I think about how junior year was the last time life felt normal. Everything went into the gutter in my senior year.

  “Yeah. I should’ve told her the truth.”

  “There’s more . . .” He opens his mouth, but a crackle comes through his radio, his name loud and clear. He speaks into the receiver and tells dispatch he’ll be right there. “I gotta take this.” Waving a hand, he says, “Just be cognizant of your surroundings. I’m not trying to scare you, but things have changed since your time, when we could just leave the doors unlocked. You probably know this, since you moved to a big city and all. Safety is an illusion. And go to bed.” His pointed stare is directed at my bloodshot eyes and limp hair in need of a wash. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

  “Good thing I only have two miles to go.” I grin. “But okay. And thanks.” I wrinkle my nose at him. “That’s a nice way of telling me I look like shit.”

  A smile curls at his lips. “You know you can always count on me to tell the truth.”

  I try not to show my disgust. His truth isn’t always factual; many times it’s a matter of opinion. His opinion.

  As I’m taking the Toyota out of park, he slaps his hand on the open window to get my attention. “And Sibby?”

  Pausing with my foot on the accelerator, I wait.

  “I’ll give you a warm town welcome back to these parts if you slow the hell down.” He bites his lip. “Please drive safely. We don’t want to lose any more family members.” His eyes linger on mine a second too long. “Or have any more accidents.”

  With a withering smile, I tuck the plastic back in my wallet. The word hits me like the sound of a pistol at the start of a race. I’m swiftly transported back in time to a difference of opinion between Miles Fletcher and me. We both have a different view of the turn of events, how they unfolded, and where to lay the blame.

  I think my father’s death was a tragic accident.

  In contrast, Fletch alleges foul play and something sinister at the hands of my mother, Deborah. I do not agree with him, which puts us on opposing sides, with insurmountable obstacles between us.

  Now, after Fletch manages one last nod, his footsteps crunch loudly as they retreat. A lump in my throat burgeoning, I forcefully turn off my hazard lights and jerk onto the blacktop.

  It seems fitting that my welcome home would be from the person who chased me away to begin with.

  PART THREE

  SIBLEY & DEBORAH

  CHAPTER 15

  Sibley

  As I reach the stretch of our twenty-seven-acre farm, I turn on my blinker, signaling out of habit.

  I snicker. Using it seems silly, since it’s obvious where I’m going.

  In the rearview, Fletch slows behind me on the empty highway, giving the customary short, neighborly honk as his arm lingers out of the open window, a small wave as he speeds off.

  Now that I’ve seen the wasteland the farm has become, it doesn’t take me long to see what Fletch meant about changes.

  Time has hit pause on the stark prairie, and it’s as if I’m Rip Van Winkle waking from a very long nap to find everything exactly as it was, but not as it should be.

  As I pass the ancient windmill, the blades rotate, lazily moving in the sun. I involuntarily shudder at the root cellar in the distance; it’s now padlocked, with a heavy chain tethered across it.

  At least no one can get stuck down there accidentally, I think grimly.

  My gaze drifts to the toolshed, and I slow to a crawl, but I practically miss the edge of the gravel driveway; the distinction between the fragmented pieces of stone and the yard is now one overgrown mess. The infinite expansion of weeds has swallowed the broad stretch, and dandelions seem to proliferate in every square inch unoccupied by crabgrass.

  When I hightailed it out of here, I thought of it like a lousy breakup—permanent and with finality.

  Gripping the hard plastic of the steering wheel, I’m overcome with raw emotion. This new reality has me unnerved.

  What did you expect? I chide myself. She lives out here alone like a pariah.

  Did you really think folks would get over what happened out here?

  They might’ve forgiven Jonathan’s death, but not that of the churchgoing, volunteer-loving, perfect mother and wife, Cindy.

  I shudder again as I settle back against the seat, my hand hesitating on the gearshift.

  Despite the summer humidity, my whole body tingles with goose bumps when the red barn comes into my periphery, a visceral reaction I have when I think of that night.

  The gambrel roof of the barn has two different slopes on each side, and even though the roof’s designed to eliminate both water and snow, its worn-away shingles signal their own fatigue.

  It must be hard to sag under the weight of guilt and time, I suppose.

  My heart skips a beat.

  If my mother isn’t keeping the property up, what did she spend all the life insurance money on? She couldn’t possibly be squirreling it away.

  Part of the reason so many people think she did him dirty is tied to the exorbitant sum of money my mother inherited after my father died.

  But looking at this eyesore, you wouldn’t know it.

  Maybe that’s been her brilliant plan all along. Let the town think she’s destitute. I guess after my long-term absence, she’d probably tell me it’s none of my business.

  Souring on the idea of a reunion and feeling guilty for abandoning this life for a new, shinier one, I already want to crawl under a rock.

  If my mother was struggling, why didn’t her doctor or the hospital call me?

  Because you wanted nothing to do with the likes of Deborah Sawyer, I recall.

  But why didn’t Fletch bother to pick up the phone?

  Because of the very same reasons, I lament.

  Parched, I realize how thirsty I am.

  At one of my pit stops, I picked up a red plastic cooler. Now I fumble for it in the back seat.

  Most of the plastic bottles are filled with alcohol, a trick I’ve been using for years to avoid detection, which was another reason I wasn’t keen on running into the police. Sniffing for one that’s vodka, I’m dismayed to find this is my last bottle. After I tip my head back to swig it the same way people throw back coffee, it goes down smoothly, no chaser needed.

  After the last drop is drunk, I toss the plastic back in the cooler.

  One voice inside my head tells me I’m not an alcoholic while its counterproductive companion tells me I sorely need help.

  Regardless, it’s not enough.

  I need more—a lot more—sedatives or liquid courage to calm my shredded nerves.

  If I turn around and go back west, she’d never know I was here. I tell myself if my mother needed my help, she’d have responded to my attempts to reconcile.

  It’s a painful rejection, but it’s one I’ve had to live with.

  If I leave now, I could go straight to rehab, and Holden and my firm wouldn’t know about the stunt I pulled.

  I can’t change the past, and by the looks of the place, there’s
nothing to salvage.

  Except what good is living if I’m confined to four walls? I muse. Whether it be a rehab facility or jail or in the form of my addiction?

  I squeeze my hands in my lap. You’re not a real addict, Sibley. That’s what weak people admit to.

  By now, my mother has probably taken notice of a strange vehicle in the drive. She might have heard Fletch’s neighborly honk before he continued on the highway stretch.

  If I look through the small window over the kitchen sink, I bet I’ll see her ogling at the disruption.

  Taking another deep breath, I force myself out of the driver’s seat before traipsing through the budding jungle to the front stoop of the faded box.

  My mother always kept a well-tended garden and yard. Even after Daddy died, before falsehoods drowned out facts, neighbors pitched in and helped with chores until we got back on our feet. I’m disgusted the weeds have engulfed the wraparound porch to become a single landscape without any ending or beginning. If you were a painter, you’d just make a swift stroke across the canvas.

  How long has it been like this? I shake my head sadly.

  Unfortunately, the house is not a pleasant sight for my tired eyes.

  It’s squalid, with faded siding from a century of battling four seasons and uncompromising weather patterns, and I wince at the disrepair. In some places, vinyl’s missing. One of the blue shutters dangles precariously off the window, like a cigarette hanging off someone’s lips, signaling it could fall without warning.

  Nailed to the spot, I stare at the ripped mesh in the screen door, drooping like a face with partial paralysis. A wave of nausea consumes me, and struck with an uncanny feeling, I pause.

  I ran away from this ugly olive-green entrance, with no plans to return.

  The red blinking light catches my attention. It belongs to a security camera hanging underneath the roofline.

  Tentatively I knock, at first timidly and then with more force.

  After all, she’s not expecting me.

  Thinking the front door will swing wide at any moment, I hear footsteps and the click of the lock, but it must be my imagination, since no one answers.

  Shifting impatiently from foot to foot, I’m eager to see her reaction.

  But there is none. Because the door doesn’t open.

  I collapse on the rickety porch swing and rest my groggy head in my hands, considering my options. I could take a nap in the back seat and wait for her to come back, but on second thought, the exertion of standing up seems like more work than it’s worth.

  I moan. Maybe I can roll over on my side and nap until my mother arrives home. But what if she’s not coming home anytime soon? Maybe she went out of town. That could be why the yard looks like a wildlife conservation area, I argue to myself as my eyes under their sagging lids peruse their surroundings.

  And go where? I think. And with whom?

  Suddenly a moment of clarity hits.

  The hidden key.

  Lethargic, I stumble to the side of the house, hopeful the farm’s unchanged appearance means the rest is also untouched. We kept a spare key hidden inside an old metal container by the side of the house. Under the rusted lid, there was a tiny crevice in the top where only a small object like a key would fit.

  Of course, it’s not here anymore.

  I decide to check the detached garage, wishing there were a window I could snoop through for my mother’s car, just to confirm or deny her presence.

  Frustrated, I run a hand through my unkempt hair. When I kick a loose board, I catch a rusted nail and utter a steady stream of curse words.

  Unsatisfied, I follow them with a shrill yell, letting the universe know how I really feel about the kinks it keeps throwing in my master plan. I’m loud enough the visiting birds scatter, annoyed by the sudden interruption.

  But my luck changes when I spot the rusted container pressed against the garage, partially hidden by an overgrown brush.

  As I hold my breath, the box squeaks open, and . . . it’s empty.

  CHAPTER 16

  Deborah

  “Come on in,” Dr. Alacoy tells Deborah warmly. “I’m just finishing up with some notes. I’ll be right there.”

  Nodding her head, Deborah settles into the leather couch that’s starting to feel like a second home, now that she’s had multiple sessions.

  Though she wouldn’t go so far as to say she’s a fan of coming, it doesn’t cause her as much discomfort as it did. Deborah tells herself the meds can only help her feel better, and this way, she can show Robert she’s willing to work on herself and isn’t losing her grip on reality like before.

  Flustered when she notices the drapes and windows are wide open, Deborah asks Alice if she can shut them.

  “Of course.” Alice waves her hand at the window. “Sorry. I was in here by myself and needed some natural light and fresh air.”

  Standing up, Deborah’s caught off guard when she notices a blonde woman getting out of a white car across the street and then tossing something in the trash. She’s wearing cutoff shorts and a tank top, and her hair rests on her head in a haphazard bun. Or maybe it’s intentional, Deborah supposes, since shaggy ponytails and loose-fitting buns seem to be a popular trend.

  The woman crosses the street toward her and stops abruptly on the corner. She takes a few tentative steps in the opposite direction and then, just as suddenly, turns around to pause and stare up at the sky. Her movements seem disoriented, as if she’s not fully capable of carrying herself upright.

  When Deborah shields her eyes from the sun, she notices the absence of a wedding ring. Alice is speaking to her back, but Deborah doesn’t acknowledge her. “I got the records from your last MRI.”

  “Soren,” Deborah whispers out loud.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  Deborah watches as the woman tightens the strap of her purse on her shoulder. When she twists around, Deborah scans the back of her shoulder for the defining mark. Instead, she sees artwork, some kind of tattoo, but can’t make out the image.

  Soren.

  Tears well up in her eyes. She can’t help herself.

  Deborah cups her hands by her mouth and hollers, “Soren, is that you?” Startled, the woman glances around for the voice responsible for shouting.

  “Right here.” Deborah knocks at the open windowpane. “I’m right here.”

  “Do you know that woman?” Alice stands next to her at the window.

  “Yes,” Deborah manages to choke out. “Please excuse me. I have to go.” Not bothering to grab her purse, Deborah darts out of the office and outside, but the woman is no longer standing on the sidewalk. She’s disappeared, almost as if she vanished into thin air.

  As she walks into a few different stores, Deborah hurriedly scans the faces of the few people she encounters, but none are the woman. Recognition lights up in Deborah’s eyes at a sales clerk she knows from church, but unwilling to make small talk, she abrasively asks if she’s seen the blonde woman. The clerk stammers as confusion clouds her face.

  Frustrated at her slow reaction, Deborah fumes a goodbye and storms out. The blonde woman couldn’t have evaporated.

  When Deborah is back on the sidewalk, she glances at the parking space where the white vehicle was parked just a few minutes ago.

  It’s empty.

  I must have the wrong spot. Deborah shakes her head as she paces mindlessly up and down the concrete, scanning for the white car.

  Clenching her fists angrily at her sides, she blames herself for not memorizing the license plate. A tightness wells up in her chest, and unable to breathe, Deborah rests a hand on her throat, reassured when Alice joins her on the sidewalk.

  “Don’t let me suffocate,” Deborah manages to whisper.

  Gingerly, Alice takes Deborah’s elbow and walks her back inside the office, where the window and drapes are now closed.

  “I think I have heatstroke,” Deborah confesses, sinking into the couch.

  “I think it’s a panic attac
k.” Alice hands her a glass. “What happened with that woman? Who is she?”

  “I guess she left.” Deborah gratefully sips the water.

  “You seemed alarmed to see her. And now you’re having a bout of anxiety,” Alice points out gently. “Did something happen between the two of you?”

  “She’s from my past, is all.” Deborah twists uncomfortably on what is usually a comfortable couch.

  “Do you want to talk about her?” Alice asks. “Soren, is that what you called her?”

  “Not right now.” Deborah brings a sweaty palm to her forehead. “I didn’t know she was alive.”

  Alice starts to ask a question, and almost as if she thinks better of it, she pauses with her mouth wide open. Deborah thinks she looks like she’s trying to catch flies.

  With a resigned glance, Alice shuts her mouth and settles in the chair. Holding up a thick file, she flips through the pages. “I got the record of your MRI back, and I’d like to schedule another CT scan.”

  Deborah is only half listening. “Is everything okay?”

  “I think we just need to complete the puzzle,” Alice says thoughtfully. “A couple pieces aren’t fitting correctly, and I’d like to make sure we have the most up-to-date information possible.”

  “I see.” Deborah leans her head back against the leather. She wishes she had a couch like this at the house. She’d surely be able to sleep then.

  “Let me ask you this,” Alice says. “How are you feeling on your meds?”

  “I’m still adjusting to them.” Deborah closes her eyes. “My brain feels like mush.”

  “Ah, we call that ‘brain fog.’”

  “It makes it impossible for me to follow a train of thought.” Deborah likens it to driving down a street and having it dead-end every time. Her brain merely screeches to a sudden halt.

  “Are you sleeping better?”

  “I am, but I feel like I want to stay in bed.” Deborah clutches the water glass tightly. “It’s as if I can’t get my day started. When I do get up, I have no energy.”