“Do you feel depressed?”
“No.” Deborah’s eyes flicker open. “I should be thrilled.”
Alice waits for Deborah to express her emotions.
“My boyfriend—oh yes, I told you about him. Robert, he talked about us moving in together.”
“That’s exciting!” Alice says. “Congratulations.”
“It seems weird to say ‘boyfriend’ at my age . . .”
“Are you ready for this next step?”
“I think so. It’s just hard because I’ve been independent for so long.” Deborah bites her lip. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I’m super anxious about it.”
“Let’s talk about your anxiety.” Alice asks her questions, and Deborah tries to answer as truthfully as possible.
“Have you dated or lived with anyone since your husband passed away?”
“No. That’s another reason this is such a huge change.” She takes a deep inhale. “And my husband, Jonathan, we didn’t have the best marriage. It was rocky . . . it was always bad. It wasn’t a fit.”
“If you knew it wasn’t a match, I’m curious to know why you married your husband, then.”
“I didn’t want to.” In a tempestuous voice, Deborah recalls her former love. “I dated a guy named Edward in high school. We were very much in love, but he joined the navy and got his papers to go overseas.” Deborah is always surprised at the emotion she conjures up when she thinks of this. Alice must notice her discomfort, because Deborah feels a tissue pressed into her hand.
“My father, being a preacher, didn’t like the idea of me moving to different military bases or leaving our hometown and his watchful eye, regardless if it was for a good cause like serving our country.”
She dabs at the crease of her eyelid. “Unbeknownst to me, my father forced Edward to break up with me on a visit home.”
“How did that make you feel?”
Deborah wonders if Alice has been listening. “I felt like my heart had been yanked out with pliers.”
“So when did your husband come into the picture?”
“Not long after. My parents forced me to attend a singles mixer at the church. They said Jonathan was a God-fearing fellow, would make a good husband, and had farming in his blood. Marriage was the furthest thing from my mind at the time. Except . . .”
Deborah inhales a sharp breath. “I found out I was a couple months pregnant after I met Jonathan, except it wasn’t his. I thought I was depressed, since I was tired and moody all the time. I blamed it on missing Edward, but my mother made me take a test. When it came back positive, she forbade me from telling Jonathan or my father since I was ‘used goods,’ and certainly Jonathan wouldn’t want to marry me.” Deborah chuckles. “And she would’ve been right. When Jonathan asked my father’s permission, my mother told me I didn’t have a choice, that we had to act fast to pass the child off as his, and six weeks after we met, we were married in my parents’ backyard.
“I was absolutely devastated, and I missed Edward like crazy,” she admits. “I cried through the wedding and the awkward lovemaking, but he thought it was from inexperience. It was painful; he just didn’t know it was the heartbreak kind.”
She recounts with a deep sadness, “I found out later Edward sent letters, but my father ripped them up and burned them. At least that’s what my mama told me before she died.”
“Is that what you meant when you said”—Alice consults the notepad—“that your father could be ‘cunning’?”
“Yes.” Deborah crumples the tissue in her hand. “After Jonathan and I sat down with my parents and announced we were having a baby, my father cornered me a couple weeks later.” Deborah drops her face into her hands. “He wanted me to . . .”
Alice stares at her intently, intrigue written all over her face, the pen dangling in her hand. Then the beeping of her watch interrupts the high tension in the room.
CHAPTER 17
Sibley
Even though I’m dead tired, I can’t seem to get comfortable tilting my seat back for a nap. The back seat isn’t any better, my muscles frazzled with tension and nervous energy. Disturbed by the eyesore in front of me and a grumbling stomach, I decide to return to town, grab some food, and stock up on supplies.
I’m craving the local diner and some hometown food. The Freeze was the only hot spot in town when I was growing up, the celebratory place to go after home games and a popular date hangout. A small diner located at the edge of the town square, it’s known for its fried food and prizewinning homemade pie and ice cream. Black-and-white tiled floors, a jukebox, and red leather booths take you back to an earlier era.
Before I eat, I decide to go to the gas station and stock up on liquor, then go through the drive-through. We only have two gas stations in town, and I pick the closest to the diner. The cashier is on a personal call and doesn’t pay much attention to the few liters of vodka I pick up, along with soda water and orange juice to use as chasers.
As I’m waiting at the drive-through, I do everything to ignore the intense craving that’s causing tremors throughout my body.
Humming along to music, I play a word game on my phone, but the incessant voice doesn’t refrain from berating me about what a loser I am.
I ignore the internal bully so I can eat my food. After swallowing the last greasy bite of my burger, I decide it can’t hurt to have a couple of sips of my new purchase before I head back to the farm. It’ll mellow me out and help me sleep. And if the inside of the house is as chaotic as the outside, I might want to get a hotel. You can’t afford to stay in even cheap motels, I remind myself, opening the bottle.
A large swallow burns down my throat, and I hope it stops the headache building behind my temples.
In the side mirror, I notice a rusted-out Ford hanging a left at the stop sign.
It looks identical to my mother’s ancient beater. It was old then, and by now, I’d have thought she’d have upgraded, what with all the money she inherited from my daddy.
Thinking about this, I get heated, and wiping a frustrated hand across my brow, I watch her turn past a cluster of brick buildings on the square, then disappear from sight.
She didn’t give me one dime.
Thinking about the farm and my deep-seated hatred toward my mother, I continue to take generous sips. Before I realize it, I’ve successfully emptied a third of the bottle.
After opening my car door, I carefully climb out and throw my empty paper bags in the trash can. I consider driving back to the farm, but without a way to enter, what’s the point? Even if my mother is running errands and isn’t ready to go back home, she can give me the key so I can go lie down.
I’m starting to feel unwell, the sun beating down as I make my way across the street.
Glancing up at the striped awnings, I consider where she would’ve gone. There’s a beauty salon on this side of the street. Maybe she’s in there getting her hair done.
If that’s the case, she could be a while, I think impatiently, the buzzing in my head growing louder, decibel by decibel.
A loud voice drowns out even the pounding, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. I turn around and don’t see anyone else on the pavement yelling or even talking.
Weird.
“I need sleep,” I grumble.
Pushing myself forward, I walk into the salon, but the receptionist shakes her head. No one by the name of Deborah has an appointment today.
Perspiration drips down my forehead as I fight to stay upright.
Dizzy, I ask the receptionist to use their bathroom. She gives me a curious glance as I pass the desk, my steps uneven and loud, or maybe I just imagine this when it’s really the beating of drums in my head.
After sinking to my knees in the pristine pink bathroom, I watch as the remnants of food and alcohol eject themselves from my stomach, leaving me with the taste of bile and salt.
Shakily, I wet a paper towel to wipe my brow and face. I rinse my mouth out and pop a stick of g
um, my eyes bleary and unfocused in the mirror.
I turn right instead of left to a red exit sign next to the bathroom and avoid the judgmental eyes of the clientele. I’m relieved the door opens to a back parking lot, and sure enough, there’s my mother’s car.
She’s not visible through the windows of the flower shop or dry cleaner. The next entrance is not glass, just metal, with no windows, just brick.
Curious, I look for a sign, but only letters are sketched on the outside.
DR. ALACOY is spelled out in bold black stencils, but there are no hours or even a phone number listed. It doesn’t specify the type of doctor.
My interest piqued, I try the handle, expecting it to be locked.
Surprisingly, it’s open.
Since I can’t see inside, I expect to be welcomed into a dark lab or something. Instead, the front room is airy and clean. There’s no reception desk, just a couple of chairs. The small area is uncluttered. A couple of paintings hang on the wall, but they aren’t drab walls; they are painted a warm blue tone.
I’m wondering what type of office this is since I don’t see a buzzer or a security camera.
Then, hearing voices echo from behind the only door in the room, which happens to be closed, I tiptoe toward it.
I feel like a snooping intruder, but I guess I am. I sheepishly lean my head against the door. There’s no denying one of the voices belongs to Deborah, my mother.
I’m not expecting her to mention my father, Jonathan, in her next sentence.
My breathing becomes labored.
Is this a therapist’s office, I wonder?
Touching the wood paneling of the door, I hear Deborah say, “After the wedding, he started using his fists, and I can’t describe the relief I felt that the baby wasn’t made up of his genes.”
Another female voice, louder than my mother’s muted one, asks, “Over the years, did you ever want to tell Jonathan the baby wasn’t his?”
“Hell no!” My mother raises her voice, sounding upset. “He would’ve killed me. And our daughter. That’s why I never left.”
Wait? What? I chew on this news as my brain tries to play catch-up.
My deceased father isn’t my real father? And she’s claiming to some doctor he was abusive?
Covering my mouth with my hand, I force myself to keep my emotions in check so I don’t fling open the door and unleash a tirade of anger on a mother who doesn’t know I’m here.
“And nothing more from Edward?”
“Not until we bumped into each other a few years later, when he was home visiting friends. His parents had moved away by this point.” Her tone softens. “And he asked me to leave Jonathan. I was devastated Edward had moved on with his life and gotten married.” Deborah’s voice fills with contempt. “To make matters worse, he got married to an awful woman.”
“He told you this?”
“Yes. He begged me to leave Jonathan, said he would leave his wife in a heartbeat for me.”
“Did he know then he was the father to your daughter?”
“No,” Deborah cries. “At least not that I know of.”
“If he was the love of your life, I’m curious to know why you didn’t leave?”
Deborah sounds like a strangled cat. “Even though he would leave his wife for me, I couldn’t leave my husband. I was a coward, worried about what Jonathan would do to him. And to us.”
“If not for fear, would you have left Jonathan to be with Edward?”
I almost suffocate myself during the long pause.
“Yes,” my mother finally admits. “If our daughter wasn’t around, easily. It’s a double-edged sword, since I would’ve loved for us to be a family and for her to know her real father. But I knew Jonathan would never let that happen.”
“Were you not concerned about breaking up Edward’s marriage?”
“Not really,” my mother sniffs. “Not really. At the time, he didn’t have kids. I know Edward eventually had children, but they didn’t live here.”
“When did Edward find out about your daughter and vice versa?”
“I believe when she was in middle school. She and I were walking around the town square, and I could feel someone watching us. When I looked up, Edward stood stock still, staring at his spitting image. I didn’t even have to say it.”
My jaw clenches. Oddly enough, I remember this moment because it stuck out like a sore thumb. In public, my mother barely acknowledged the opposite sex. I thought it was because she was a timid creature—a pushover. But this time, she ran to the car and crumbled into a tearful mess.
No wonder Jonathan never seemed to trust her or like her or this sham marriage. I saw how his eyes bulged with resentment when he thought no one was looking.
Now that I think about it, my supposed father was usually in the barn or the fields . . . avoiding her.
“Were you worried about Edward’s wife or children finding out about your daughter, that they had a half sibling?”
My mother’s response is too muffled to hear.
Another lapse, this time from the woman. “I don’t think you’ve said. What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Sibley.”
“When did you tell Sibley the identity of her real father?”
There’s a long pause, or maybe it feels that way because I’m holding my breath.
It’s like an explosion of fireworks in my head when Deborah reveals, “I haven’t.”
Not only is my mother a cheater, but she’s also a liar. I knew my mother had been unfaithful. I just didn’t realize it was more than once. Not only did Deborah have an affair, but she got knocked up and passed me off as another man’s child.
The once-effervescent room becomes suffocating as it sways in front of me, and beads of sweat form on my upper lip at the earth-shattering news. I’m not Jonathan’s real daughter, and my birth father is a man named Edward?
Who is he, and more importantly, where is he?
A deep pain jabs me deep in the heart.
There’s a rustle of tissue or paper, and I can hear Deborah’s pitiful crying as she acts like a tortured soul. Always the victim. Maybe Fletch wasn’t far from the truth.
I’ve heard enough.
Eager to flee from the admission of Deborah’s guilt and lies, I start to tiptoe away from the door. Unfortunately, my shoe squeaks, and I don’t bother being quiet. I start to sprint out into the sunshine, stumbling over my own two feet, a torrent of tears streaming down my face.
CHAPTER 18
Sibley
In the safety of my car, I drive aimlessly with no direction in mind, passing more storefronts, most empty—a reminder that nothing lasts forever—save for a pharmacy or a gathering spot to have coffee. It’s hard to have longevity in this town, and apparently, not even my “father” was meant to be a permanent fixture in my life.
Without a concerted effort, I park in front of a bar fittingly called Bar on Main. The other option down the street is Mickey’s. These are the only two bars I know of in town, and though they act like archrivals, it’s ludicrous to me since both serve the same watered-down alcohol by the same breed of bored bartender, listening to the same type of music repeatedly on the jukebox.
The permanently tired fortysomething woman behind the bar nods in greeting as I sit down on a squeaky barstool.
“ID.”
“Seriously?”
Her short bob nods up and down.
“Aren’t you cute, making me feel young?” I chuckle. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“The ones under fifty-five, at least.” She shrugs. “What’ll it be for your liquid lunch?”
Sliding my ID out of my wallet, I say, “Vodka cranberry, a splash of lime.”
After a quick glance at my driver’s license, she sets it down and lowers a glass off a shelf. I know I’m out of my bubble when it’s assumed well vodka is my preference. She pours my glass and serves it to me on a paper napkin.
Taking a long sip, I feel her eyes bori
ng into the side of my face.
“This is just what I needed.” The circumstances of the morning have weakened my resolve when it comes to drinking even more.
Considering me, she puts her hands on her generous hips. “Say, your name looks familiar. You from around here?”
“I grew up here.”
“Sibley.” She rattles it off. “Sibley Bradford.”
I hold out my hand to shake hers.
“Miranda.” She gives it a limp shake. “Don’t know that last name.”
“It was Sibley Sawyer.” I shrug. “You might know my mother from around town. Deborah. Deborah Sawyer.”
“Wait a minute.” She peers at me. “You lose your father?”
I nod.
“He a farmer?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah. I remember hearing that.” She taps a long talon on the counter. “Long time ago, right?” Without waiting for confirmation, she continues. “But those stories don’t die.” She pours me another round and slides it across the counter. “Where do you live now?”
“Arizona.”
“Your mom in the same house?”
“Yep. Still on the farm.”
“Is your farm by any chance close to the Guthries’ place, John and Nancy?” She huffs a strand of dirty-blonde hair out of her face.
“Not too far. They used to throw all the holiday parties.”
“That’s it!” She points her sharp fingernail at me. “That’s where I recognize you.”
“Did you go to their parties a lot?”
“Not often, but I was at the Halloween party that night.”
I almost heave the vodka and cranberry with a splash of lime back up, my throat burning like I took shots of Fireball instead. Miranda would remember that night my senior year. She would have been present. Why wouldn’t she? Everyone knows everything in this town.
John and Nancy Guthrie have two kids close to my age. They were notorious for their epic parties, and the Halloween one was quite the extravaganza, a yearly gathering with hayrides, a bonfire, and a costume party. Much to the disgruntlement of the youth, parents were also invited. If kids wanted to sneak in liquor, they had to mix it in pop bottles beforehand.
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