The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  My parents, though asked, rarely went to parties.

  This year stood out because of my mother and what she did. My mother didn’t go to many places alone, probably because we only had one vehicle, my daddy’s truck.

  This time, my daddy had to go out of town and pick up a malfunctioning part for his tractor. It wasn’t until I got older that it seemed weird we only had one car, but I guess I assumed we were poor growing up. My mother didn’t work outside the home, and farming isn’t an easy way to make a living. So many uncontrollable factors can come into play—the weather, crop prices, and crop production.

  That evening was the catalyst that started the downhill trajectory of my life. It might’ve been only one night, but like a destructive tornado, it ravaged our family and ruined lives and friendships.

  Not to mention it carried a health hazard—death.

  I remember that night vividly. I was upstairs in my bathroom, putting the finishing touches on my makeup, when my mother walked in.

  “Need any help?” My mother smiled at me.

  Setting down the eyeliner I used to draw the thin lines, I returned her gaze. “I don’t think so.” Twirling around, I showed off my black tights and leotard.

  “Your tail,” she reminded me. “Don’t forget your tail. It’s the most prized possession of a cat.”

  “What about the whiskers?”

  “What about them?” She put a hand to my face, almost smearing my not-yet-dry whiskers.

  “Mother,” I said crossly.

  “Let me attach it for you.” She used a safety pin to secure the long fabric tail in place. It was nothing more than black pantyhose stuffed with black garbage bags and shaped into a bendable limb.

  I slid on the finishing touch to my costume with a flourish, proudly staring at the headband with faux-fur cat ears. Giving my real ear a gentle tug, she asked, “Who’s picking you up?”

  “Kristin.”

  “I thought you two weren’t speaking?”

  I sighed at the thought of our tumultuous friendship. We would fight, go weeks without speaking, and then inevitably find our way back to each other.

  “We’re friends this week,” I murmured, though I was pissed because she had decided to do a group Wizard of Oz costume when we hadn’t been speaking, and admittedly, I was jealous. It was much cooler than my cat attire.

  What my mother said next blew my mind. “Do you mind if I ride with you?”

  “You wanna go to the party?”

  “Yes, I think so.” She nervously touched the cross pendant that never left her neck. “I never get out, and it should be fun.”

  “Will you have a good time without Daddy?”

  Frowning at the question, she stammered, “They invite us every year, and we never go. He’s not one for hocus-pocus and costume parties. He thinks it’s a holiday for the devil.”

  “And just think, you grew up with a preacher dad.” I smirked. “Did he let you celebrate Halloween?”

  “We could dress up. The church had its own fall party every year, so I got to trick-or-treat that way.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged. “Just promise you won’t embarrass me.”

  Most teens would be disgusted if their parents asked to ride with them to a party, but I was curious to see my mother in another setting. I offered to help her pick out a costume, but she was adamant she could find something to wear.

  When I barged in her bedroom a little bit later without knocking, she quickly covered up her body with a towel. I thought it was due to modesty. We weren’t a household that talked about or displayed nudity or sex.

  “You know better than to come in without knocking,” she chastised.

  “I just wanna help with your costume.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go,” she sighed. “I have nothing to wear.”

  “Why can’t you be a witch and wear your black velvet dress?”

  “It’s sleeveless.”

  “It’s not like it’s inappropriate.”

  She shook her head like I wasn’t understanding, and at the time, I didn’t.

  Sitting down on her bed, she put her head in her hands. I heard muffled crying, and I thought she was upset at missing the party.

  “I’ll find you something to wear,” I offered brightly.

  And so I did.

  While I rummaged through old boxes in our attic, she put her dark hair in waves, the perfect accompaniment to the long-sleeve hippie dress I’d found. We located a leather strap for her to use as a headband, and after we’d selected a couple of pieces of chunky costume jewelry, she embodied a flower child from the seventies. As I applied makeup to her face, I realized how pretty my mother was. She was young, only in her thirties, which was crazy to think about. But she never wore makeup, always went plain faced. Dowdy, even.

  Using the same eyeliner as I had for my whiskers, I drew a peace symbol on her right cheek.

  “All set.” I smiled proudly.

  She seemed amazed at the transformation, her grin as wide as her flared sleeves. Even Kristin whistled at my mother’s costume and whispered to me how hot she looked.

  It was true: neither of us had seen my mother dolled up.

  And more than that, I saw a different side of my mother, one I had never seen before. Instead of timid, she was glowing, her posture relaxed instead of rigid. She commanded the room instead of begging to blend into the carpet.

  When we arrived at the Halloween party, Miles and Bryce were there, along with their mom, Cindy.

  I noticed before I took off with my friends that Cindy didn’t seem thrilled to see us. Usually, she treated me like one of her kids, the daughter she never had, but as soon as we walked in, her face turned to stone, an impenetrable gaze fixed in our direction.

  We said hello, but Cindy was distant.

  I forgot about it, because later Kristin and her boyfriend, Josh, had a fight, prompting her to want to leave. She was hysterically crying, and since she was my ride, I told her I would find my mother so we could go.

  But I couldn’t find her.

  Kristin threw a fit, and I told her to go ahead and ask Miles or Bryce to give us a ride home, but she refused.

  I went in search of my mother, checking the firepit, knocking on the doors of the closed rooms in the farmhouse, and asking around.

  No one had seen her.

  Annoyed, I went for a walk, impatient to find her. The evening was chilly, and I was only wearing a thin leotard. My teeth were chattering without the heat of the bonfire.

  I should’ve brought a coat, I berated myself.

  As I headed down a dark path toward the silo, I became terrified when a shadowy figure came running toward me. At first, I didn’t know who it was, but the pink sequins of Kristin’s Glinda the Good Witch costume sparkled when they caught the moon’s bare light.

  “You don’t want to go that way,” she warned.

  “Why not?”

  “Two people are getting it on.”

  “So? Stop being such a prude.” I rolled my eyes. “Who is it? People in our class?”

  Breathlessly, she shook her head. “It’s adults.”

  “Let’s go see who it is.”

  “No! It’s gross.” She stuck out her tongue. “Plus, I thought we were trying to find your mom.”

  “We are.”

  “Then let’s go back inside. It’s damn cold out here.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to run back into Josh?”

  “Screw him.” She sniffed. “Now that homecoming is over, I’m done.”

  Though we walked back toward the loud music and sounds from the party, we didn’t go back inside. Kristin lit up a cigarette, and I could tell by the way she was chain-smoking one after the other, just like my daddy did, she was agitated.

  Josh found her, and now she wasn’t in a rush to leave, so they went inside.

  Bored, I sat on the steps of the wooden deck, trying to keep myself warm but not wanting to rejoin the cacophony.

  It was a full moon, an
d I was sitting quietly, the darkness enveloping me, when two shadows appeared from the direction of the silo. I was rubbing my legs for warmth, curious to see who the adults were who had disappeared to make out—or do more, I supposed.

  Assuming it was a couple, probably a friend’s parents, I waited, wanting to tease a classmate about this in the morning. The pair were close enough their shoulders touched, with one leaning into the other. I could tell by the way one arm was draped over the other that they were holding hands.

  They stopped as they got closer to the house, disappearing behind a large tree with branches that shielded them from view.

  The wood railing hid most of me, but I crouched down and hid underneath the deck, knowing they would walk right over my head when they reached the house.

  I peered between the slats in the railing, and when they entered my field of vision, it was like they’d become a different couple. There were at least three feet of distance between them, the earlier closeness either imagined or gone.

  My gaze was level with their knees, and my eyes widened when I spotted the knee-high brown boots the woman was wearing.

  They were my brown boots, the ones I’d let my mother borrow for her costume.

  And obviously, the man was not my father.

  I was frozen in horror. He wasn’t a stranger either.

  He smelled like spruce and the outdoors when he hugged me.

  It was Miles Fletcher’s dad.

  Horrified, I had no intention of ever crawling out of my hiding spot, preferring to curl up in a ball and die. I stayed concealed for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes.

  Numbness settled over my body. Some from the cold, some from the shock. My face, my legs, my hands.

  When I returned to the party, my mother was sitting on a barstool, talking to a blonde woman. I approached her. “Where have you been?” Even speaking sounded monotone. “We’re ready to go.”

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “I must’ve lost track of time.”

  Kristin drove us home, but Josh was with us, and I noticed Kristin was talking too fast and not making eye contact with my mother or me.

  When she dropped us off, her goodbye was forced. My mother didn’t seem to notice, and inside, I watched as she hurriedly washed the makeup off her face, all traces of the party evaporating from her pores as if she were Cinderella getting home from the ball, turning back into a frumpy housewife.

  I wanted to ask my mother about what I’d seen. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t force them out.

  The next day at school, my stomach dropped when Kristin brought it up at my locker.

  In a whisper, Kristin told me what she’d seen, how my mom and that man had been kissing and necking, their hands all over each other. But she couldn’t keep watching; it had felt wrong, so she’d rushed out when they’d started to undress.

  She promised she’d never say a word, and I believed her at that moment. I hoped it would become old news now that she had more Josh problems to talk about.

  A couple days later, after a fight over something trivial, half the school heard what a cheating whore my mother was.

  My contorted reflection in the mirror behind the bar causes me to glance up. I’m grimacing while Miranda stares at me with wide eyes. “You okay, darling?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” I shake my head sadly. “Memory lane.”

  “Yikes. I shouldn’t have mentioned that night.” Miranda blushes crimson. “You probably get tired of talking about all this old drama.”

  “I was just thinking how my former best friend and I had a falling-out then,” I muse. “Actually, both of my best friends.”

  “You know, Kristin wrote Deborah a letter before she died.”

  “Really?” I’m incredulous. “Saying what?”

  “I’m not really sure. Hell, it could be just another rumor.” She wipes a rag over the bar even though I’m sure it’s unnecessary, since the room is empty except for us.

  “You know . . .” Miranda sucks on her lip. “You should ask your mother about it.”

  I watch as her unreasonably long claws get caught in a strand of hair and she mutters a curse word.

  Taking this as my cue to cash out, I bid Miranda adieu.

  CHAPTER 19

  Sibley

  When I stumble out to my car and lock eyes with my reflection in the rearview, my face is drenched with sweat, perspiration clinging to my upper lip.

  As I drive, I warn myself to slow down. You’d think I’d be overly cautious because of my earlier encounter, but I’m in a warped mood, my foot pressed on the accelerator as the old beater lurches, struggling to gain speed. My only concern is outrunning the instability of the emotions that threaten to internally combust.

  I pass a rare sight on the road of another vehicle, an old tan Buick that’s at least a decade old but looks brand new. It most likely belongs to an elderly person who drives a few hundred miles a year and keeps it garaged the rest of the time.

  Scanning the driver inside, I realize it’s Nora, our elderly neighbor, who must be in her nineties by now.

  I debate whether to wave.

  She’s not going to know who I am, but it’s the neighborly thing to do. I can’t remember her without white hair and gnarly hands smelling of flour and turpentine. The woman always had keen eyes behind her spectacles and an insatiable taste for gossip.

  When I give her a shrill honk, I startle the poor woman, though she attempts a flimsy wave. I careen around her; my reckless driving has her behind me in a matter of seconds as I gain distance.

  I need to focus on something other than my jaded emotions, and flicking on the radio, I can’t settle on rock or oldies. Talk radio can be so dull, depending on the topic and the host.

  I find an alternative channel and drum my fingers on the wheel. It’s a song popular from my high school days.

  I try for the high notes, hitting my lung capacity, and then burst into laughter at my voice, a high-pitched hyena sound that never can reach quite the right note.

  Before I know it, I’m sobbing, my shoulders hunched over the steering column as if embracing it.

  When I pull into the derelict yard, I have to swerve to avoid one of the farm cats that seem to be in endless supply. Wiping a hand across my nose, I remember why I wasn’t able to stay in the first place. I don’t have a key.

  Most of the windows on the first floor are solid panes and don’t open, and the kitchen window is too small for me to climb through. I walk around the perimeter of the porch, but I’m unable to peer inside because the blinds are closed. Shrouded in darkness, the house has an ominous quality to it, even in the daylight.

  My mother’s bedroom and bathroom are on the first floor, the addition she begged my assumed father for my junior year of high school. He didn’t want to spend the money, but she convinced a couple of neighbors to help, and it ended up being a group project.

  In fact, after everyone pitched in on our remodel, my parents returned the favor for a few of the neighbors who were tired of their old farmhouses and wanted more functional rooms.

  The window in the master bath on the first floor might work. It’s not very wide, but I bet I can cram my frame through it.

  It’s locked, but I have a solution.

  I pick up a rock and toss it at the pane. It takes me a couple of tries since I feel off kilter and woozy. After winding up like a baseball player, I launch another stone through the glass, and it finally shatters.

  The sound of breaking glass can’t repress the acute feeling that someone’s eyes are on me.

  I stand in silence for a moment. Paranoid, I sneak glances around, barely able to see through the tall, dense grass in some areas.

  Ignoring the chill running down my spine and my pounding headache, I decide I’m acting ridiculous. It’s because of the news flash about the prison; I’m on edge.

  In the toolshed, I find a pair of thick gloves and a broom. After using the wooden handle to brush away the excess sh
ards of glass, I drag the metal tin over to the window to use as a stool.

  I’m sweaty and hot, and it’s not as easy as it looks on television to climb through a broken window without scraping yourself on shards. After I land with a loud thud on the bathroom floor, I toss the rock back outside.

  Staring at the splotchy mirror over the sink, I pry open the medicine cabinet. Inside is a miniature pharmacy, white and orange pill bottles lining the shelves to full capacity.

  Jesus, Deborah, I think, examining the labels. I wonder how carefully she keeps inventory or if she’d notice any missing.

  After I slam the cabinet shut, I step into her mostly tidy bedroom, relatively similar after all these years. Deborah’s habits haven’t changed when it comes to making her bed. I roll my eyes at the abundance of decorative pillows that take up a chunk of it.

  Her closet is still overflowing with clothes that are either too small or outdated by two decades. The unforgiving rocking chair that belonged to her mother rests in the corner of the room, and a fabric seat cushion is now attached, to make it bearable, I presume.

  Making my way through the small downstairs, I scrunch my nose at the smell of cat piss and coffee. Since when did she inherit an indoor cat? Feral ones used to run all over the farm, great for catching barn mice, but Daddy always warned us about feeding strays, how they would never leave. My mother had a bleeding heart and begged unsuccessfully to keep every one of them as a house pet.

  Mournfully, I study my father’s old chair, his existence made known by the plethora of cigarette burns forging a path down the battered leather. My mother tossed almost everything of his shortly after his death, but oddly, she kept his recliner and dining room chair, as if he still needed a seat at the table.

  But he’s not your father, I woefully remind myself.

  Scanning the rest of the small space, I’m baffled by the messiness. Pots and pans and silverware cover every inch of counter space in the kitchen. Boxes of pantry items are stacked on the scarred table and the Formica countertops. I assume the pantry is overflowing, but I’m amazed to find it scarce. It’s as if spring cleaning started and never finished.

  Disgusted at the dirtiness, I shake my head in alarm. I guess you have your first project, I think, ripping off the shred of newspaper clinging to the bottom of my shoe.