The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  I wait for the inevitable questions. She asks, “What brings you home? Is everything okay?”

  No, it’s not, I want to scream, but I force myself to say without much conviction, “Nothing in particular. I just wanted to see you.” I sigh. “It’s been too long.”

  Her face goes ashen. “I don’t remember agreeing to have company right now . . .” Her voice trails off. “A lot is going on, and it’s not the best time.”

  Her thin gold band is still on her finger after all these years, and it only heightens my resentment. It’s a slap in the face that she bothers to wear it after all that happened—along with the cross pendant, a paltry attempt to be pious.

  I swallow down my anger as we lock eyes. “I need to ask you about my father. About Jonathan.”

  “Can you excuse me?” My mother presses her fingers to her forehead. “All of a sudden, I’m not feeling well.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m dizzy. This is too much shock for one day. I need to lie down.”

  The vodka roils in my stomach as if I’m aboard a cruise ship in turbulent waters, and excusing myself quickly, I run to dislodge the contents for the second time today.

  CHAPTER 22

  Deborah

  Deborah goes to bed spooked and wakes up filled with dread when she hears talking in the other room.

  Oh no, she thinks, groaning. He’s back. He’s probably seated in front of the television.

  Remembering the broken window, Deborah slides into a pair of slippers, not wanting to risk cutting herself on slivers of glass. He must’ve crawled in the bathroom window quietly. How could she not hear his footsteps?

  Slowly, Deborah walks into her bathroom to consider the damage. Plastic is now taped to the opening, and broken shards are no longer on the floor.

  That’s right: her daughter is here. The sound is her voice.

  Deborah goes in search of her daughter to thank her for cleaning up the mess. Her appreciation turns to bemusement as she watches Sibley balancing on a chair in the kitchen, searching in vain for something. Her hands are sweeping across the cabinets like she’s looking for one of those secret bugs that people plant to spy.

  “What’re you doing?” Deborah’s mouth gapes.

  Sibley spins around and loses her balance. Grabbing the edge of the cabinet just in time, she manages to avoid a hard fall. “Jeez, Mother, you scared me!”

  “I shouldn’t have to announce my presence in my own home.” Deborah tries for a tight smile, but it comes off as a grimace. “Do I need to put a bell on you so I know what you’re up to?”

  “Of course not.” Sibley wipes her hands on the front of her shorts.

  Deborah asks coldly, “What’re you looking for?”

  “Tea.” Sibley shrugs. “It sounded good right now.” They both know this is bullshit, a flimsy excuse. Deborah thought she’d be more skilled at lying by now.

  “I don’t remember you liking tea.” Deborah points to a glass container filled with various tea bags. “But if you did, it’s on the counter in front of you.”

  “Of course it is. Right in front of my face.” Sibley’s cheeks turn ruddy. “I was looking up instead of ahead.” She yanks a couple of tea bags out. “Would you like some?”

  Deborah shrugs. “I usually drink it at night, but why not? It’s not every day your daughter shows up unexpectedly.”

  “Yeah, right?” Sibley raises an eyebrow. “Still like it hot, even in the summer?”

  “Yes.” Deborah fixes Sibley with one last pointed stare. “I’m going to go sit in the living room and take a load off.”

  Sibley manages a nod.

  Deborah collapses into her chair, rubbing the drowsiness out of her eyes. Her daughter arrives out of nowhere and is already ransacking her cupboards? What could she possibly be looking for?

  Considering all the options, mostly unpleasant, Deborah wonders if Sibley is trying to catch her doing something. Was she sent here to spy on her? Maybe she’s going to plant one of those miniature recording devices?

  In distress, she doesn’t notice Sibley standing in front of her, a strange look on her face, tea in hand. Pressing a mug into Deborah’s palm, she sits down across from her on the couch.

  Stifling a yawn, Deborah notices the dark circles underneath Sibley’s eyes. “You look exhausted. That earlier nap wasn’t enough.”

  “I was driving almost nonstop for twenty-three hours.”

  “You didn’t stop?” Her eyes widen in alarm. “You should’ve told me you were coming. I would’ve picked you up from the airport instead of you driving all this way.” Then Deborah could at least have known when she came and went. She wouldn’t have come home to her asleep on her couch.

  “It’s okay.” Sibley stares into her mug, refusing to meet Deborah’s eyes. “I didn’t want to trouble you.”

  Deborah lifts her chin. “Where’s that husband of yours?”

  “He’s at home.” Sibley chews on a fingernail.

  “Still have that nasty habit, I see.” Deborah frowns at Sibley’s hands. “Where’s your wedding ring?” Its absence is puzzling to her. Deborah doesn’t mention she noticed the enormous diamond in the engagement pictures she found online after she heard about the wedding announcement, but not from her daughter.

  No, she had to find out from a neighbor who’d read it on her social media account.

  She was peeved. It was the same with Sibley’s graduation from college and law school. She did receive a Hallmark card informing her she’d passed the bar and joined a law firm.

  It hurt like hell, but she’d be lying if she said it had been unexpected. Deborah’s received sporadic high-level CliffsNotes along the way.

  “At the jeweler. I decided to have it cleaned professionally. No need to wear it on the farm.”

  “It would’ve been nice to finally meet my son-in-law.” Deborah knows his name starts with an H, but she can’t seem to pluck it from her memory.

  “Holden had to work,” Sibley mumbles.

  “Well, it would’ve been nice to meet Holden,” she says pointedly. “And you managed to make it.” Deborah chastens, “That seems dangerous, you coming alone in that metal trap with those tires.”

  Sibley leans her head back against the couch, closing her eyes.

  Getting nowhere, Deborah asks, “Is he still in education? A teacher, right?”

  “He teaches poli-sci.”

  Deborah stares at her blankly.

  “Political science. Holden’s a professor at the university.” Sibley’s voice squeaks. “That’s why he couldn’t come. He got tenure, so he’s thrilled.”

  “How wonderful!” Deborah says politely. “Good for him. And you, are you still a lawyer?”

  “I am.”

  “Was it hard to get time off?”

  “I was able to juggle it.”

  Deborah knows the farm’s condition has thrown Sibley for a loop, but she hardly owes her an apology. A lot of pressing matters have consumed her time as of late, and she’s so tired and bogged down.

  And today, Sibley’s blue eyes wear the same guilty cloak Deborah’s have worn for the past sixteen years.

  Maybe Deborah feels high strung because of the timing, skeptical, even, of her intentions. She hates to chew over the timing of Sibley’s visit, but she’d be remiss if she didn’t. It’s odd Sibley would show up around the same time she’s making a radical decision about the farm. Deborah didn’t expect her to come knocking at the door, certainly not without a phone call.

  Eventually, she would’ve sent a card with a handwritten letter inside, pouring out the feelings she’s kept bottled up because Jonathan used to throttle her for having them. It’s a hard conversation to have with your child, even at an adult age.

  And now Deborah’s moving on, tired of feeling exposed on the farm, a sitting duck, if you will. She’s ready to branch out in life. If Deborah didn’t have Robert, she’d lose her patience and will to live. Smiling gleefully to herself, she thinks that moving
on with Robert has a nice ring to it.

  Deborah’s biggest mistake was not fleeing all those years ago after the string of tragedies happened.

  Blow after blow.

  But she had a target on her back, and it was easier to grin and bear it. Deborah paid the price in silence with a backbone that was stronger than most.

  Leaving would’ve been an admission of guilt and would’ve caused more damage than staying did, though she couldn’t possibly have known it at the time. She and Robert made a pact to stay silent about what had happened the night Jonathan died. It was in everyone’s best interests, hers included.

  Sibley has no idea what she’s given up for her. She’s never appreciated the sacrifices, how unselfish Deborah had to be to do what she did, but it’s not all her fault. A mother’s job is to protect her children, shield them from pain. She didn’t want to let her know the man she put on a pedestal was a cruel monster, even if it meant staying silent.

  So both women have suffered and spread the blame around the same way you spread a thin coat of peanut butter on a cracker with a knife, stuff it in your mouth, and wonder why your throat has become dry and cotton-like. If you swallow the lies and half truths, they become toxic.

  Deborah realizes Sibley’s asking her a question. Meeting her daughter’s eyes with a blank stare, she waits for her to repeat herself.

  “Is my room the same?”

  “Yes. You’ll probably want to change the bedding, though. It needs a refresh.”

  “Why?” Sibley winks mischievously. “You have company lately?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “Do you see Fletch a lot?” Sibley asks. “Or his family?”

  “More than I’d like.” Deborah snorts. “Miles Fletcher told you he’s the next chief of police, huh? That boy is delusional.”

  “How come?”

  “Everyone in town knows he stole money from the officers’ union, but the charges never stuck. The district attorney decided not to prosecute, said the evidence wasn’t sufficient. Money and power always talk. All of a sudden, the money was found, and the paper wrote some long bullshit article about responsible journalism and fired the poor reporter who broke the news.”

  “I bet his dad wasn’t thrilled about that.” The Fletchers prefer to stay out of the papers as much as possible unless it’s for a worthy cause, like a charitable donation or a community service award.

  “He got off without so much as a hand slap.” She sniffs. “Everyone still feels sorry for him since his wife died. Did you know he married Kristin?”

  “I heard.” Sibley wears a pained expression on her face. “Could it have been a rush to judgment? Even though Fletch and I have differences of opinion, embezzlement doesn’t seem to fit his character. His brother, Bryce, would be more likely.”

  “Who knows?” Deborah shrugs. “He’s always been a wild card.” Snapping her fingers, she says, reminiscing, “Oh, don’t think I forgot when the four of you snuck out to go to some rock and roll mess. Or how one of the Fletcher boys broke your window to sneak back in the house.”

  A giggle escapes Sibley’s lips.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Sibley gives Deborah a smug smile. “I thought you two buried the hatchet, is all.” With another yawn, Sibley languidly rises from the couch. “All right. I’m going to go grab my suitcase and try to sleep. Wake me up if you need me.”

  Speaking to Sibley’s back, Deborah says, “I’m going to cook dinner tonight. This calls for a celebration.” Her words fall flat. “Anything particular you’re hungry for?”

  She pauses with her hand on the doorjamb but doesn’t turn around. “Haven’t had much of an appetite. I’m more concerned with getting rest. Maybe just a salad.” Deborah notices how Sibley’s hands tremble at her sides.

  “We need to fatten you up. You’re much too thin.”

  Sibley doesn’t respond, and Deborah hears the slam of the screen door as her footsteps trudge outside.

  “Sleep well, honey!” Deborah hollers a few minutes later, when she hears the stairs clunking as Sibley climbs them. After Sibley’s bed creaks upstairs, Deborah steps outside to make a call. Without saying hello, she whispers into the phone, “I’m not sure what to think.”

  “Wait. I can’t hear you. Why can’t you speak up?” Robert lowers his voice, which is tinged with worry. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m not alone, but I’m not in trouble,” she says. “But I think she might be. Maybe financially.” She recounts for him the concern about the missing wedding ring and the absentee husband. “She’s already looking for something.” Deborah huffs. “Maybe she’s got ill intentions.”

  Robert lets out a lengthy exhale, a habit of his when he’s processing news. “How well do you know your daughter?” he asks gently. “You haven’t seen her since she was a teenager.”

  Deborah bites her tongue. He has a point. She presumed Sibley had her life together; her list of accomplishments and degrees made her seem untouchable and superior. But she’s human. And Deborah’s certainly no stranger to making decisions that aren’t necessarily legal or respectable to survive.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know,” Robert says, brooding. “I guess all you can do right now is keep asking questions.”

  “But if I find out she’s using me or spying on me, she won’t be here long,” Deborah growls.

  “Exactly. I won’t let her hurt you again.”

  There’s a brief pause, and Deborah knows what he’s going to ask. She tightens her grip on the phone in anticipation.

  “When are you—”

  “You’re breaking up. Having trouble hearing—”

  “—going to tell her who her father—”

  Abruptly, she disconnects, and Deborah’s mind loops back to the farm and Sibley’s shocking appearance.

  An unsettled pit in her stomach makes Deborah wonder if Sibley is telling the truth.

  People don’t just reappear after so many years, out of the blue, without wanting something in return. The question is, what is it?

  CHAPTER 23

  Sibley

  Fully awake and stifling a yawn, I readjust my arms above my head for a brief minute as I open and close my burning eyes.

  Languidly, I crawl out of bed to stretch, reaching the tips of my fingers to my toes, twisting my body to release some of the stiffness from my cross-country drive.

  My headache has waned, content to settle into a dull ache, a reprieve from a pounding one. Before I head downstairs, I splash cold water on my dull skin. I run a hand through my tangled hair and brush my teeth, my mouth bone dry.

  Grasping the wooden railing on the wall, I descend the stairs. I’m amazed none of us have broken bones from falling down these unforgiving steps; it seems our ancestors preferred a steep incline to a gradual one. Old farmhouses were built with purpose and durability in mind, not comfort. It’s impossible to be quiet, with each thud reverberating through the farmhouse. These steps were the bane of my existence as a teen, rendering it impossible to sneak out.

  Hence the window incident.

  My mother is standing at the stove, her back turned to me. I expect her to raise her head in acknowledgment, but she’s murmuring words I can’t make out.

  She’s stirring the pot with a wooden spoon as if she’s lost in a trance, hunched over the stovetop.

  “Good afternoon, or maybe night, I should say.”

  Startled, she whips around so fast the metal pot topples, and she yelps as she catches the sides before it scalds her or crashes to the floor.

  Horrified, I watch as she leans back against the stovetop. “Mother, be careful! You’re going to burn yourself.”

  Her hands are raised in warning, gesturing at me to keep my distance. Her terror-laden eyes are what concern me the most. She’s acting as if I’m an intruder about to cause bodily harm.

  “You need to get away from the burner,” I admonish.

  A deer-in-the-headlights expression remains on her face, the apprehension
palpable as she holds the wooden spoon in her grip like she’s going to whack me with it if I get too close.

  “Mother, what’s wrong?”

  “Where did you come from?”

  Puzzled, I point upstairs. “I was napping in my bedroom.”

  “I didn’t realize . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t know you were upstairs, honey.”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “I just forgot, is all. I didn’t hear you come down the stairs.” She looks apologetic, her grip loosening on the spoon. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  I give her a questioning glance. “You didn’t remember I was here?”

  “It’s just . . .” Deborah pauses. “There’s been a rash of home invasions, and then the window was broken, not to mention January.” Her complexion wan, she whispers, “It’s a lot to take in for me.”

  “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll finish this?”

  “Sure, honey, but don’t burn it,” Deborah warns.

  Sinking into a chair, my mother covers her face with her hands, and at first, I think she’s sobbing into them before I notice the way her hands tremble.

  Not wanting to further upset her, I soften my voice. “What else is going on, Mother?”

  I don’t want to pry and tell her I heard as she confided in a strange woman her secret, but I selfishly want her to confess it to me, her daughter, the one person who should be privy to this information.

  And then what? I think. So you can go off on her when she’s in this fragile state of mind?

  Speaking of selfish—she’s the one who kept it from you all these years, my inner child says. She should be sorry, not you.

  Her voice is muffled. “I’m just wound up.”

  “What’re they going after? Money? Farm equipment?”

  “Anything they can get their hands on.” She sighs. “I’m just a little paranoid, since the neighbors also came home to a broken window. This was after church last Sunday, and the house had been ransacked.”

  “Let me get you a glass of water.”