The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  “No! I want to know why the fuck—” He quickly shuts his eyes. “Sorry, ma’am, for the curse word. I’m at my wit’s end. Sibby.” He speaks softly. “I want to know what you’re doing home, traveling like a nomad in that hunk of shit outside, creeping into town. You abandoned us all, and now you just show up after all these years, acting like you have no qualms about making us worry about you.”

  “I didn’t creep,” I haughtily point out. “I sped through town, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

  “Why are you on the lam?”

  “You chased me off before, and you want to do it again.” My eyes burn with tears. “Damn you, Miles Fletcher.”

  “You know that isn’t what happened,” he says coldly. “You never could accept responsibility for your actions.”

  “What did you want me to do that night, Fletch?” I snap. “Tell your mother she couldn’t leave our house? Beg her to stay and talk to me? I didn’t tell the police to barricade our property, and I didn’t tell Cindy to drive straight into a telephone pole.”

  My mother shoots me a deadly glare. “The past has nothing to do with this,” she cuts in. “Stop avoiding the question.”

  “I had a car accident.”

  “That’s serious.” My mother goes still. “Did you go to the hospital?” She strides over to me. “You could have a concussion; I would know.”

  I put my hands up to wave her away. “I was checked out by a doctor.”

  “Was anyone else with you?” Fletch asks. “What about the other vehicle?”

  “Luckily, there were no other passengers, and I didn’t hurt anyone but myself. The other victims were concrete and a fire hydrant.” Shaking my head, I murmur, “I was upset. My husband, Holden, and me”—I’m doubtful Fletch will know his name—“had a blowout fight, and then I had some work distractions that caused me to be inattentive.”

  Fletch raises a brow. “So that’s why that dump outside isn’t registered to you?”

  “Yes.” I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood. “Since my car was totaled, I bought the Toyota and headed here.” I sigh. “It was so recent, and I haven’t bothered to switch over the title and insurance.”

  Neither of them says a word. My mother stares at the floor, Fletch at the wall, as I dart furtive glances around the room.

  My mother breaks the silence. “But I don’t understand why you would drive cross country on a suspended license.”

  “How does an attorney just disregard the law?” Miles slaps a hand to his forehead. “Oh, wait, you always think you’re above the law; that’s how.”

  “Don’t start with this ‘public servant versus civic duty’ bullshit,” I snap.

  My mother softens her tone. “Your husband was okay with you doing this?”

  Shooting Fletch a warning look before he spouts off about Jonathan being a domineering husband, I shrug. “He understood my reasons.”

  “Well, what do we do?” Deborah’s hands reach for her throat, nervously twisting the gold chain.

  Clearing his throat, Fletch directs his answer at Deborah because he knows I’m well versed in the law. “I’m not trying to be an accomplice to her bad behavior. Her license is suspended for ninety days.”

  “Are you going to have my car towed?”

  “Maybe.” He retorts, “You ran from your problems before, and things haven’t changed much, have they, Sibby? Running from the choices you make seems to be your MO.”

  “What’re you going to do?” my mother asks him nervously.

  “That depends on Sib.”

  “What are my options, Fletch?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Fletch says sternly. “Let’s go take a drive.”

  Keeping a stiff upper lip, I rise out of my chair. “Only if it’s to the nearest bar.”

  The two of us drive in strained silence to town. It’s as if we have to have a drink before we can continue our conversation.

  Mickey’s gets our business this time.

  Swiping his ball cap off, Fletch motions toward a dark back corner. I watch as he brings back a beer and pushes a vodka tonic with lime across the wobbly table toward me.

  The bar is relatively empty for the middle of the week. A couple plays darts in the corner while another group of women wearing scrubs looks like they just finished shifts at the hospital. Their incessant laughter is earsplitting, their conversation even louder.

  “Play your hand, Fletch.” I drum my fingers on the table. “What’s the price for your silence?”

  “Depends. I don’t buy you came home after sixteen years on a whim after a freakish car accident.” He wrinkles his nose. “They always say if something smells like shit, it probably is.”

  “That a pig joke?”

  “Sorry! That’s right: I forgot you forgot where you came from.” Fletch grunts. “I’m just worried there’s a deeper fissure somewhere. I can’t imagine any sane husband telling his wife to go ahead and drive thirteen hundred miles solo after she wrecked her car and lost her license.”

  I shrug.

  “Give me your phone,” Fletch demands.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” He gives me a mischievous grin. “I want to call this husband and confirm he okayed this.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I just want to make sure you didn’t come back to stir up trouble.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “No worries, Sibby.” He takes a swig of his beer. “I’ll call him tomorrow. It’s not like I can’t use my talent to find your hubby’s phone number or workplace.”

  I really want to flip the bird at him, but instead, I wave my bare left hand in the air. “Maybe, Officer Dipshit, your investigative skills should home in on why I’m not wearing a ring.”

  “I noticed it before.” He rewards me with a glare. “So what? You left it at home.”

  “If you must know, I pawned it in New Mexico.”

  He stays silent.

  “Tulsa, to be exact.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says with false brightness.

  “Don’t be. I needed the money.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not particularly.” I guzzle my drink down.

  “Okay.”

  “I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between us, Fletch. I don’t want to tell my mother I’m struggling financially and my own husband kicked me out,” I say sharply. “I don’t want her to worry about me. I’m just going to get on my feet and then . . .”

  “Disappear.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Per the usual.”

  “Why? You prefer I stick around?”

  “Not with that stick up your ass,” he grumbles. “Anyway, why’d your husband kick you out? That seems unusually cruel.”

  Blowing a strand of hair off my face, I say, “Because he thinks I had an affair.”

  I watch his stunned jaw drag on the floor. He resembles a cartoon character, and it’d be comical to watch if it weren’t about my life.

  “And it wasn’t just any old affair. It was with a client.”

  He leans forward, warily waiting for my next admission.

  My eyes unleash a torrent of emotion, the floodgates opening. “So not only do I not have a license, Holden kicked me out, and I’m stuck figuring out my life in my thirties.”

  “Hey, that’s not all bad.” He unearths a crumpled tissue from his pocket and hands it over. “We all have shit to figure out. There’s no age you suddenly become immune to problems.”

  “Thank you.” I dry my eyes and blow my nose. “And you’re right.”

  “This is some heavy shit.”

  “I know.” I sniffle. “I’m confident it will all be sorted out. Or at least most of it.” I sigh. “So where does that leave us?”

  “Look, if anybody asks, we never had this conversation.” He stares at me with his puppy dog eyes. “But you can’t hide out here forever, Sibby.”

  “I know.” I wipe a hand over my face. �
�I know.”

  He settles his ball cap back on his head when we leave and tips it when he drops me off at home. “Always a pleasure to see you, Sibby Sawyer.”

  I nod.

  “And Sibby?”

  I turn to face him. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t let me catch you driving.” He salutes me. “Or I’ll have to frisk you like I’ve always wanted to.”

  “You wish,” I say, rolling my eyes as I head for the unlit porch.

  When I knock on the front door, I expect to hear my mother’s shuffled movements, but the house is completely dark.

  Confused, I shake the door handle.

  For some reason, my mother left it unlocked. Probably for you, I remind myself. I’m going to have to ask her about a spare key. With all that’s been going on, it makes me nervous to think someone could walk right in.

  I swallow the lump in my throat.

  I’m guilty of breaking a window now covered in flimsy plastic, which isn’t any safer. If I had known she’d been attacked, I never would have pulled a stunt like that. Even if she lied to me about Jonathan. I’m not sadistic. I’m going to have to get it replaced ASAP.

  Inside, I holler her name again. She doesn’t respond, but I notice her bedroom door is shut.

  I drag myself upstairs. It’s time for me to retire to my room. So much has happened, and I can’t believe I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours.

  Restless, I pace the room’s length. I need to refocus my energy on something other than the cataclysmic change in my lineage.

  Anxiety causes the gnawing pit in my stomach to grow, gripping my insides with its sharp claws.

  I need to figure out who this Edward man is and how to find him. If he was so quick to shirk his responsibilities as a father, I might not want to know him, but I still have to apply logic where there isn’t any.

  And how could he be so callous to my mother?

  I never heard Deborah say he was married at the time of my conception, but maybe Edward was in a relationship or had moved on and didn’t want to dredge up drama.

  It should be easy enough to locate someone, but I don’t have his last name. I wonder if my mother has anything in storage that might give his identity away.

  She was so young when she had me; I bet he was a classmate. Unless he was from another school district, which is common with so many small towns. But if they went together, maybe there’s a picture of them at a dance or prom. First thing tomorrow, I’ll do some digging to see if I can locate any old yearbooks or photos.

  Fighting exhaustion, I’m a lousy combination of nerves and contemplation.

  Now that I’ve moved the red cooler inside, it’s safely tucked underneath a pile of clothes and toiletries. Right now, it contains the perfect solution for my current state of mind.

  With quivering hands, I manhandle the bottle out of its hiding spot. After unscrewing the cap, I drink it straight, not bothering to hunt for a chaser. It burns through the lump in my trachea and settles next to the knot in my stomach.

  I used to think I’d inherited my father’s alcoholism, but it looks like I can’t lay blame there anymore. During my college days, I started drinking to battle a combination of depression, loneliness, and isolation. As much as I’d wanted to disappear from here, it was hard being in a new state and not knowing anyone. It also helped numb the pain at losing him.

  By the second semester, I had flunked out, choosing to either party with my newfound friends or drink by myself while they were in class. After I got arrested for public intoxication and then, another time, woke up naked in a fraternity with no clothes on and no recollection of the night before, I knew my downward spiral needed to pause. I ended up transferring to community college to get my grades up so I could finish my bachelor’s. During law school, I managed to keep my drinking to a minimum, immersing myself in the law’s intricacies and studying, my new addiction.

  Until about six months ago, I was able to have a glass of wine or a cocktail and stop at one.

  But then I fell off the wagon, drowning in my unhappiness.

  And one became three, and three became seven . . .

  A loud roar snaps me back to reality, and staring down at my hands, I find myself in the darkened room, barefoot and sitting cross-legged, against my childhood bed.

  Swiveling my head, I realize it’s the sound of my mother’s tailpipe, clunky and choking for air. When I glance down, the bottle in my hand is empty, and my tongue wags in the opening for one last drop.

  I want more.

  I paw through my luggage but can’t find another bottle.

  In my lethargy, I’m trying to determine if I should ask my mother to take me to the gas station. I could pretend I’m craving something sweet.

  I could drink wine. Then it wouldn’t be a total lie.

  With a frustrated sigh, I search for my car keys with difficulty because I haven’t turned the lights in the room on in my impenetrable fog.

  After I give up that useless hunt, I hear the front door slam downstairs, signaling her arrival. I’m curious to know where she went tonight. I stare at the digital clock on the nightstand, and the red numbers swim in front of my eyes.

  Blearily, I rub them.

  Frozen in place, I listen for my mother’s usual bedtime routine, consoled on some level it hasn’t changed. For some reason, I find it comforting after all these years.

  The faucet creaks on. She’s washing her face.

  Then something drips; the pipes still leak.

  Her medicine cabinet squeals. Now she’s applying her nighttime moisturizer and lotion.

  Then one last flush of the toilet.

  Calming, like a bedtime story, it always has the same ending. My mother’s gliding into bed and her own dreams. She’s not going to leave me behind, only slip away for the evening. She won’t ever leave me the way I left her.

  I drag myself into bed and slide beneath my covers. I used to be a heavy sleeper, but getting to that stage where I drift off—that’s tricky. I’m at a point of physical and mental exhaustion and should be dead tired, which I am, but unable to get out of my own head, I toss and turn, the fitted sheet a straitjacket as it bundles me in its cotton arms.

  I’ve still got to acclimate to my new surroundings. I’m not used to sleeping without the air at a stable sixty-eight degrees, and being upstairs, this room’s stifling hot.

  This house was built eons before central air-conditioning was a thing, and window units are all we have, and for some reason, there’s no longer one in my room.

  Even with the window open, the outside air isn’t moving, as if it took its last gasp before it reached the entrance. My back’s drenched with sweat, my skin sticking uncomfortably to the tiny tank top I’m wearing.

  As I’m about to go downstairs and try the couch, the click of the doorknob stops my tossing and turning, and I lie motionless, wondering if I imagined someone at the door.

  A creaky hinge signals my imagination hasn’t run away from me.

  My mother doesn’t come upstairs much, and my automatic assumption is that she’s checking on me. The pitter-patter of uneven footsteps crosses the room, and when she walks over the rough floorboards, the hardwood gives a distinct creak.

  Pressing my eyes shut, I pretend to be asleep, like when I was a child and the tooth fairy would come to trade a few dollars for my tiny teeth.

  Her weight settles beside me on the bed, and the mattress sags temporarily underneath us. Heavy breathing makes her sound like she just ran a marathon, or maybe she’s overheated, just like me.

  I doubt climbing the stairs helped her discomfort.

  A hand reaches out to touch the back of my neck.

  Suddenly ice cold, I’m now the opposite of feverish. An ominous feeling settles deep in the pit of my stomach.

  The fingers creep down my shoulder, past the gift I gave myself shortly after my twenty-first birthday, a small tattoo of a butterfly.

  Signifying new beginnings, it’s a reminder of how far I
’ve come.

  Now the spindly lumps are trailing down my spine.

  A voice whispers in my ear. “You aren’t who you say you are, are you?”

  I try to flip over, but her hand presses down on my throat, cutting off my air.

  “What’re you doing?” I gasp, my hands clutching at her elbows. Using my nails, I scratch her as hard as I can until she abruptly releases her grip.

  “You can’t take her place.” Her weight shifts off the bed, but when I lurch after her, my hand grabs at the air.

  When I flick on the lamp, no one’s there.

  Dizzy, I run a palm over my face.

  Was that a nightmare?

  It had to be, yet the bedroom door is ajar. I could’ve sworn I closed it when I came in here. Yes, I’m positive. It was closed when my mother came home.

  Agitated, I take a sip of water from the glass on the nightstand, my heart rate through the roof.

  I pound down the stairs, a violent maelstrom with increasingly erratic thoughts. Missing a step, I stumble, and I’d have broken my neck if the wooden railing weren’t intact to catch my fall.

  When I reach the bottom with a thud, my nails trace the uneven walls to safely guide me in the dark through the rest of the house.

  Hell bent on confronting my mother, I don’t bother knocking on her door; instead I fling it open hard enough that it hits the wall with a bang. I expect her to be awake, and my mouth is ready with a slew of cusswords, but the vitriol disappears from my lips.

  I stare in confusion at her four-poster bed and listen to her heavy snores. There’s no way she can fake this deep breathing, and I reach forward to listen closer. Something smooth on the floor next to her bed rolls under my foot. When I lean down to grab it, I realize it’s a pill bottle.

  It’s too dark to make out the prescription name, so I cradle it in my palm.

  An object catches my attention at the edge of the hallway, and disturbed, I stare at something out of sight and blurred.

  I scream at the billowing figure as it approaches.

  Sure I’m witnessing one of the many people who have lived and died in this centuries-old farmhouse, I dart to the living room, running for dear life.

  Outstretching my arm to restrain the shadow running across the carpet, I find myself grappling with air instead of the clandestine figure. I manage to get tangled up in the cord to a floor lamp and dive headfirst into an old wooden chest that probably belonged to the same generation as this phantom.