The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  Blinded by the pain, I groan, not caring when the pill bottle is released from my clutch.

  CHAPTER 26

  Deborah

  Deborah’s always been an early riser, as she was raised entirely on a farm. The work never ceases, and the days start long before the rest of the world begins to stir from their beds.

  She’s standing in front of the coffeepot, ready to brew her 5:00 a.m. morning joe, when she feels something soft rubbing against her ankle.

  Half-asleep, she assumes she stepped on a dish towel that fell to the floor, but then the object purrs.

  Dropping the coffee tin, she stares at her pregnant cat, Esmeralda, one of the permanent fixtures of the farm. She’s taken pity on Esmeralda by feeding her extra kitchen scraps, since her swollen belly indicates she’s about to give birth any day. Deborah doesn’t usually let the cats roam freely inside. She only made an exception when she had a mice infestation.

  “You little weasel.” She grins. “How’d you get in the house?”

  After stroking her fur, Deborah plies her with a treat to go back outside. She frowns when she realizes she walked straight out onto the porch, and the sudden realization dawns that both the front and screen doors are wide open.

  As she strides back into the house, an uneasy feeling takes root in her gut.

  Her eyes dart to the living room, which is in a state of disarray. The floor lamp is upturned, and the cord has been pulled out from the wall.

  Magazines and books from the top of the oak chest are scattered across the carpet. Most of their pages are now ripped and torn, as if someone purposely shredded them in a fit of anger.

  She walks through the downstairs, and with a sigh of relief, she sees that nothing besides that room has been disturbed.

  She doesn’t bother to check the upstairs, her blood pressure skyrocketing.

  Deborah fumbles for her cell phone, which is charging on the counter. Her fingers dial 911, but she doesn’t hit call quite yet, choosing to walk back outside first.

  Dammit, anyhow. She hates that a string of robberies has had no suspects—including her own attack—and with the nearest neighbor a few miles away, she’s worried that someone could be hiding in one of the outbuildings.

  Usually, she wouldn’t be caught dead outside in her old ratty slippers and housecoat, but the house feels stifling, and she needs a breath of fresh air.

  The sight of Sibley’s old car stops her in her tracks.

  It hasn’t moved, but the driver’s door is wide open, inviting her to seek refuge inside. A scented air freshener in the shape of a pine tree hangs from the mirror, doing little to cover the smell of stale fast food.

  Deborah winces as something sharp cracks underneath her flimsy slippers. It’s a shard of broken glass, the culprit a fractured vodka bottle that’s hiding halfway underneath the chassis.

  She screams out of surprise, her fist hitting the faded paint of the doorframe.

  She notices the key’s in the ignition, hanging innocently, a taunting suggestion that the driver intended to get behind the wheel, whether impaired or not.

  Disgusted, Deborah snatches it out of the vehicle.

  As Deborah lets her eyes drift to the back seat, she’s tempted to rifle through its contents, intent on uncovering who this stranger is: supposedly her daughter, yet all signs point to a different girl than the one she knew.

  Sibley never seemed like the type to make rash decisions like running out on her husband, not to mention driving on a suspended license.

  But what does Deborah know?

  It’s been sixteen years.

  But still . . . it rubs her the wrong way.

  Is the visit simply a matter of bad timing or a sly attempt to garner sympathy? She’s ashamed for thinking this way, since Sibley is clearly having a tough go of it.

  The middle console is empty except for some spare change and a cheap-looking black cell phone with prepaid minutes.

  Why would Sibley have a prepaid phone?

  Baffled, Deborah presses the power button.

  There’s no pass code on this phone, no photos, nothing.

  Only three names and numbers are stored as contacts. Deborah doesn’t recognize any of the three names. One is Wingwoman, another Nico, and the third Chuck.

  Stranger yet, there’s no Holden saved.

  Sibley’s an attorney and has to have more friends and acquaintances, not to mention business contacts.

  Tapping a finger on the steering column, Deborah realizes she hasn’t seen Sibley on her phone once since she arrived. Not to check messages, not to call anyone.

  Most people are glued to their devices, so why would she be any different?

  True, she could be using it out of sight, but something doesn’t add up.

  Maybe this is a secondary phone for work? Deborah hasn’t considered the fact that maybe Sibley doesn’t like giving her phone number to clients. Perhaps this fits the bill for when she wants to be discreet.

  Or is she really who she says she is?

  A movement catches Deborah’s eye in the upstairs window. The blinds are open, and she’s startled to see a figure standing there, watching and waiting.

  Just like back then.

  The shadow crosses her arms, and a moment of déjà vu throws Deborah back to when Sibley was a child, watching from her upstairs perch.

  But is it really her?

  That always reminded Deborah of Rapunzel trapped in a tower. When Jonathan would disappear into the night or Deborah would silently creep outside to be alone in the root cellar or the barn, she used to feel guilt at the wounded eyes of her offspring.

  The night of Jonathan’s death, Sibley witnessed the blood and mayhem and was forced to run to the neighbors for help because the phone cord had been cut. Then, though, her face was pressed against the glass as she watched. Now, there’s ample distance between her and the window, as if she’s part of a covert operation.

  Deborah pictures the guilty look on her face when she caught Sibley going through the cupboards. She’s about to call the contacts in the phone, but a prick in her foot causes her to cry out.

  Gasping in pain, she stares down at the slipper, once pink but now turning red as blood soaks the cotton.

  When Deborah looks back up at the window, the blinds are closed.

  Much to her chagrin, a curse word slips out of her mouth, and she limps back into the house to bandage her foot.

  CHAPTER 27

  Sibley

  When I wake up, I’m disoriented, and instead of feeling a soft mattress under my back, I find myself lying on something hard and unforgiving, and I’m curled up in an old horse blanket.

  My nose immediately wrinkles at the pungency of old hay and caked-on mud, and I’m rattled to find I’m in the loft of our barn. The heavy material of the blanket now clings to me like I’m in a hot oven as sunlight peers through the tiny crevices. The air is as still and immovable as in my bedroom, a sauna in these summer months.

  I haven’t been up here since before Jonathan’s fall out of the loft.

  As I slowly ease up into a seated position, my vision’s out of focus, as if I’m in the optometrist’s chair, reading the fuzzy screen from a distance.

  I move to stretch my arms, and the pain’s instantaneous, a searing more excruciating than a migraine. Automatically, my fingers go to my forehead to rub the tension, but they connect instead with a large bump, sore to the touch.

  No wonder my head hurts, I think. My splitting headache needs something to dull the pain, and I can’t conjure up why, the memories of last night a gaping hole.

  I rub my watery eyes and sniff at the burgeoning sweat from my armpits, soaked up by my ripped camisole. I’m surprised to discover I’m barefoot and wearing a pair of cotton athletic shorts that are two sizes too small.

  After unraveling myself from the stable blanket, I scoot across the hard floor of the loft. The roof isn’t high up here, about four feet, so I don’t have enough space to stand. I have to either
crawl or inch my way toward the unsteady ladder.

  In my childhood, this was my hiding spot when I was in trouble. Funny how I always thought I was outsmarting my parents by choosing to hunker down here, as if they didn’t know it existed.

  With a shaky grip, I drag the horse blanket down the rickety ladder, my eyes focused on each rung instead of the missing slats. My father built a wooden railing to act as a safety guard after a neighbor boy broke his arm at my seventh birthday party when he was roughhousing with another kid. The irony isn’t lost on me that it failed to save him.

  But after my father’s drunken antics, it was never replaced. Now just a few jagged boards remain. I keep my eyes from glancing down at the asphalt floor, where a concave indentation marks the place he took his last breaths. His toxicology results indicated he was at three times the legal limit when he splintered the railing.

  Hanging the heavy blanket back up on the hook in the tack room takes skill, and as I try and throw it awkwardly over the metal hook, my elbow jams into the wall, and I keel over in pain.

  An old chest rests against the wall, and when I sink down onto it to cradle my sore arm, a rough board catches the back of my flimsy tank.

  Irked, I grudgingly stand up and try to maneuver the heavy old wood away from the wall. I’m only able to manage a couple inches, but what it uncovers has my whole body tingling from shock.

  A firearm rests not so innocently on its side.

  A wave of dizziness overcomes me, and I’m scared to touch the gun, let alone move it.

  My mother mentioned a gun was used to strike her. What if this was used in her assault?

  I open the chest, figuring that there might be a rag or something I can wrap the gun in so as not to disturb any usable fingerprints. I want the police to catch her attacker. Regardless of our past, I’d never wish harm upon her.

  Some might believe in an eye for an eye, but not me.

  I find a couple of old ratty towels, and my hands shake as I gently use one to wrap up the gun. I look underneath the fabric and am astonished to see old photo albums and yearbooks from my parents’ own respective childhoods.

  This is exactly what I was hoping to find.

  I sink down onto the dusty floor and flip through pages of my mother’s yearbooks, examining each name and picture. A couple of Edwards jump out at me, and I repeat their names aloud as a memorization tactic so I can look them up later.

  But at the end of the yearbook are the larger senior photos, and when my eyes fall on one of them, it’s not even a question. We share an uncanny resemblance: the same light-colored hair, smidgen of freckles, and bright-blue eyes. This has to be him.

  My finger presses on his face. Edward Pearson.

  I’m about to close it when a gauzelike piece of paper comes loose from the back of the book, where it was tucked between the last page and the binding. The faded handwriting belongs to my mother, so timeworn it seems it could crumble from the slightest mishandling.

  Silently reading it, I’m startled when a shriek pierces the dead air.

  Realizing it’s my mother’s voice calling my name, I hesitate. I could go outside and give myself away, but I’m not ready to face her yet. A heaviness weighs on my heart as tears stream down my cheeks from what I’ve become privy to. This diary entry or letter is unaddressed, so it’s unclear if she’s writing to someone. Even though my mother only has a high school education, she’s able to articulate her grief-stricken feelings.

  It’s from 1986.

  This is the last time I will write.

  He pretended to be excited at first and said he made an appointment for me to get checked by a doctor. I was surprised because he’s been so cold and distant, but I thought maybe he changed his mind. I should’ve known better.

  The appointment he made was to a clinic a few hundred miles away so no one would know. He told me point-blank I was having a procedure done. He said I’m not fit to be a mother, and it would be Satan’s spawn. When he pulled up to the front, he told me to go inside, and he would park and be right in, but he never showed. Instead, he disappeared. I didn’t know what to do after he drove off. I went in alone and came out alone.

  I wasn’t sure if he would come back for me. The nurse took pity and let me sit in the waiting room until he finally showed up a few hours later, drunk and cursing loudly. I had to fight with him to get him to let me drive us home. I want to tell my mother, but I’m scared.

  But I just wanted to let you know, it’s over now.

  Forever yours, Dee

  A tear slides from my cheek onto the flimsy paper, and swiping it, I watch as a few of the words run on the page. Smeared, just like my family’s reputation.

  I’m horrified and wholly confused at the agony of what happened to my mother. So Jonathan didn’t want me, whether I was his blood or not?

  Or was this Edward the one who pushed her to get rid of me? Maybe he didn’t want a child, and it wasn’t until later that he had a change of heart. He must’ve had a good reason for not wanting my mother and me to be part of his life at the beginning. Or maybe it was perspective—there’s a big difference between a fetus and a teenager.

  If he was married and I was conceived during their affair, it would be understandable, though not admirable, that he would step back from Deborah.

  I’m torn between the father I had growing up and the father who abandoned me before birth. It’s a lot to accept.

  To his credit, Jonathan never acted like he resented me. I spent most of my time outdoors with him, his little helper. I would’ve felt the tension, the same as the hostility I felt between him and my mother. I rarely heard them fight, but unspoken words were often exchanged between them.

  Thinking about his dedication to me, I slap the old chest in disappointment. Why wasn’t I reason enough for him to slow down on the bottle and quit? It’s brutal to realize your childhood was a lie and the adults might as well have been part of a scripted reality series, since they had their own secret lives and failed to be accountable for their life choices.

  Contemplating my disillusionment, I sit in stunned silence until heavy footsteps interrupt, their pace quickening as they get closer.

  CHAPTER 28

  Deborah

  After tending to her wound and making sure she didn’t track any glass inside, Deborah pours herself another cup of coffee.

  Sibley doesn’t answer when Deborah hollers upstairs, so she assumes she went back to bed. She remembers how Jonathan couldn’t function after a bender, and judging from the empty, broken bottle of vodka, Sibley’s going to need a dose of caffeine when she wakes back up.

  Careful not to put weight on her bandaged foot, she uses one hand on the railing to guide herself up the stairs and the other to carry the hot ceramic mug. It takes Deborah longer to ascend between her sore foot and limp.

  The door’s slightly cracked, and Deborah tentatively peers inside. A motionless lump covered in blankets on the bed doesn’t stir, and her sour mood tempts her to wake Sibley up to give her a piece of her mind.

  Deborah’s about to speak when she notices the area rug has been rolled back haphazardly and a pool of liquid is on the floor.

  Not bothering to knock, she tiptoes closer. A spilled water glass is the culprit, but her jaw drops at an upended board that reveals a cutout in the floor.

  What on earth? Deborah is awed. When did this happen?

  Not as limber as she once was, Deborah struggles to lean down and examine the hole. She doesn’t want to wake Sibley up, so she pauses a moment, heart beating in her chest, the mug trembling in her hand.

  Not wanting to risk burning herself, she sets the mug carefully on the dresser.

  After lowering herself with the aid of the wooden chest, Deborah reaches into the opening, her eyes on the mass in the bed.

  Her fingers grasp some type of fabric caught on the edge of the rough-hewn wood. Delicately she removes the material from the small crevice, and realizing the thread of the button is snagged, she deftly unta
ngles the thread from its captor.

  Deborah gasps as her eyes widen in horror, her brain slow to comprehend what she’s holding in her clutch, only knowing that it shouldn’t be there.

  Dropping it immediately like she’s been burned, she recoils as if it’s a snake ready to strike. She scoots across the floor and away from the floral-print fabric covered in bloodstains and charred in various places, but she can’t stop staring down at the impossibility of it.

  It’s a dress, the dress she wore that April Sunday evening, over sixteen years ago. She gladly watched it go up in smoke, or so she thought—all evidence of that night destroyed on the burn pile. There should have been nothing left but ashes.

  So what the hell is it doing in Sibley’s room?

  Up until that night, it was her favorite dress, but by the end of the evening, it was unwearable and bloodstained.

  She claps a hand to her mouth. That fateful day is burned into her memory, just like she thought the dress had been. It’s cotton, an easily flammable material, and is covered in large poppies of various colors, with a modest neckline and a few pearl buttons that adorn the front. Deborah never wore low-cut clothing or high hemlines for two reasons, both to do with Jonathan.

  First, because he never allowed it.

  But second, and more importantly, because the bruises and cigarette burns etched into her skin would have shown. Jonathan was sly, brilliant, always making sure to cause injury underneath Deborah’s clothing so it wouldn’t be visible. The smacks and verbal abuse happened behind closed doors or when Sibley wasn’t around, which became more frequent once she got to high school.

  On this particular Sunday, she and Jonathan attended church service while seventeen-year-old Sibley babysat in the church nursery. Their usual routine after church was that Jonathan would read scriptures at home while Deborah prepared the afternoon meal that served as both lunch and dinner.

  Deborah was grateful Sibley and her father shared a mutual adoration, even now that she was a rebellious teenager. She was relieved Sibley still seemed to bask in his glow. As much as Deborah was envious of their relationship, she was relieved Jonathan didn’t take his temper out on Sibley any more than most parents. Jonathan still disciplined her, but not with the severity or regularity he aimed at Deborah, as if her very presence aggravated him.