She furiously shakes her head. “I don’t want payment. Consider this a favor to your mother.”
Shakily, I stand, my limbs as rubbery as overcooked pasta. “Even for the copies?”
“No.” She stands. “Let me go grab the envelope.”
When her ballet flats shuffle back across the room, I snap my fingers, remembering another question I had. “Oh, Dr. Alacoy—I mean Alice.” I cradle the envelope underneath my arm.
“Yes?”
“So you’re basically telling me to kill or be killed?”
“Well, I don’t condone murder.” Tilting her head, she murmurs, “I’m telling you to be careful.” Sliding her card across the desk, she says, “Even though I’m going out of town, if you need me, here’s my cell. If anything changes with Deborah’s moods, call me. And Sibley,” she cautions, “if you’re digging in the past or asking her to conjure up old memories, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s for the greater good.” She pats my arm. “Sometimes, what we forget is more important than what we remember.”
CHAPTER 43
Sibley
After I reach my car, I contemplate the jumble of words Dr. Alacoy mentioned. They spin through my head like it’s a turbulent washing machine.
Capgras syndrome.
The imposter syndrome.
Lewy body disease, possibly.
Inside my vehicle, I don’t even get the key in the ignition before the sobs overcome me. The idea of my mother losing her mind, piece by piece, is enough to drive me straight to the farm. I can’t leave her alone. If she’s a prisoner in her mind, descending into madness, she needs me now more than ever. In folklore, there are mythical shape-shifters who, through superhuman abilities, can transform and emulate other beings, whether by divine intervention or manipulation. And though I’m a believer of science and not sorcery, it’s as if another person has inhabited her.
I came home to sort out my own past, provide myself some clarity, and now I’m amid a Hitchcockian thriller.
I sadly wonder if it would be different if I hadn’t left all those years ago. Deborah has had a rough life, and I’ve only exacerbated it, whether I was in proximity or not. And I can’t take all the blame; so much was out of my control and without my knowledge.
An unknown number shows up on my caller ID, but I don’t answer. I’m not in the mood to talk. It rings again, so I shut the sound off.
When I pull into the driveway, my stomach is in knots and thunderclouds are moving in, signaling a shift in weather. I’m apprehensive about a shift in moods. I guess I will have to wait and see which Deborah I get today.
Will I be an intrusive stranger or a welcomed daughter?
I don’t have to wonder for long, because she’s barricaded herself inside her bedroom. I guess I have my answer. I sigh.
I search for my laptop and become frustrated when I can’t find it. Tempted to knock, I listen at Deborah’s door for signs she’s awake, but I don’t hear any noise from her television or sense any movement inside.
Exhausted, I lie down in bed and stare at the ceiling. The room’s now filled with weird energy since my last night sleeping here, when Deborah decided I was an imposter.
Thinking about what the psychiatrist said, I pull out the envelope I have tucked into my tote bag. As I read through the sheaf of papers in Dr. Alacoy’s handwriting, I’m struck at the similarity between her writing and someone else’s, but I can’t place it. It looks oddly familiar.
I hear a loud rumble, and thinking it’s Deborah, I sit straight up in bed.
It’s not, but it is a sign a storm is on the way.
Unable to sleep, I decide to take a shower, and after locking the bathroom door, I shiver as the water runs down my back. Carefully, I wash the wound on my shoulder. I remind myself to call Doc Marshall and have him examine it. It might actually heal on its own, though I’m sure I’ll have a scar.
When I pad across the hallway to my room, there’s a mug of tea on the nightstand, piping hot, along with some toast.
Deborah must’ve limped up the stairs to put them there.
My stomach grumbles, and I can’t remember my last meal. I quickly dry off and put some comfortable sweats on.
Even though the shower helped, I feel drained, and sitting back on my bed, I devour the tea and toast, almost burnt, just the way I like it. It alleviates one of my needs, and after my hunger is satiated, my need for sleep overcomes me.
Jumpy about leaving my bedroom door unguarded, I gently close the door and turn the flimsy lock before bed.
Later that night, I’m awakened by the sound of thunder booming outside my window—sheets of rain pound at the glass, hell bent on making their way into my room.
I’m groggy and disoriented; my head hurts worse than it would from a typical hangover. It’s like I’ve been drugged.
My purse and phone are gone, along with Deborah’s medical records. I wonder if they were missing after my shower.
And what about my laptop?
Perturbed Deborah would take my stuff without asking, I shuffle down the stairs. Narrowing my eyes at the clock on the microwave, I’m stunned it’s 8:00 p.m. already. That was quite the nap, though desperately needed after not getting any rest the night before. I feel bad for people who sleep in their vehicles and are confined to the cramped quarters.
I hear light steps, and Deborah walks into the kitchen. In a perfectly normal voice, as if nothing untoward happened last night, she asks, “When did you get home?”
In horror, I realize she might not remember . . . but maybe that’s not a bad thing right now.
“Late morning,” I offer, trying to discern her temperament. I scrunch my face. “But you brought me tea, and I never left again.”
She bites her lip but says nothing.
“By the way, what did you do with my purse?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“My purse and phone are gone,” I say irritably, “not to mention I still can’t find my laptop.”
Deborah fingers her necklace chain. “Why would I have your purse and phone?”
“They disappeared out of my room, and you were the only one in there.” I sigh. “Look, if this is payback because you blame me for the dress . . .”
Taking a deep breath, I focus on Dr. Alacoy’s words. The last thing I want to do is stir the pot and cause Deborah to become unhinged. I’ll look through the house myself. My laptop, phone, and purse have to be somewhere.
“I have no idea why you think I’d go upstairs today. My hip’s killing me.”
“But you brought me tea. And toast.”
“I did no such thing. We’re out of bread.” She looks at me like I’m crazed. “Remind me to get a loaf next time I go to the store.”
“I must’ve dreamed it.” I shrug.
“You’re probably hungry. Let me see what I can scrounge up.” She claps her hands together. “I swear, it’s like I go grocery shopping and then the food just disappears.”
“With one extra mouth to feed, I guess it must seem that way.”
“Uh-huh!” she hollers from the walk-in pantry. “This is quite the storm, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.” I stare out the kitchen window at the darkened sky.
“I found something,” she says triumphantly, appearing beside me with a protein bar.
“Is there anything I can do to help you?” I stare at the expired label on the wrapper. “Maybe go get you groceries?”
“Oh, that reminds me.” She waves a hand in the air. “Honey, can you do me a favor?”
Still staring outside at the inclement weather, I half listen.
“Would you mind feeding Esmeralda?” my mother asks. “I don’t want to go outside in this storm.” She groans as a flicker of lightning dances across the clouds. A couple seconds later, the rumble of thunder follows. The last thing I want to do is go outside right now, but I love a good rainstorm, and we get so few in the desert.
“Yeah, sure. Stay inside,” I say. “Mind if
I borrow a raincoat?”
“Should be one in the pantry.”
Shrugging into a tan jacket, I shove my feet into a pair of bright-red rain boots that are directly underneath the coat.
She hands me a bowl of wet cat food and offers me a flashlight. “I know it’s dark out there. You’ll probably need this.”
“Thanks.”
“Make sure you find her. She needs her strength. I know she’s gonna give birth any day now.”
CHAPTER 44
Sibley
As soon as I open the screen door, a blast of wind hits me straight on. The rain lessens visibility, and I’m forced to step into puddles that go ankle deep.
When I reach the barn, the lightning streaks the sky in a bolt of bright-white illumination. Inside, I smell mildew, since the roof and walls aren’t as secure as they once were; the floor is already damp.
I search for Esmeralda, but she’s either hiding or on the prowl.
Yelling, “Kitty, kitty,” I set the obnoxious-smelling fish-flavored cat food down, then pause to see if she will come running. She’s big and bloated, carrying a litter of kittens, and I doubt she moves at the same speed she once did. When she doesn’t appear after a couple of minutes, I grab the bowl.
Maybe she’s hiding in the toolshed.
When I can’t find her burrowed there, I head to the root cellar.
I managed to wrap the chain back around the door handles yesterday, but for some reason, the two doors are wide open, the dirt steps and sod walls naked to the elements. I don’t want the cellar to flood, primarily because of the number of canned jars of food that still need to be moved from below.
Hesitating as another flash crosses above my head in a zigzag pattern, I yank the hood over my drenched hair.
The metal handle is slippery as I grasp it for balance and climb inside. The loud crack of a snapping branch on a tree tells me to abandon my plan of searching for the cat and seek shelter back at the house. About to crawl out, I hear a high-pitched whine.
Pausing, I wait to see if I hear it again, but a boom overtakes any noise.
After the next round of explosions occurs, there’s another sound, similar to a yelp.
Then soft mewling.
Esmeralda must be hiding out inside the root cellar, but how did the lock get undone?
It was closed last time I came out. The chief said he put a padlock on it. Unless Deborah came down here for some reason . . .
I shake my head, and a resounding clamor causes me to jump.
“Get it together,” I hiss. But I recall the chief’s words about transients using it as their shelter. If someone is taking cover in the cellar again, do I really want to get stuck with a potential convict who isn’t going to care about my survival?
It’s an eerie thought, and involuntarily, I shudder.
The mewling now becomes more of a caterwaul, and I wonder if she’s about to give birth. I’ve tried to keep the cat food somewhat hidden under the bottom hem of the coat, but it’s a watery mess.
I sigh and take a deep breath. Just walk down, give Esmeralda her food, and go back. Just leave both doors open.
I give myself a quick pep talk. There’s nothing to be afraid of; the weather is just making you paranoid. You forget what you do half the time, and most likely, you got drunk and forgot to close the doors.
This won’t take long, and you can worry about trying to clean the cellar out when there’ve been a couple days of sunshine.
I remember the flashlight, and it quiets my nerves for a moment as I descend the muddy steps, the dim glow providing a thin stream of light.
My hand grips the hard plastic as I reach the landing, confident I’m walking right into a trap. A stranger will be waiting for me, an evil grin on his face as he gleefully hollers that he tricked me.
My heart thuds in my chest as I bob the light around the room. I spot the outline of my mother’s beloved cat. She’s lying in a sheath of blankets in a bin, and I’m relieved there’s no one else.
As she yelps at me, I timidly set the food down, careful not to touch her. She’s still a feral cat in my mind, so I don’t try to pet her, since it’s not like she’s had her shots. Worried she’ll think I’m trying to invade her territory, I soothingly tell her it’ll be all right.
I can grab the bowl in the morning. As I turn to go, loud slamming echoes above me. I don’t think much of it at first, assuming it’s storm related. As soon as I hit the bottom step, I realize I can’t see up into the blackened sky. Both of the doors are shut above me.
A scraping sound is followed by a click and a thud.
“It must be the damn wind,” I mutter, hurriedly making my way back to the top. Pressing my hands against the wood, I expect to push straight up without a problem. The doors are heavy, but not unreasonably so. I’ve never had trouble moving them before.
Neither door moves against my weight.
Grunting, I try again.
They are rock solid, as if held in place by something.
Recognition flickers across my mind in an aha moment, and the sudden onset of panic propels me forward. Shoving my fists against the double doors, I scream bloody murder, hollering for someone to help me, but it’s no use.
I start to hyperventilate, sinking to my knees on the wet ground, my ragged breath coming out in puffs.
After I count to fifty, I tell myself it’ll be no problem to get out, that I didn’t push hard enough a moment ago. The wind must’ve held the doors in place, like a vacuum that sucks in the air; something must’ve happened with the atmospheric pressure. I’m not sure if this is a feasible theory, but it calms me for a fleeting second.
Trying again, I casually shove the doors.
Then I lean against the wall and try kicking them.
It’s no use. The doors must be chained in place, the padlock secure.
I curse myself for not bringing my phone, then remind myself it wouldn’t have worked anyway, especially in this weather.
My mood changes in waves. I’m on the brink of hysteria and then exhaustion as I rattle and thump and pound the doors, my screams drowning out the scared cat, who must think I’m a madwoman.
Covered in mud, I sink to the floor, tears mixing with the residual water stuck to the rain jacket.
With a snot-filled nose, I wipe a hand across my mouth, trying to get a grip on my emotions. Warning bells in my head signal a panic attack is about to happen, the rapid heart rate and struggle to breathe apparent indicators.
“You can’t die from a panic attack,” I whisper.
I convince myself Deborah will get worried when I don’t return promptly. She’ll wonder why it’s taking this long to drop food off to the cat.
She’ll be concerned and come outside, even in this weather, and look for me.
But the most atrocious thought weaves its way through my thought process.
She asked me to feed the cat.
The cat wasn’t in the barn, where she said to go.
The doors to the cellar were open, and now they’re closed.
How did the doors get shut?
“But Deborah didn’t know you would go to the cellar,” I babble out loud. “She told you the barn. It’s not like she directed you over here.”
But she knew you wouldn’t give up until you found the cat.
No, she didn’t, I argue in my head.
The war continues in my brain until I must concede. The truth hits me like a ton of bricks, doubling me over in pain.
Deborah’s madness is taking over.
The doors were purposely shut behind me, locking me down here. Someone wanted me down here, and that person is my mother.
CHAPTER 45
Deborah
After she’s left for the barn, Deborah locks the front door behind her and then leans against it. She breathes heavily, and her eyelids flutter uncontrollably, as if she’s in a contest to see who can blink the most.
She gives herself a moment to stand unmoving, using the dense wood for
support. A pummeling on the opposite side of the door causes her to jump. It sounds as if someone is throwing punches.
Deborah’s hand moves to her throat.
She realizes it’s someone knocking.
Warily, she turns around.
Swallowing hard, she whispers, “Who is it?”
“Deborah?” a male voice hollers, and she doesn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.
“Uh, yes.” She wipes her hands on her pants. “What can I help you with?”
“It’s me, Holden.”
“Holden?”
“Holden. Holden Bradford.” His voice sounds strained. “I know we’ve never met, but I’m Sibley’s husband.”
Flabbergasted, Deborah smooths her frizzy hair, matted from the earlier rain. This is not how she pictured the first meeting with her son-in-law.
“It’s raining pretty hard!” Holden shouts. “Mind if I come inside?”
Deborah stares out the small kitchen window at the yard, now upset she’s let it get so overgrown and wild. What’s Holden going to think of the three-foot-tall weeds and the thick grass?
Not to mention her own appearance.
She stares at her reflection, and devoid of makeup, her eyes look sunken in her face. As she glares at the messy kitchen, her heart sinks. He’s going to be disappointed at the family he married into.
With a defeated sigh, she flicks the porch light on and fumbles with the lock.
She’s face to face with someone who shouldn’t be a stranger but nevertheless is.
“Hi,” Deborah says.
“Hi.” Holden reminds her of a drowned animal. His tawny hair is sticking to his forehead, and his tortoiseshell glasses are fogged. The light cotton jacket he’s wearing isn’t meant for rain; it’s soaked.
“Come on in.” She ushers him inside, where he stands dripping in her kitchen. Mud and grass stains cover the front of his denim jeans. His tennis shoes squish on the linoleum.
They stare at each other in awkward silence until Deborah remembers her manners. “Let me take your jacket,” she offers. “And get you a towel.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.” He removes his waterlogged jacket and hands it to her. Underneath his coat he’s wearing a T-shirt, and he uses the hem to clean his glasses.
The Imposter Page 32
