“What do you mean?”
“When she started calling into the station, I thought she was lonely, desperate for attention. I don’t blame her. She’s out there by her lonesome.” He sighs. “I told the other guys to go easy on her, just pacify her. I can’t tell you how many times we went out to the farm to check the premises. She swore a masked man was living on her property, down in the root cellar or the barn. She’d find items, but we never could locate the stranger or their stuff. One time, she said a drug dealer was living there and left his stash. We couldn’t find that either.”
“Is that why the root cellar is finally locked?”
“Yes. I didn’t want there to even be a question about if someone was using it as their hideaway. I get why she’s scared to be on the farm alone,” the chief discloses. “It’s not like her fears are unfounded. She was attacked, and then the rash of break-ins . . . not to mention, the prison’s her close neighbor.”
“Speaking of outsiders . . .” My cheeks blush at my impending question. It feels weird to ask an older adult about dating. “Have you seen anyone at the house? Like, is she dating anyone?”
Surprised at the question, he gives me a thoughtful glance. “No. I can’t say I have.”
“Nobody at church?”
“I haven’t been there in a while.” He smirks. “This job seems to take up a lot of my free time.”
I chew a nail, absorbing this information.
“Between us, this is an unpopular sentiment, but some of the farms are being asked to sell.”
“Yes, by eminent domain.” My jaw tightens. “I’ve seen the mail, and we’ve discussed it.”
“I’m no doctor, and I’m no expert, but this might be a blessing in disguise for her.” He throws his arms in the air. “But what do I know?”
“I disagree, but that’s a conversation for another day. We have a heritage farm, and that’s worth more than they could offer.”
“I’m not versed in what that is, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve been doing some research, and farms that have over forty acres and are over a hundred fifty years old have different stipulations and rights than your average farm.”
“Interesting.” He steeples his fingers. “Makes sense, though.”
“Speaking of relics,” I tease, “are you gonna stay in town after you retire and the young’un Miles Fletcher takes over the force?”
“Hardly. Though he can deal with the uptick in crime.”
A knock on the door interrupts us, and it’s another police officer, one I don’t recognize. The chief nods at him, slapping a hand on the desk. “I guess this means I should go help Officer Dudley.”
I brush myself off and stand up, giving him a small smile. We part the same way we greeted, with a tight hug and a chaste kiss on the cheek. I sniff at the lingering scent of him, the familiarity.
“And Sibley,” he whispers in my ear, “take it easy on your mom. She’s had a hard go of it.” I nod as he pushes me gently toward the door, following behind me. He motions me toward the exit, staying behind to talk to Officer Dudley, a baby-faced but serious-looking cop.
After I reach the only open convenience store, I grab a varied supply of drinks and take long swigs on the way to the diner. When I arrive back home, I park my beater in the same spot at the farm and tear into the opened bottle. Even though vodka doesn’t have an odor, paranoia sets in, and I pop a breath mint. I chew and swallow the wintergreen tablet before walking into the house.
My mother doesn’t cower when I walk in; her eyes are fixated on something on the ceiling. Her empty plate still rests in front of her, and she hasn’t changed position, her arms tucked next to her sides.
I wonder what she’s staring at, as I don’t detect anything usual.
Not wanting to startle her after our earlier altercation, I say her name before setting down the paper sack of ice cream in front of her.
She looks at the bag. “How’s Holden doing?”
Having forgotten about what I said earlier, I quickly feign disappointment. “He didn’t answer. I left a voice mail telling him to call me.”
Mouth drawn in a tense line, she doesn’t reply. When she doesn’t move to open the sack, I do and hand her a cup of ice cream and a plastic spoon. “Flavor of the day is blueberry streusel.”
After removing the plastic lid, she delicately takes a small bite.
“This is delicious.” She closes her eyes for a moment as if savoring the taste. “The best cows make the best milk make the best ice cream.”
I giggle at the phrase I used to say as a child after my elementary school class toured a dairy farm.
“If you don’t mind me asking”—my mother licks her spoon—“what was your blowup fight with Holden before you came home about?”
“How we spend our time. Our money.” I shrug. “The usual marital dissatisfaction.” This gives me an opening to ask about her love life and disprove Fletch’s statement that she was involved with a make-believe man. “So why haven’t you ever gotten remarried, Mother?”
“I don’t know. I guess it didn’t suit me.”
“But you never date, or at least”—I fumble with my words—“you didn’t at the beginning.”
“I had enough to deal with at the time.” Her mouth twists into a small smile. “And how would you know, anyway? Maybe recently I have met someone.”
“You’re dating?” I screech. “Did you meet up with them the other night?”
She rewards me with a shrug and an impish grin.
“I don’t want to cramp your style.” I laugh. “But I’m curious to meet them.”
“Whoa! Slow down, Sibley.” She holds a hand up. “Maybe one day soon.”
“Where’d you meet this new man?”
“We go way back.”
“Can I have any more details?” I wink at her. “You’re playing coy.”
“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”
My mood immediately sours. Maybe the truth serum effect of the alcohol is rearing its ugly head, but I blurt out, “Is it Edward Pearson?” It’s time to test the waters regarding my real father.
My mother looks like I slapped her. “Where did you hear that name?” She glowers at me.
I shrug. “You guys have history together. An affair to remember, I guess you could say.”
“Why would you even insinuate that?” She stands up so fast the table rattles. With a disappointed headshake, she limps toward her recliner in the living room.
I know I’m being cruel, but I can’t help myself.
I came home to reconcile myself with my past, not find out I have an entirely different one.
CHAPTER 32
Deborah
Later that night, Deborah’s sitting in the darkened living room when Sibley stumbles in, reeking of perfume. She doesn’t smell drunk, but she acts it.
Sibley almost trips over her foot, and Deborah hears her growl at what she thinks is Esmeralda but is really Deborah’s furry slipper.
“Shit.” Sibley grasps the sideboard. “Mother,” she asks, “why’re you sitting in the dark? You scared the shit out of me.”
“I was doing some thinking.”
“Okay.” Sibley slurs her words. “What about?”
“Your father.” Deborah’s voice is laced with sadness. “Your biological father. Edward Pearson. You asked before, so I’ll tell you now.”
There it is, out on the table, the bomb dropped straight onto a platter and served up so casually. Deborah’s surprised when Sibley doesn’t bat an eye but instead fumbles onto the couch. “This should be good. But can you just drop the act?” Sibley points to Deborah’s ring finger. “How much longer are you going to keep up the charade?”
With a nod, Deborah removes her thin gold band with finality and lets it fall to the carpet. “I don’t know why I’ve kept this on all these years. Guilt, I suppose.”
“Why guilt?”
“Because I couldn’t change him.” Deborah sighs. “Or make him better. Or s
ave him.”
“I figured it was for appearances’ sake,” Sibley says. “Your dedication to his memory.”
“I prefer to memorialize your real father, Edward.”
“Why didn’t he want you to have me?”
“He didn’t know about you,” Deborah says, leaning forward. “He didn’t have a choice. My father made sure of that.”
“Grandpa?”
“Uh-huh.” Deborah sighs. “He confiscated the letters I wrote telling Edward I was pregnant.”
“So it was Jonathan that didn’t want me?”
“Where did you get that piece of nonsense?” Deborah shakes her head in exasperation. “No one wanted me to have an abortion, Sibley.”
“You’re lying again! I found a journal or letter you wrote where you talk about being dropped off at a clinic against your will!”
Deborah’s eyes cloud with tears, her tone dismal. “That’s not exactly what happened.” Sibley waits for her to continue. “Yes, my father wanted me to have an abortion. I didn’t end up going through with it, obviously.”
“Wait! It’s Grandpa that didn’t want you to have me?” Sibley’s shell shocked. “Do you think he would’ve changed his opinion if he had seen what Jonathan did?”
“He did know, Sib.” Deborah is forlorn. “But it was too late. After he married us, he watched Jonathan slam my head into a wall after church one Sunday when we were alone in the church office.”
Sibley’s eyes widen in alarm.
“He was terrified Jonathan would find out you didn’t belong to him. The reason he was so upset when he found out I was pregnant was he knew it would be an automatic death sentence. In his mind, he thought he was saving my life—father to daughter. As twisted as it sounds”—Deborah gazes stiffly at her—“I understand now. That’s why he took me to the clinic. It was never out of anger against Edward like I thought. My mother told me the truth after my father died, and it breaks my heart, especially since I hated him up until the day he died.”
Sibley chomps hard on her nail, her eyes never leaving Deborah’s.
“He took me to the farthest clinic so none of the neighbors would find out. He was drunk as a skunk when he came to pick me up, which was out of character. His words were all garbled, just like yours are now. Your grandpa only drank communion wine.” Deborah shudders at the terrible memory. “I had to drive us back home. Speaking of life-changing events,” Deborah asks, “do you remember the night of the Halloween party?”
“How could I forget?” Sibley gnaws on her nail. “I saw you with Fletch’s dad that evening. I was outside when you two came strolling up the walk together, holding hands.”
Deborah swallows. “We weren’t exactly holding hands. I mean, we were, but . . .”
Exasperated, Sibley exhales. “When are you ever going to tell me the truth?”
“I told you I went to him for help,” Deborah murmurs. “He was trying to help me leave.”
“Were you going to leave just Jonathan or both of us?”
“Why would I leave you?” Deborah huffs. “Only Jonathan.”
“Why was it so hard?” Sibley slurs her words. “Is it because you weren’t capable of holding down a job?”
“How can you say that?” Deborah retorts. “I wanted to work outside the home. Jonathan forbade it. He wouldn’t let me have a vehicle. He wanted me completely dependent on him so I couldn’t leave.”
Sibley goes eerily silent.
“Since the Fletchers were neighbors, I drunkenly confided in Robert Fletcher one night when Jonathan and Cindy were out of earshot that I wanted to leave Jonathan. When he confronted me about it later on, I denied it at first, but eventually, I told him I had to. And before you ask why I didn’t ask Cindy for help”—Deborah puts up a hand, confident what Sibley’s next question will be—“Cindy, for all her strengths, was not known for her ability to keep a secret. You know how hard it is to keep one in this town. Cindy was a sweet lady, but she talked a lot and enjoyed gossip. She would have whispered it to someone at church, who would’ve told someone else, and before you know it, Jonathan would’ve found out. It was important as few people as possible knew.”
Deborah sucks in a ragged breath. “One time, I tried to leave Jonathan when you were six or seven, and I confided in my best friend. Jonathan went to her house, threatened her with a bat, and, needless to say, she never spoke to me again.”
“Isolating the victim,” Sibley murmurs. “I’m all too familiar with every personality type and disorder, being a divorce attorney.”
“Exactly. You know it’s not as simple as leaving an abusive spouse. I didn’t want you to become a pawn between him and me. Or worse. So Robert tried to help put a plan in place so I could leave Jonathan and squirrel away money for this purpose. I didn’t dare meet Robert at his job or their house because no one could know.”
“But at the Halloween—” Sibley starts to speak, and Deborah cuts her off.
“Yes, the night of the Halloween party, Robert and I agreed to meet near the shed. When we met, it was a fast encounter. I gave him some money I’d been saving, and we talked about where I could move. He was trying to find a rental that could house us and was working on getting me a job.”
“Do you remember seeing Kristin at all on your walk?”
“No. We were never at the silo, but it’s obvious she spotted us at some point. She lied and added sordid details like some bored teenager.” Deborah adds, “The Guthries have an old one-room structure they use to store firewood. That’s where Robert and I talked for a few minutes.”
Sibley stammers, “What about what I saw?”
“What you saw was probably a gesture of friendship. I was probably leaning on him or standing close to him so I could whisper.”
“So you expect me to believe it was all gossip,” Sibley says pointedly. “Your affairs. The assumption you pushed Jonathan out of the loft. And the blame you got for Cindy’s death. Not to mention: Why should I believe you now, after all the lies?”
“Because I have no reason to lie. Both Jonathan and Cindy are in the ground.”
“They’ve been dead all these years, and you’ve never bothered to set the record straight,” Sibley retorts in an icy tone.
“I didn’t have any affairs,” Deborah says bluntly. “But I was trying to make decisions that would have the least impact on other people. I thought I was saving everyone from my hurt.”
“A lady at the bar, Miranda something or other, said . . .” Sibley waves a hand. “Oh, never mind. I’m sick of all these innuendos.”
Haughtily, Deborah holds her head high. “Said what?”
“That Kristin wrote you a letter. She didn’t know what it said, so she was little help except to mention it.”
Standing slowly, Deborah reaches underneath the sideboard and thumbs through her keepsake box to bring out a metal tin. “In case what I said isn’t enough to convince you, Kristin did write me an apology letter.”
She hands Sibley a yellowed envelope, and Sibley gingerly unfolds the double-spaced note, written in ballpoint pen.
Incredulous, Sibley asks, “When was this?”
“A couple months before she died. The cancer was stage four, and she wasn’t given long to live. She wanted to make things right before her time came, and it was the least I could give her.”
Deborah watches as Sibley silently reads the words on the page.
Scowling, Sibley then folds it up. “She doesn’t say why she did something so malicious.”
“I asked Kristin that when she brought the letter over,” Deborah says. “We had a nice enough chat, all things considered.”
“And?”
“She was jealous, plain and simple. She had a crush on Miles, and she hated that you two were inseparable. She said it wasn’t her intent to start the rumor, that she’d had a fight with that high school boyfriend of hers—”
“Josh,” Sibley offers.
“Yeah, Josh. They fought at the party, and she did see us talking,
but that was it. She knew if Miles found out about his dad and me, he would automatically blame you, and it did what Kristin intended. It cost you both a friendship.”
“But why didn’t you deny it?”
“Because,” Deborah sputters. “We weren’t doing anything wrong, and if the truth came out about why we were talking, I would’ve been dead before I even had a chance to leave. Except my hand was forced anyway.” Deborah tugs at her chain. “Not to mention: Did you want me to go toe to toe with a teenage girl? What good would that have done?”
“Is that what happened at church?” Sibley points her index finger in the air. “I saw Cindy talking to Jonathan, and his entire mood shifted from easygoing to agitated. He snapped at me on the way home, which was unusual for him. Then you two fought; then he supposedly fell out of the loft.”
“Yes,” Deborah admits. “It didn’t help that Miles also told his mother about us. He followed us a couple of times, and though he didn’t see anything happen, he saw us climbing into the same vehicle to look at apartments. Cindy was understandably livid, and that’s why she confronted Jonathan at church and told him Robert and I were having an affair.”
“Is this why you hate Miles Fletcher?”
“Yes,” Deborah acknowledges. “The broken window was an excuse I got to hold on to.”
Mother and daughter sit and stare at each other for a tenuous moment, until Deborah starts to tremble. First her hands shake in her lap; then her legs follow.
“Do you want me to get your pills?” Sibley leans forward.
“No.” Deborah puts a hand up, woodenly rising out of her chair. Her body starts to convulse, but she slowly advances toward her bedroom.
With a hand guiding her lower back for support, Sibley follows on her heels, as if she’s afraid Deborah will fall backward.
When Deborah reaches her bed, she collapses onto the mattress.
“Here.” Sibley fumbles for a couple of bottles on the side table.
Shakily, Deborah points to what pills she wants, and Sibley hands her a glass of water from the nightstand.
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