The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  She swallows them swiftly and lies back on the bed.

  Sibley is talking above her, but she sounds like she’s in a wind tunnel. Deborah doesn’t respond, keeping her eyes shut as she waits for the tremors to subside.

  CHAPTER 33

  Sibley

  The turn of events tonight has quickly sobered me up. Humbled, I sit beside my mother on the bed and wait until she’s asleep, her breathing loud and irregular. Instead of answering my question about calling an ambulance, she pressed her lids shut.

  I’m torn between going to my room and leaving her alone, terrified she’s going to leave me orphaned. The irony is not lost on me—we have had a long estrangement, and it’s only now we’ve reconnected. The fact she lied to me about my birth father is painful, but I understand there was a purpose behind it. I no longer believe her actions were reckless or malicious. The thought of being utterly alone in the world, knowing that both of my fathers are dead, is mind numbing. To contemplate losing her makes me inconsolable.

  Knowing I’ll be unable to sit still, I bring my laptop from upstairs to sit in her rocking chair. This way, I can keep watch over her declining health.

  I’m fully aware that typing in symptoms online will come up with a slew of worst-case scenarios and cause the most even-keeled people to become hypochondriacs. Still, I can’t ignore them any longer.

  Maybe it’s the list of potential diseases that pops up when I type in her ailments—memory loss, vision problems, and tremors—but I’m sure something more profound is lurking beneath the surface.

  The search results include a plethora of conditions, mostly neurological. A red flashing arrow in my head keeps pointing to the bold text about degenerative diseases.

  Horrified, I wonder if my mother has dementia or some form of early-onset Alzheimer’s.

  Slamming my laptop shut, I sit immobile, unable to relax, wondering what this means. Do I need to take my mother back home with me?

  Does Deborah have her will updated? What about her power of attorney?

  Biting my nails, I want to call Adrienne or Holden, but I realize it’s after two in the morning back home. Besides, what could I possibly say to my husband? Sorry, honey. I know I’m supposed to be in rehab, but I didn’t go. I went back home instead, and even though we’re on the brink of a divorce, can I bring my estranged mom, who you’ve never met and is sick, home to live with us?

  Confident that sleep won’t come easy tonight, I rummage through the stash of pill bottles on the nightstand, looking for a sleep aid. I take a few pillows off my mother’s bed and brace myself for a rough night in the rocking chair.

  When I wake up the next morning, it takes a minute to realize where I am and why I’m sitting up. My neck is sore and stiff, and I’m groggy and hungover.

  I stare at my mother’s small form snoring in the bed and then at the laptop on the floor. A nagging feeling that something deeper is going on with my mother exacerbates the pit in my stomach. My jumbled thoughts bounce between what my mother says and does and what’s going on around us. If all these peculiarities didn’t seem to be adding up to something more significant, I wouldn’t be concerned.

  Before she gets out of bed, I need to do some digging into her personal effects.

  After stretching my achy limbs, I tiptoe out of her room.

  I search through the sideboard in the living room, as my mother keeps a locked safe-deposit box inside. She doesn’t know I know where the key is, but the upstairs vent is not only a conduit for conversations but also a peephole. The other night, I peered through the slats, and though I couldn’t see much from my vantage point, I could see her retrieve the key from an opening in the grandfather clock.

  After slipping the key from its hiding spot, I sit cross-legged on the floor and sort through the box. There’s not much in there, at least not what I expected. I figured she kept important papers and documents, but it’s mainly old articles tied to Jonathan’s death. The obit for Edward Pearson is also inside.

  As I’m about to close the lid, I see a couple letters that have been sent to her, along with a photo that eerily resembles me.

  What the hell? I wonder.

  Even the handwriting is similar to mine, down to the swoops and slants of my letters. Rubbing a hand over my face, I command myself to think. Did I send her these? Was this a sloppy mistake on my part?

  But they threaten her for money, alluding to graphic details of the night Jonathan died, and the envelopes are postmarked from Florida and signed with only an S.

  Startled by a thud, I quickly shut the box and replace it and the key where they belong. I creep to her bedroom door to listen, wondering if she’s awake. I can hear her heavy breathing through the door, so I escape back to the living room.

  My mother still has a wall calendar by her old rotary phone, and I flip through it to locate any information on upcoming doctor appointments or clinic names. I might have to stop in that office and speak to that woman my mother was in session with, a therapist or psychiatrist, I presume.

  Thumbing through her calendar, I notice a couple dates that are marked with AA, but I highly doubt it’s an Alcoholics Anonymous or Al-Anon meeting. Those would be suggestions for me, I think as my face flames red.

  Unsure what it stands for, I keep it in the back of my mind.

  She has the letter R marked in red throughout the last few months. I don’t see a pattern, and some weeks have more red marks than others.

  On the back of her calendar is a crumpled business card taped to the heavy cardstock. The letters are faded, as if someone kept rubbing at the font with their fingertip, trying to smudge it. I can barely make out the letters spelling out some kind of psychiatrist. A name and phone number are listed, but no address.

  When I type the name into Google, the website is bare bones. It’s just a woman wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses and a white lab coat that says Dr. Alacoy, Clinical Psychiatrist. She’s standing against a brick building.

  I recognize this as the building I was snooping in. Minimal information beyond the bespectacled doctor’s education is listed, not even the address where I was. I dial the number from the card and wait for a voice mail to pick up so I can leave a message, but it just rings.

  Disappointed, I hang up.

  My mother used to go to a Doc Marshall, who was also my primary care doctor growing up. He’s the one who gave me all my vaccinations and a never-ending supply of lollipops to console me. Being from a small town involves a lack of privacy, but that can be positive when you need to reach someone directly. Since you know most people on a first-name basis, you have access to them personally. Case in point, Doc Marshall’s cell is written on the back of her calendar.

  When I call, he’s eager to hear from me, though half-alert, and I realize it’s barely 6:00 a.m.

  After I apologize for the early call, Doc Marshall listens as I list off the medications prescribed to Deborah. There’s a long pause before he admits he hasn’t prescribed her any pain pills or seen her for at least a year.

  Odd.

  The prescribing doctor on the label is not the psychiatrist, Dr. Alice Alacoy, but a different name.

  I’m perplexed that Doc Marshall is unfamiliar with either doctor, since he’s been practicing for more than forty years in this area. Before he hangs up, he tells me he’ll do some checking on both doctors.

  When I try to reenter my mother’s room, I’m shocked to find the doorknob doesn’t move. I knock loudly, presuming she doesn’t want to be bothered but still worried. “Can you at least let me know you’re okay?” I say calmly. “I’ve got some errands to run in town. Need anything?”

  She dismisses me with, “I’m fine, and no.”

  With a sigh, I let her know I’ll be back later, that I have errands to run. After retreating to my car, I mindlessly stare out the windshield as I drive, counting the dead bugs splattered across the glass. My phone shrills, catching me off guard. “Hello,” I answer.

  “Hi. I had a missed call from t
his number.”

  Worried I didn’t vet the caller appropriately, I reply with, “Um, who is this?”

  “You called me. Alice.” The feminine voice has an air of disdain to it. “Wait, is this a telemarketer?”

  “No,” I hasten to say. “Are you taking new clients?”

  There’s a brief pause. In an accusatory manner, she says, “This is an out-of-state number.”

  “I know. I just moved here.”

  “Well, no. Unfortunately, I’m not. Goodbye.” The woman hangs up.

  Weird.

  CHAPTER 34

  Deborah

  Sibley gives her a call a bit later, but it feels forced, like she’s doing it out of necessity. Deborah wants to ask what Sibley’s doing in town but doesn’t want to appear nosy, since she’s made it clear she doesn’t like being ambushed with questions herself.

  When Sibley asks her what’s on the agenda for today, Deborah makes the mistake of mentioning she should start going through the contents of the house in preparation for her upcoming move.

  Sibley doesn’t argue with her, just goes quiet, and Deborah wonders if Sibley is toying with her. In fact, she’s anxious at the thought of this practical stranger in her house.

  When Deborah woke up today, all the reasons she was distrustful of Sibley came flooding back, namely that Sibley has her dress from that night for a reason, which makes Deborah nervous. Blood is on the dress; mostly it’s Jonathan’s, and some of it belongs to her, but there was a third person in the barn that night. What if having touched her or moved the weapon incriminates them?

  Unease travels through her veins, and suddenly she’s restless. Deborah needs a purpose at the moment, something mindless to get her thoughts off her daughter’s apparent ill intent.

  Sitting in her bedroom, rummaging through her disorganized closet, Deborah’s amazed at the number of clothes and shoes that overrun it. She has never considered herself a hoarder or a pack rat, but judging by the old sweaters and seasonal jackets, she should’ve sorted through this mess years ago.

  On her knees, she reaches toward the back of the closet, and her hand touches something akin to reptile skin. Assuming it’s a purse designed to look like fake alligator leather, she grasps it and sits back on her heels.

  It’s not a handbag but an old red leather-bound book. The gold stamped lettering tells her what kind: a baby album.

  Deborah cradles it in her hands, not unlike the day she held her own daughter in her arms for the first time.

  And just like that, Deborah’s transported back in time when she opens the first page and sees the photos of the baby shower her mother threw for her at church.

  It was a tense afternoon, mainly because Deborah asked if she could leave her husband, Jonathan, permanently and return home, but her mother would hear none of it. She was of the mindset that women had to have a stiff upper lip.

  Flipping to the page with the birth announcement, Deborah remembers how the weather was acting psychotic that March, one day snowing, the next hitting the midfifties, an atypical and confusing pattern for midwesterners.

  She entered the hospital a bundle of nerves—anxious, terrified, and excited—and left a few days later. It was a harrowing experience that left her crippled by remorse and agony, on the brink of mental exhaustion.

  To this day, she can smell the overpowering medicinal antiseptic that lingered in the hallway and rooms. Closing her eyes, she imagines herself in the corner of the room, witnessing the aftermath of birth.

  “Can you believe we made these two little angels?” a young man whispers, gently shaking a tiny fist. Deborah can tell her husband is wrapped around the baby girl’s little finger; his cooing noises make it obvious he’s in heaven. It’s surreal to watch him with a living, breathing baby that came out of her womb less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Still not of age to consume alcohol and now a mother of twins, she shakes her head in disbelief, looking down at the baby swaddled in her arms.

  Even with a seven-minute head start on her sister, the daughter tugging on his heartstrings is a miniature replica of the other. The firstborn is less than six pounds and only slightly larger than her identical twin. The only difference is the small birthmark, a congenital mole, on the back of the baby in her arms.

  “They’re absolutely perfect,” Deborah agrees, gazing between the girls’ cherubic faces and their lips curled into matching bows. For once, Jonathan’s smile seems genuine, a deviation from the scowl usually affixed to his sun-worn face.

  But Deborah knows she can’t let her guard down. She has to watch him. Intently.

  She can’t draw attention to herself or let Jonathan pick up on her lingering stare. He’ll get suspicious if she scrutinizes him too closely, when she usually prefers to turn her back to him.

  The truth is, Deborah doesn’t trust Jonathan with a newborn. He’s part of the male species, after all. He’s never changed a diaper or calmed down a crying baby.

  Even after the nurse pointed out two heartbeats during the ultrasound, Deborah thought she’d misheard. He’d hurled her into the wall the previous evening, and the ringing in her ears still hadn’t stopped. A single glance at the gaping hole Jonathan’s mouth had become was confirmation. The announcement of twins was shocking.

  Secretly, she wanted to gloat and stick her tongue out. Served him right for complaining about the size of her ass and stomach, how round they were becoming. He’d blamed it on how much time she spent in bed. He’d been quick to point out how her thighs jiggled when she walked, whereas before they’d been firm and supple. When he would criticize her, she dreamed of spilling her secret, that she’d lied about the timing of conception, that he wasn’t the sperm donor. It was tempting but too dangerous.

  His only compliment had to do with the size of her boobs, which he admired in his hands, comparing them to ripe watermelons on the vine, which made her want to go outside and hack them up.

  Now her breasts are engorged with milk, and her thoughts drift to breastfeeding and how he’ll handle two babies latched on to her nipples, given that he’s unable to share what he considers his property.

  As if on cue, a small cry escapes from the lips of the baby cradled in her embrace. Deborah wants nothing more than to hold both girls to her bosom and away from their father. Keeping a level gaze as she considers them beside her, lest he notice and ruin an enjoyable moment, she gives him a once-over. He has a funny-looking tan line where the brim of his cap cuts across his forehead, dividing his skin between milky white and bronzed. His days as a farmer are spent in the fields, long and arduous. Living off the land is not for the faint of heart.

  Nurse Diana, a stout woman she’d guess to be somewhere in her late thirties, marches into the room, authoritative in every action: her walk, her talk, her purpose in life. She’s a natural-born nurse meant to deliver babies.

  “See, you’re getting the hang of it! I told you the nurturing instinct kicks in.” A dazzling smile crosses her face as she observes the two young parents. Deborah’s unsure if there’s a paternal bone in Jonathan’s body. “Did we decide on any names?”

  Deborah nods her head before Jonathan can speak. “Yeah, I did.” Deborah hates how she sounds: defensive, uptight. Or maybe it seems that way because she’s being oddly assertive, a far cry from her usual soft-spoken demeanor. Jonathan’s eyes are trained on her, waiting to pounce. Typically, she’d defer to him. But pushing not one but two babies out has given her a take-charge attitude, at least while she’s in the hospital, safe from his wrath.

  Nurse Diana raises her brow in anticipation, holding tight to her clipboard.

  Forging ahead, Deborah says, “Sibley.” Then, bravely, “And Soren.”

  “Oh, those are good! I like! Different. New age. Can you spell them for me?” With a chuckle, she adds, “I want to make sure the birth certificate is accurate.”

  “S-I-B-L-E-Y.” Deborah expects Jonathan to cut in at any moment. “S-O-R-E-N.”

  “Middle names?”


  For once, Jonathan doesn’t argue; instead he muses, his eyes fixed on the twins, “I think my mother’s name goes with Soren.”

  Deborah gives him this, his dead mother’s moniker, beaming at him. “Sibley Eleanor and Soren Annette,” she says with finality.

  Diana clucks her tongue as she clicks her pen. “Last name Sawyer?”

  Jonathan firmly nods his head as Deborah clenches her jaw over the name Pearson. They should have his last name, she secretly laments. “Yes,” they both say in unison.

  Tears start to run down Deborah’s cheeks, and mistakenly, Diana assumes they’re from happiness.

  “Oh, child, aren’t you in good spirits!” She tucks a loose strand of Deborah’s messy ponytail behind her ear. She probably doesn’t realize it was carefully constructed to cover the bald patch Jonathan caused when he dragged her across the room by her hair.

  Deborah’s tears aren’t entirely in celebration of new life. They roll down her face, a reminder of the pain tugging at her heart. The throbbing between her legs isn’t a match for the constant ache of knowing her true love will never have a place in her life or the baby girls’.

  Jonathan gives her a small smile, a glimmer of hope in his green eyes. He thinks they can be a family, that the twins will stitch together their broken home just like the doctor did with the tear in her skin. In his eyes, any transgression on his part is forgivable. He only has to go to church to pray, because the pastor preaches nothing is more sinful than divorce. Except for adultery, of course.

  And that pastor is her father.

  She closes her eyes to stop the wetness from turning into a full-on faucet, to interrupt Jonathan’s piercing stare, to protect herself. Her pain is visible, and she doesn’t want him to know its extent, not because he would comfort her but because he would enthusiastically find pleasure in her grief. Keeping them tightly shut, she imagines a life with her babies, without him.

  It’s not until she jerks awake to the sound of heavy footsteps that she realizes she must’ve fallen asleep. Instinctively she stares down at her now-empty arms.