The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  CHAPTER 40

  Sibley

  It took all I had to support myself going up the stairs. I gripped the railing for both physical and emotional stability. I wanted to confront my mother about the property in Florida, but her erratic behavior and mood swings made me too uncomfortable to bring it up. I need to know if she’s suffering from some terrible condition.

  I’m weary and tired, and tears start to stream down my face. I blow my nose into a tissue on the nightstand.

  Even though I hate the grogginess that accompanies sleeping pills, and even though it’s unadvisable to take them after drinking, I need to knock myself out.

  Tonight is different; tonight is necessary.

  Lying on my stomach, I don’t know how long it takes for me to slip away into my subconscious, but a fight has broken out between Jonathan and Edward. I’m in the middle, one on either side of me. They tug at my arms until they stretch out like putty. I scream at them to stop, but they don’t, their shouts growing louder as they drown my horrified cries. My limbs eventually fall completely off my body, and I stand there in shock, my protracted arms lying on the floor. Neither man apologizes. Instead, they glower at me and say simultaneously, “I hope you’re happy.”

  Though I wish I could recount all the sordid details, I only know that when I wake, I think I’m still in the middle of a nightmare my brain hasn’t entirely shut off yet.

  I don’t hear the door opening or the quick steps coming to my bed. What I do feel is a sharp object being shoved into my shoulder, where my old birthmark used to be, before I had it removed.

  Numbing shock impales me, and my body comes alive with a burning sensation, as if I’m on fire. My first thought is that a baby scorpion stung me, since they live in the desert and close to mountains, and their fast-moving and potent stingers release venom straight into your bloodstream.

  Half-asleep, I try to lift my head, but it’s useless, since someone or something is holding me down. There’s a heavy weight pressing down that won’t release me, as if someone’s sitting on me.

  Assuming I’m paralyzed from the neck down, I flail my arms. Whatever went into me severed my ability to move. I can hear my ragged breathing in the charged atmosphere, but I’m not alone. My attacker’s exertion is huffed out in quick bursts.

  Fearful I’m going to be suffocated underneath my pillow, I kick my legs out behind me in vain. I try to turn over from my stomach or roll off the bed, but the sharp edge of something is being ground into my shoulder.

  Screaming before I’m fully aware of what’s happening, I reach a hand back to the source of the pain, and my fingers are met with sticky wetness. It takes my brain a moment to catch up and realize the fluid is blood.

  My blood.

  I can feel the culprit of my pain—a bony wrist connected to a smooth blade. I shove it as hard as I can, and a thud indicates the perpetrator’s fallen off the bed. Hurriedly, I turn over, the sheets in a jumbled heap. If it’s one of the inmates, I’m going to have to be ready to fight back. I peer over the bed at the figure lying on the floor. Expecting it to be a masked intruder, I’m dumbfounded to see the shape of a barely buck-ten woman, middle aged, holding a sharp kitchen knife.

  “What?” I stammer in confusion. “What are you doing?”

  Silence looms, and I’m uncertain if the air is suffocating me or if I’m struggling to catch my breath because of the panic rising in my chest.

  “You just stabbed me?” It comes out as a question.

  My mother lies on her back, panting. Suddenly, she lets out a low moan. “Who are you?”

  “What?”

  “What have you done with my daughter?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I shriek. My hands move forward in a defensive gesture, and then I delicately touch my shoulder blade, where the stabbing pinpricks pulse as if I was repeatedly attacked by a bee.

  With the knife tightly curled in her hand, my mother jabs the air. “Who are you, and where did you come from?”

  I jostle my back against the windowpane, as far back as I can go without falling out the window, careful not to press the wound into the wall. The moon doesn’t even shine in the room, as if scared to illuminate the tragedy. Openmouthed, I stare at her, one hand resting gingerly against my shoulder, the other waiting for her to spring up and attack me for a second time.

  Her eyes are a malevolent force, but her screams are worse. “What did you do with her?”

  “Who?” I screech. “Who are you talking about?”

  We both let loose a string of expletives and squeals; it’s unclear who is causing more of a commotion, both of us in a contest to outshout the other.

  “You know who!” She explodes up as if blasted out of a cannon. “You’re not Sibley—you’re Soren!”

  She keeps chanting this, and I’m confident her mouth is going to open and expel green bile like in The Exorcist. Her brown eyes are dilated, but they also have a vacant gleam, like they belong to an otherworldly species. This crazed lunatic doesn’t resemble my mother.

  “I’m not Soren. Who is Soren?” I beg. “Why do you keep calling me another name?”

  She looks daggers at me.

  “Mother.” I inch sideways off the bed. “You’re scaring me.” Carefully tiptoeing toward the corner of the room, I refuse to break eye contact. “Are you having a seizure? Did something happen?”

  “No,” she gasps. “I don’t know why you’re in her room.” She nods toward the bed. “You shouldn’t be in her room.”

  “Whose room?” I’m puzzled. “I’m in my room.”

  “You convinced her to leave me, and now you want her room?” She kicks her legs against the hardwood floor with such force I’m worried she’s going to break them. “You can’t have everything! You can’t have me all to yourself. She’s all I had, and you ruined it.” Then, launching into a tirade, she says, “This isn’t your room. You don’t have a room in this house. Stop lying to me. You’re not her. Get out, Soren!”

  “Mother,” I implore, “I could’ve slept downstairs on the couch if you preferred.” Or have stayed in a hotel, I think, knowing I’ll never feel safe in her presence again. Rubbing my face, I’m traumatized; the full weight of what happened hasn’t fully sunk in yet.

  I can’t believe the next words I utter. “But you didn’t have to stab me over it.” Even monotone, the weight of her actions is unimaginable.

  In my career, I’m used to calming unruly clients and aggressive colleagues. Lately, I’ve fielded manipulative coworkers with their own agendas, but even that is new territory for me. It’s implausible my own mother could and would stab me with a kitchen knife. This has to be a misunderstanding, a foolish mistake.

  Yes, she thinks you’re someone else.

  The fight I had with Fletch that ended our friendship all those years ago floods my brain with warning alarms, dinging loudly.

  Jonathan didn’t just fall out of a loft and die. He was murdered by your mother.

  When Fletch tried to tell me Jonathan hadn’t had a freak accident, I was somewhat relieved. The blame and guilt I felt, not to mention the responsibility, were a lot for a seventeen-year-old girl. I’d wondered if I was the cause of his drinking, of his pain. Maybe he’d hated his life so much he had to lessen the pain daily. But then Fletch started throwing around the word murder, and that didn’t sit well either. Especially when he implied my mother was the direct cause of it.

  No one could blame her, Fletch told me. Everyone knew he was abusive, apparently everyone except me. It was a secret the adults shared, and children like Fletch overheard it when their parents whispered about mine.

  Call it lack of awareness or childish immaturity, but I never saw Jonathan raise a hand to my mother until the last time I saw him alive. True, my mother tiptoed around him, but she was always soft spoken and timid. She acted like a domestic servant, but most of the wives on the farms had specific gender roles. I can’t say the expectations laid out for her were any different from those o
f the parents of anyone else I knew. Our households mirrored each other.

  I shudder. My last memory of him is when he dragged her to the barn by her hair.

  I stare back at my mother as a shattering cry racks her body. She speaks softly to the ceiling. “I thought you were dead.”

  I hesitate, unsure if I should engage. “Why would I be dead?”

  “Because you died at the hospital.”

  “How do you figure?”

  Now catatonic, she doesn’t move.

  Gawking at her, I feel a trickle of blood running down my elbow. It’s not a heavy flow, but it’s steady enough to coat the wispy blonde hairs on my arm.

  Crouching down, I whisper, “Will you please hand me the knife?”

  “What knife?” she says as her left hand grips it tighter.

  “The knife in your hand.” I crawl toward her slowly. “I’m going to come and get the knife, okay?”

  Her eyelids flicker, but she doesn’t respond.

  Trembling, I stay at arm’s length, just in case she bolts upright and attacks me. “It’s okay to drop it. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I hold my breath until she releases her clutch on the knife. Her palm unfurls to rid itself of it as if it’s cathartic to let go, and it clatters to the floor. I draw back tensely when she moves her arms, but they fold over her chest, like she’s laid out in a burial casket.

  In a soothing voice, I say, “Okay. I’m reaching over to pick it up.”

  In case she opens her eyes, I keep my hands in front of me and in her line of sight. My fingers scrabble to make contact with the edge of the knife. I try not to focus on the fact the metal is wet with my blood, the surface sticky to the touch.

  Gingerly, I rise and step around her immobile body to turn on the light. The room’s illuminated in an eerie glow that does little to permeate the darkness.

  I stare from the doorway at the petite woman who gave birth to me. In some ways, I would’ve preferred if a masked intruder were breaking into our home. At least then, we wouldn’t have a shared history, and this attack wouldn’t be so personal. The woman who pushed me out of her womb now wants to kill me. My own mother just tried to injure or murder me, and neither option is a good one. I’m at a loss for what to do because she doesn’t seem to know who I am.

  “Mother?”

  No answer.

  “Deborah?”

  I repeat her name a few more times before she stirs.

  Raising her head an inch from the ground, she calmly replies, “Yes?”

  My fingers touch the gaping hole—half an inch deep, judging from the blade’s size. “I’m going to go to the bathroom and see if I can take care of this wound.” In my head, I’m yelling at the top of my lungs, but in reality, I speak in a soft monotone. “You stay here, okay?”

  Facing her from the doorframe, I step back slowly, scared to turn my back lest she tackle me from behind. In the bathroom, I debate whether to lock the door or leave it ajar. I choose to keep it wide open so I can hear her footsteps if she gets up.

  When I drop the bloody knife in the sink, I cringe as water erases the bright-red residue.

  Leaning against the counter, I tilt to the side so I can see both the hallway and my shoulder in the mirror. The laceration is narrow but deep, and the sight of blood has never sat well with me.

  I dab at it tenderly with a wet washcloth and soap as tears stream down my face. Some from the pain, some from exhaustion, but mainly from astonishment. The bleeding is profuse, so I apply pressure to the rough cotton.

  Raiding the medicine cabinet, I find hydrogen peroxide and a large bandage. When the blood immediately soaks through the layer of latex, I wonder if I need stitches and contemplate a drive to the nearest hospital.

  Maybe I should take Deborah along with me and have her committed, I think bitterly.

  After carefully removing the bandage, I rewet the cloth and ignore what’s running down the drain, holding the cloth taut against my shoulder.

  When Deborah appears behind me in the glass, I immediately freeze, startled, ready to bolt. My hand instinctively clasps the knife in the sink. Her eyes seem overwrought, and her lower lip trembles. “Honey, what’s wrong?” Her gaze lingers on the bloodstained washcloth.

  Flustered at her reaction, I don’t respond.

  “My God, is that your blood?” She takes a step toward me in the small bathroom, and I demand she step away. Impatiently, her hand reaches out to touch my arm. “Let me see it.”

  “No.”

  I wince as she roughly pulls the cotton away from the wound.

  A sharp intake of breath follows, and I loosen my grip on the handle of the knife.

  “What happened?” she asks innocently.

  Angrily, I sidestep her to face her concerned expression. “What do you mean, ‘What happened’?” If the situation weren’t dire, I’d laugh at her ridiculous question and serious expression. This woman should win an Academy Award for acting obtusely.

  After moving the toilet lid down, she settles onto the fabric cover. Her eyes drift to the sink, where the bloody knife rests in the basin.

  “Is that from my kitchen?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “What in the world were you doing messing around with it?” Her voice is sharp. “You could’ve really hurt yourself.”

  My eyes widen in fear. I’m being gaslighted by my own mother.

  “I know.” I’m brusque. “You could’ve really injured me.”

  “We need to talk.” With a strained voice, Deborah says, “This is serious.”

  “I know.”

  “Is this one of those cutting rituals I hear about on TV? An unhealthy way for you to let your pain out?”

  My head swivels to face her. “What?”

  “Were you trying to kill yourself?”

  “Mother . . .”

  “I know you have a lot on your plate, and certainly, you’re stressed to the max, but honey, I don’t want to . . .” She tears up. “I don’t want you to end up like your father. I can’t bear to lose someone else, someone close to me.”

  “Are you being serious right now?” I snap. “I don’t know about you, but sticking a knife in my shoulder doesn’t seem like a suicidal tendency.”

  I flinch when she tries to pat my elbow. “We have to get you help. Let me call someone. How about Miles Fletcher? Or maybe your husband?”

  “No.” My voice echoes loudly in the small space. “I don’t feel safe,” I say to the mirror.

  “That makes two of us.”

  Without a word, I take the knife from the sink and skirt past my mother. Downstairs, I hide it in the pantry behind cleaning supplies, where she won’t find it.

  Scanning the kitchen, I take the butcher block of knives and stick it in the empty gun cabinet. The key’s hanging out of the lock, so I remove it. It’s not like these are the only sharp objects Deborah can use to cause bodily harm, but I’m mollified the rifle is missing and the gun is in the police chief’s possession.

  As I make myself a drink, mostly to act as a painkiller for my shoulder, I’m on high alert when I hear Deborah creak slowly down the steps. I pray she avoids the kitchen and chooses instead to go to her room. At the bottom of the stairs, I wait with a pounding heart for her decision. Will she confront me again or retreat to her bed?

  CHAPTER 41

  Deborah

  Deborah peers into the kitchen, and her stomach lurches when she hears the clink of a glass. She watches with horror as the blonde woman pours straight vodka into a glass.

  A sigh escapes her lips.

  Soren.

  Trying to pass as Sibley.

  Soren is not duping anyone with the vodka-filled water bottles or the liters of vodka. It’s dangerous how Soren blacks out with no recollection of what happened the night before. Just like Jonathan would. A flicker of unease crosses Deborah’s thoughts. If someone isn’t in their right mind when sober, the drinking will only magnify their emotions.

  Does she t
hink Deborah wouldn’t know every nook and cranny in this house to hide bottles? It’s a repeat of history, how Deborah would uncover Jonathan’s secrets, wrapped in towels in the hall closet, hidden underneath cushions on the sofa. Poor, innocent Sibley would have a tea party with her dolls and not think twice about the shot glass she used as a cup. It’s lucky Sibley isn’t stuck with Jonathan’s genes. She’s a successful attorney with a husband and a career and a life out west. Unlike Soren, who’s set on destroying her life.

  Deborah must plead with Soren to go.

  “Deborah,” the woman in front of her sneers. “It’s me. Your daughter.”

  “I know,” Deborah says uncomfortably.

  “I’m going to go outside and grab a breath of fresh air.”

  Deborah waits for Soren’s footsteps to exit the house and the door to slam shut behind her.

  After sinking into her reclining chair in the living room, Deborah rests her head in her hands.

  Should she call someone? 911? Miles Fletcher? Robert?

  She tries Robert, but his cell goes straight to voice mail. Now that she thinks of it, he’s been awfully silent lately. Deborah’s been more preoccupied than normal, and she doesn’t expect him to come around, but he’s been less attentive than usual. Unable to examine this at the moment, she decides on Miles. She doesn’t realize how late it is until a muffled voice echoes through the phone line.

  “Hello?” his sleepy voice answers.

  “Hi, this is Deborah.” Realizing he could know a million Debs or Debbies, she quickly adds, “Deborah Sawyer.”

  “Uh . . . hi,” he says. “I know it’s you.”

  “Hi, Miles.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Why do you ask?” she says timidly.

  “The time. It’s after three a.m.” He moans. “Did Sibby ask you to call me?”

  “Oh. Silly me. You’re right; it’s late. I’m sorry. And no,” Deborah whispers into the phone. “She doesn’t know that I’m calling.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “I think my daughter’s trying to kill me.” With a click, Deborah hangs up the phone at the same time that she hears the thud of the front door. Deborah leans forward, craning her neck to spot the intruder. Her hands grip the faded leather of the chair, and relieved, she exhales a ragged sigh.