It’s not a stranger; it’s her daughter.
Frantic, she asks, “Sibley, what’re you doing outside? It’s late.”
“I needed to clear my head.”
Deborah argues, “Nothing good happens this late at night.”
“It’s not nighttime; it’s after three in the morning!” she shouts. “And you know why I needed air.”
Baffled at her outburst, Deborah eyes her with curiosity. “Why are you up this late? Are you having trouble sleeping? My tea is the cure-all for that.”
“Your chamomile isn’t going to change the fact my own mother stabbed me!” Sibley throws her hands in the air. “You’re the reason I can’t sleep. You crept into my room like some bad dream.”
“Nonsense.” Deborah shakes her head in disgust. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying you tried to hurt me.”
“How could you accuse me of something like that?” Deborah’s awed.
“Let me guess,” Sibley says. “I just stabbed myself in my own shoulder?”
“What’re you talking about?” Deborah doesn’t know what to say to keep Sibley’s temper from rising. She’s unclear why she’s so angry with her right now. After her own assault, the episode with the stranger in the house, and the robberies, Deborah wasn’t surprised when she watched Sibley take a knife upstairs.
But how could she be so careless with it and bring it to bed with her, without covering it properly or keeping it out of arm’s reach? When Deborah saw her sleeping with it under her pillow the other night, she almost took it away. With the talk of home invasions, she wanted her to feel safe in her bed, especially since she couldn’t give that to her as a child.
“I’ve been stressed because of my failing marriage and career and imploding relationships, and now my own mother’s trying to make me her pincushion.”
Deborah feels crestfallen.
“There’s something evil in you.” Her voice quivers. “I just never wanted to believe it before.”
Deborah tries to grab Sibley’s arm, but she’s purposefully standing out of arm’s reach. “Let me see what happened.”
“You need help.”
“Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?” Deborah offers. “Maybe you need stitches.”
“No,” she protests. “I just want to fall asleep knowing I’m not going to be attacked.”
“Goodness gracious!” Deborah remarks. “Then stop sleeping with a sharp object in bed!”
“How can you accuse me of doing this to myself?”
“Stop yelling!” Deborah admonishes. “I’m sitting right here.”
“What is wrong with you, Mother?” Sibley’s lashes are wet with tears. “You kept calling me another name.”
“Go to bed.” Deborah relents. “We can talk about this after you get some sleep.”
“That’s what I was trying to do before you ruined my night.” Beginning to cry hysterically, Sibley stomps back out of the house, slamming the door behind her.
CHAPTER 42
Sibley
I slam the vehicle in reverse before I stomp down on the gas. Chunks of gravel spit as I back up and seesaw out of the driveway, a whir of dust clouding my path.
Speculating about what might be going on with my mother, I wonder if she has dementia or some form of early-onset Alzheimer’s. Deborah has moments of clarity, and then she becomes a whole other person. I’ve read cases and seen movies with these tragic storylines. The patient typically forgets a face or name and gradually loses their cognitive ability to remember people.
This seems, I don’t know, drastic on another level.
And Soren. I tap my fingers on the wheel.
I need to figure out who this person is to my mother. She kept referring to Soren as “not her daughter,” and I’m beyond confused.
Is she seeing double, or is there something going on with her cognitive functions? Maybe she thinks I’m a double, one part Jekyll, one half Hyde.
I remind myself it doesn’t have to be rational, because my mother’s actions aren’t at the present time.
Wasn’t Einstein the one who said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?
Clearly, I can’t get through to Deborah in her psychosis, or whatever she’s experiencing behind the vacuous expression in her eyes.
I park my car in an empty parking lot, knowing I can’t go back and face Deborah again this evening. For once, I have no desire to ply my nerves with more alcohol. The events of tonight have sobered me up.
I need answers. If Dr. Alacoy won’t speak to me on the phone, I’ll go to her.
I recline the seat in the car, though it’s impractical to think I’ll sleep—first because of the pain radiating from my shoulder, and second, because I keep imagining her coming at me with a kitchen knife. I’m tempted to find a twenty-four-hour drugstore, but I remember everything closes relatively early here.
With a couple hours of restless sleep to my name, I rub my eyes at the intruding sunlight and yank down the visor. I manage to fold up in the back seat for a few more hours, a jacket from the trunk slung over my face to block out the brightness.
When the pharmacy opens, I kill some over-the-counter pain pills for my sore shoulder and rebandage it. I wonder if I should call Doc Marshall to check if I need stitches.
Since no office hours are listed on Dr. Alacoy’s door, and it’s still locked after 9:00 a.m., I wait impatiently at the local coffee shop near the window.
I’m about to call Dr. Alacoy’s cell again when a window shade goes up across the street. When I walk in, the door that was closed before is now open, and I’m surprised to find it’s a small, cozy office, no bigger than my living room back home. The wall divides the office into two adjoining sections, one waiting area and one patient-treatment room.
“Hello?” I knock on the wood doorframe, startling the woman on her hands and knees.
“Holy shit!” she exclaims, half rising. “You scared me!”
When she stands up, she’s a few inches taller than me, even in her sensible flats. She’s dressed in a shapeless dress, and her bleached-blonde hair is knotted in a bun on top of her head.
“I lost an earring,” she groans, pointing to her earlobe.
“That sucks.” Frazzled, I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t mean to bother you; I just thought we could chat for a moment.”
“Is this about scheduling an upcoming appointment?” she asks. “Unfortunately, I’m leaving on vacation this afternoon.”
“No, it’s, uh, it’s about my mother.”
“Oh.” She looks confused. “Your mother?”
“Deborah Sawyer. And I’m Sibley.”
“Patient confidentiality is my first priority,” she explains. “I’m entrusted with safeguarding my clients and acting as their confidante.”
“Understandable.” I nod in agreement. “We all have fiduciary duties to clients or patients.”
“Exactly.” She fervently nods too. “You get it. Are you in the medical field?”
“Absolutely not. I can’t stand the sight of my own blood.” I shrug. “And I have enough problems I can’t fix on my own. How could anyone trust my advice, right?”
Dr. Alacoy stares at me with curiosity. I’m blabbering, and I need to stop.
“I just need access to her medical records,” I finish.
“There should be a form you can download on my website,” Dr. Alacoy says. “If Deborah’s willing to sign the HIPAA waiver, it would cover everything but the psychotherapy notes. If you need those, the documentation is more rigorous in terms of consent.”
“Actually,” I say, trying another tactic, “Dr. Marshall sent me over here. He wanted me to catch you before you left on your trip.” I grimace. “He’s a longtime family friend and our doctor. He’s worried she’s in grave danger.”
Her brow furrows. “Is that so?”
“Yes. It’s an emergency,” I say. “Do you know Dr. Marshall?
”
“I do. He works out of the hospital, but I still need the paper signed unless he can scan it from his office. We can schedule a time when I get back, if you’d like.”
“How about this?” I offer. “I’ll go get this signed now. My mother’s next door at the salon, and I’ll be right back.”
“Then why didn’t she come with—”
I interrupt. “I’ll pay you cash for a full session, whatever the going rate is.”
She hesitates.
“Please,” I beg. “It’s important. If not, I’ll have to call Doc Marshall, and he’ll probably want to speak with you directly.”
Looking flustered, Dr. Alacoy hands me a typewritten form, and I try not to run out to my car. After forging my mother’s signature, I wait a respectable amount of time to bring it back in. My sweaty palm perspires on the release as I hand it to her. Trying not to be visible, I wipe my hands on a tissue from my purse.
She peers down her glasses at me. “Does Deborah not want to come in today as well?”
“No. Her hair’s going to take a long time,” I say lamely. “I think she can wait until you’re back from vacation.”
Her intense stare is magnified behind the glasses, and I’m worried at the amount of time she regards the signature line on the form. “Just a minute, please.”
She disappears into the other room. I assume she’s getting Deborah’s file out of a locked cabinet, and I impatiently tap my foot. My eyes glance at the impressive array of diplomas on the wall. She went to a top-tier university in the Midwest for her undergraduate studies and a prestigious university for her doctoral degree. There are some additional certificates she’s obtained for psychotherapy and hypnotherapy techniques. This puts me a little more at ease, but I’m still distraught at what’s transpired with my mother.
Dr. Alacoy returns with a color-coded file open to compare the form I’ve given her with what must be a signature in her file. “Did you want copies? I will have to charge you for those.”
“Yes, please.”
“I don’t have a receptionist, so it’s going to take a minute. Let me do that first.” She points to a chair in front of her desk. “Go ahead and take a seat.”
Anxiously chewing my nails, I wait for her to return.
Taking a seat behind her desk, she motions to the other room. “I’ll put the records in an envelope when we’re done.” She crosses her legs. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“I’m worried about my mother, Dr. Alacoy.”
“I must insist you call me Alice.”
“Okay,” I agree. “My mother . . . she isn’t stable.”
Alice starts to open her mouth, then shuts it. “I’ll let you ask the questions.”
“I’m worried about the medication she’s on. The pain pills she’s taking.” I bite my lip. “I’ve done my research, and these antipsychotic drugs seem to make her worse, or so I presume because of the side effects.”
Alice laces her hands together, the quintessential listener.
“She’s losing touch with reality, or that’s how it seems to me.”
“Please elaborate on what you mean.”
“She imagines things that aren’t there. People.” I wait for a reaction but get none. I give another example. “Even the other day, she thought I was somebody else.”
“Wait! Let’s discuss this further.” She leans forward. “You mean she called you by the wrong name?”
“Yes. Not only that, but she accused me of being someone else. Like I was inhabiting another person’s body. I’m not sure if this is a result of her meds or why she would act like I was a stranger.”
“Hmm . . . not likely.”
“Could that vicious attack she had when she was hit with a gun or previous head injuries have caused some type of brain damage?”
“Yes to both. I’m glad you’re here because maybe you can check some boxes for me.” She pushes her glasses up on her nose. “Do you know much about your mother’s background, her history?”
“Some, not all.”
“Any drinking or heavy drug use?”
“If you mean pain meds, then yes.” I cross my arms. “Is there a reason she’s on so many potent medications?”
She raises her brow. “Why, yes, there is.” Alice reaches a hand out to gently touch mine. “Permission to be frank?”
“Please,” I beg. “Of course.”
“I have a suspicion, unproven at this point, of course, that she’s starting to show signs of Lewy body disease.”
I lean back in my chair. “I’m not really sure what that is.”
“It’s rare.”
“I think I’ve heard of it . . .”
“A famous actor had it. It’s not an agreeable disease, not that there is one.” She sighs heavily. “But it’s devastating for the patient . . . and their family.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I feel the prick of tears signaling I’m about to lose my shit.
“The problem is, a diagnosis can take a year or longer to determine. Other neurodegenerative diseases mimic the same symptoms, so it’s not a quick discovery, rather a slow process. We don’t want to rush to a conclusion, since it could hinder her progress if we’re wrong.”
“Please tell me you’re wrong.” My voice quivers.
“There’s another thing. I don’t want to go down a rabbit hole, but there’s something else, even rarer, with parallels to your mother’s symptoms.”
Now I’m on the edge of my seat, sweating bullets as pit stains soak through my short-sleeve shirt.
“It’s called Capgras syndrome, also known as the imposter syndrome.”
My gaping mouth must give away my skepticism.
“It’s a real thing,” Alice promises. “Named after the French psychiatrist who discovered it.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“That’s because it’s very uncommon. It usually occurs as a result of something else. In this case”—she ticks off all the scary ones on her fingers—“Alzheimer’s, paranoid schizophrenia, and Lewy body.”
“And what does this Capgras syndrome do?”
“It’s a neurological disorder that causes damage to the . . .” She starts to spout some long medical words outside my vocabulary.
Noticing my blank expression, she swiftly stops. “Sorry, I tend to get all scientific. Basically, it’s damage to the brain that causes impairment. In this case, it can range from the inability to recognize faces to something more malignant.”
“Like how much more harmful?”
She’s thoughtful in her answer. “Let’s say a person is infuriated with someone. In this case, it’s a rage that causes them to use ‘splitting’ as their defense mechanism.”
“Splitting?”
“The person believes their anger is toward an imposter, someone imitating the actual individual. This thought process allows them to still consider their family or friend separate from their rage, as if a different identity. In a way, the person ‘splits’ into two different individuals. This belief allows them to proceed.”
My jaw drops. “So you’re saying my mother might be seeing double?”
“Yes, but it’s extraordinarily uncommon, Sibley.”
Flabbergasted, I rest my hands on my knees.
“I should add, she doesn’t necessarily see double in the sense that there’s two of you but that you’re replacing someone else.”
“She did call me another name,” I confess.
“What was it?”
“Another S name. Sore-in.”
“Wait!” A shadow of recognition crosses her face. “Did you say Soren?”
“Yeah.” I jump out of my chair. “Do you know who that is?”
“Deborah saw a woman outside during one of our last sessions. In fact”—she scans me up and down—“she looked an awful lot like you. Said she used to know her. Interesting.” Alice leans back in her chair, studying me intensely. “This is all good to know. Very insightful. It’ll help
make the diagnosis easier.”
Staring at my bewildered face, she hurriedly adds, “Not easier to handle but more straightforward to diagnose.” Perusing her notes, she murmurs, “Deborah hasn’t yet mentioned that name in our sessions. Let me ask you . . .” She swipes a misbehaving piece of hair that’s loosened from her knot. “When she accuses you of being a fraud, what do you do or say?”
“You mean, how do I defend myself?”
“Yes.”
“I got upset and argued with her. Tried to convince her she’s wrong.”
“Don’t.”
Dubious, I say, “Don’t tell Deborah she’s not in her right mind and I’m not lying about who I say I am?”
“Exactly.” Alice nods. “I know it sounds counterintuitive, but arguing with her over her reality will only heighten the severity of her reaction to you. In cases like these, it’s best to either redirect their focus to another activity or acknowledge her emotion.”
“Won’t she think I’m lying, then?”
“Not necessarily. It’s like playing pretend as a child. You go along with it. In this case, it’s for your safety, which raises another question: Has she been violent toward you?”
I hesitate, not wanting to admit the truth. Sidestepping the question, I ask, “Does this disease make someone prone to violence?”
“It depends,” Alice discloses, “on what’s going on in someone’s brain. Have you had any altercations with her that made you feel unsafe?”
“Last night. She, uh, she tried to stab me,” I say ashamedly. “Actually, she did.”
“I need to take some notes, Sibley. If you don’t mind.” Her furrowed brow is worrisome. “That’s troubling. Violence isn’t always a factor, but when it is, it can mean . . .”
A shiver goes down my spine. “She won’t stop until I’m dead?”
The automatic flush on her pale cheeks tells me I’m right. Her watch signals a call coming through, and I notice the initials RF flashing on the diminutive screen.
I reach down to grab my wallet out of my purse. “What do I owe you?”
The Imposter Page 31