In contrast, Fletch alleges foul play and something sinister at the hands of my mother, Deborah. I do not agree with him, which puts us on opposing sides, with insurmountable obstacles between us.
Now, after Fletch manages one last nod, his footsteps crunch loudly as they retreat. A lump in my throat burgeoning, I forcefully turn off my hazard lights and jerk onto the blacktop.
It seems fitting that my welcome home would be from the person who chased me away to begin with.
PART THREE
SIBLEY & DEBORAH
CHAPTER 15
Sibley
As I reach the stretch of our twenty-seven-acre farm, I turn on my blinker, signaling out of habit.
I snicker. Using it seems silly, since it’s obvious where I’m going.
In the rearview, Fletch slows behind me on the empty highway, giving the customary short, neighborly honk as his arm lingers out of the open window, a small wave as he speeds off.
Now that I’ve seen the wasteland the farm has become, it doesn’t take me long to see what Fletch meant about changes.
Time has hit pause on the stark prairie, and it’s as if I’m Rip Van Winkle waking from a very long nap to find everything exactly as it was, but not as it should be.
As I pass the ancient windmill, the blades rotate, lazily moving in the sun. I involuntarily shudder at the root cellar in the distance; it’s now padlocked, with a heavy chain tethered across it.
At least no one can get stuck down there accidentally, I think grimly.
My gaze drifts to the toolshed, and I slow to a crawl, but I practically miss the edge of the gravel driveway; the distinction between the fragmented pieces of stone and the yard is now one overgrown mess. The infinite expansion of weeds has swallowed the broad stretch, and dandelions seem to proliferate in every square inch unoccupied by crabgrass.
When I hightailed it out of here, I thought of it like a lousy breakup—permanent and with finality.
Gripping the hard plastic of the steering wheel, I’m overcome with raw emotion. This new reality has me unnerved.
What did you expect? I chide myself. She lives out here alone like a pariah.
Did you really think folks would get over what happened out here?
They might’ve forgiven Jonathan’s death, but not that of the churchgoing, volunteer-loving, perfect mother and wife, Cindy.
I shudder again as I settle back against the seat, my hand hesitating on the gearshift.
Despite the summer humidity, my whole body tingles with goose bumps when the red barn comes into my periphery, a visceral reaction I have when I think of that night.
The gambrel roof of the barn has two different slopes on each side, and even though the roof’s designed to eliminate both water and snow, its worn-away shingles signal their own fatigue.
It must be hard to sag under the weight of guilt and time, I suppose.
My heart skips a beat.
If my mother isn’t keeping the property up, what did she spend all the life insurance money on? She couldn’t possibly be squirreling it away.
Part of the reason so many people think she did him dirty is tied to the exorbitant sum of money my mother inherited after my father died.
But looking at this eyesore, you wouldn’t know it.
Maybe that’s been her brilliant plan all along. Let the town think she’s destitute. I guess after my long-term absence, she’d probably tell me it’s none of my business.
Souring on the idea of a reunion and feeling guilty for abandoning this life for a new, shinier one, I already want to crawl under a rock.
If my mother was struggling, why didn’t her doctor or the hospital call me?
Because you wanted nothing to do with the likes of Deborah Sawyer, I recall.
But why didn’t Fletch bother to pick up the phone?
Because of the very same reasons, I lament.
Parched, I realize how thirsty I am.
At one of my pit stops, I picked up a red plastic cooler. Now I fumble for it in the back seat.
Most of the plastic bottles are filled with alcohol, a trick I’ve been using for years to avoid detection, which was another reason I wasn’t keen on running into the police. Sniffing for one that’s vodka, I’m dismayed to find this is my last bottle. After I tip my head back to swig it the same way people throw back coffee, it goes down smoothly, no chaser needed.
After the last drop is drunk, I toss the plastic back in the cooler.
One voice inside my head tells me I’m not an alcoholic while its counterproductive companion tells me I sorely need help.
Regardless, it’s not enough.
I need more—a lot more—sedatives or liquid courage to calm my shredded nerves.
If I turn around and go back west, she’d never know I was here. I tell myself if my mother needed my help, she’d have responded to my attempts to reconcile.
It’s a painful rejection, but it’s one I’ve had to live with.
If I leave now, I could go straight to rehab, and Holden and my firm wouldn’t know about the stunt I pulled.
I can’t change the past, and by the looks of the place, there’s nothing to salvage.
Except what good is living if I’m confined to four walls? I muse. Whether it be a rehab facility or jail or in the form of my addiction?
I squeeze my hands in my lap. You’re not a real addict, Sibley. That’s what weak people admit to.
By now, my mother has probably taken notice of a strange vehicle in the drive. She might have heard Fletch’s neighborly honk before he continued on the highway stretch.
If I look through the small window over the kitchen sink, I bet I’ll see her ogling at the disruption.
Taking another deep breath, I force myself out of the driver’s seat before traipsing through the budding jungle to the front stoop of the faded box.
My mother always kept a well-tended garden and yard. Even after Daddy died, before
