“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 save 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
