Incredulous, Sibley asks, “When was this?”
“A couple months before she died. The cancer was stage four, and she wasn’t given long to live. She wanted to make things right before her time came, and it was the least I could give her.”
Deborah watches as Sibley silently reads the words on the page.
Scowling, Sibley then folds it up. “She doesn’t say why she did something so malicious.”
“I asked Kristin that when she brought the letter over,” Deborah says. “We had a nice enough chat, all things considered.”
“And?”
“She was jealous, plain and simple. She had a crush on Miles, and she hated that you two were inseparable. She said it wasn’t her intent to start the rumor, that she’d had a fight with that high school boyfriend of hers—”
“Josh,” Sibley offers.
“Yeah, Josh. They fought at the party, and she did see us talking, but that was it. She knew if Miles found out about his dad and me, he would automatically blame you, and it did what Kristin intended. It cost you both a friendship.”
“But why didn’t you deny it?”
“Because,” Deborah sputters. “We weren’t doing anything wrong, and if the truth came out about why we were talking, I would’ve been dead before I even had a chance to leave. Except my hand was forced anyway.” Deborah tugs at her chain. “Not to mention: Did you want me to go toe to toe with a teenage girl? What good would that have done?”
“Is that what happened at church?” Sibley points her index finger in the air. “I saw Cindy talking to Jonathan, and his entire mood shifted from easygoing to agitated. He snapped at me on the way home, which was unusual for him. Then you two fought; then he supposedly fell out of the loft.”
“Yes,” Deborah admits. “It didn’t help that Miles also told his mother about us. He followed us a couple of times, and though he didn’t see anything happen, he saw us climbing into the same vehicle to look at apartments. Cindy was understandably livid, and that’s why she confronted Jonathan at church and told him Robert and I were having an affair.”
“Is this why you hate Miles Fletcher?”
“Yes,” Deborah acknowledges. “The broken window was an excuse I got to hold on to.”
Mother and daughter sit and stare at each other for a tenuous moment, until Deborah starts to tremble. First her hands shake in her lap; then her legs follow.
“Do you want me to get your pills?” Sibley leans forward.
“No.” Deborah puts a hand up, woodenly rising out of her chair. Her body starts to convulse, but she slowly advances toward her bedroom.
With a hand guiding her lower back for support, Sibley follows on her heels, as if she’s afraid Deborah will fall backward.
When Deborah reaches her bed, she collapses onto the mattress.
“Here.” Sibley fumbles for a couple of bottles on the side table.
Shakily, Deborah points to what pills she wants, and Sibley hands her a glass of water from the nightstand.
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
