“Well, no. Unfortunately, I’m not. Goodbye.” The woman hangs up.
Weird.
CHAPTER 34
Deborah
Sibley gives her a call a bit later, but it feels forced, like she’s doing it out of necessity. Deborah wants to ask what Sibley’s doing in town but doesn’t want to appear nosy, since she’s made it clear she doesn’t like being ambushed with questions herself.
When Sibley asks her what’s on the agenda for today, Deborah makes the mistake of mentioning she should start going through the contents of the house in preparation for her upcoming move.
Sibley doesn’t argue with her, just goes quiet, and Deborah wonders if Sibley is toying with her. In fact, she’s anxious at the thought of this practical stranger in her house.
When Deborah woke up today, all the reasons she was distrustful of Sibley came flooding back, namely that Sibley has her dress from that night for a reason, which makes Deborah nervous. Blood is on the dress; mostly it’s Jonathan’s, and some of it belongs to her, but there was a third person in the barn that night. What if having touched her or moved the weapon incriminates them?
Unease travels through her veins, and suddenly she’s restless. Deborah needs a purpose at the moment, something mindless to get her thoughts off her daughter’s apparent ill intent.
Sitting in her bedroom, rummaging through her disorganized closet, Deborah’s amazed at the number of clothes and shoes that overrun it. She has never considered herself a hoarder or a pack rat, but judging by the old sweaters and seasonal jackets, she should’ve sorted through this mess years ago.
On her knees, she reaches toward the back of the closet, and her hand touches something akin to reptile skin. Assuming it’s a purse designed to look like fake alligator leather, she grasps it and sits back on her heels.
It’s not a handbag but an old red leather-bound book. The gold stamped lettering tells her what kind: a baby album.
Deborah cradles it in her hands, not unlike the day she held her own daughter in her arms for the first time.
And just like that, Deborah’s transported back in time when she opens the first page and sees the photos of the baby shower her mother threw for her at church.
It was a tense afternoon, mainly because Deborah asked if she could leave her husband, Jonathan, permanently and return home, but her mother would hear none of it. She was of the mindset that women had to have a stiff upper lip.
Flipping to the page with the birth announcement, Deborah remembers how the weather was acting psychotic that March, one day snowing, the next hitting the midfifties, an atypical and confusing pattern for midwesterners.
She entered the hospital a bundle of nerves—anxious, terrified, and excited—and left a few days later. It was a harrowing experience that left her crippled by remorse and agony, on the brink of mental exhaustion.
To this day, she can smell the overpowering medicinal antiseptic that lingered in the hallway and rooms. Closing her eyes, she imagines herself in the corner of the room, witnessing the aftermath of birth.
“Can you believe we made these two little angels?” a young man whispers, gently shaking a tiny fist. Deborah can tell her husband is wrapped around the baby girl’s little finger; his cooing noises make it obvious he’s in heaven. It’s surreal to watch him with a living, breathing baby that came out of her womb less than twenty-four hours ago.
Still not of age to consume alcohol and now a mother of twins, she shakes her head in disbelief, looking down at the baby swaddled in her arms.
Even with a seven-minute head start on her sister, the daughter tugging on his heartstrings is a miniature replica of the other. The firstborn is less than six pounds and only slightly larger than her identical twin. The only difference is the small birthmark, a congenital mole, on the back of the baby in her arms.
“They’re absolutely perfect,” Deborah agrees, gazing between the girls’ cherubic faces and their lips curled into matching bows. For once, Jonathan’s smile seems genuine, a deviation from the scowl usually affixed to his sun-worn face.
But Deborah knows she can’t let her guard down. She has to watch him. Intently.
She can’t draw attention to herself or let Jonathan pick up on her lingering stare. He’ll get suspicious if she scrutinizes him too closely, when she usually prefers to turn her back to him.
The truth is, Deborah doesn’t trust Jonathan with a newborn. He’s part of the male species, after all. He’s never changed a diaper or calmed down a crying baby.
Even after the nurse pointed out two heartbeats during the ultrasound, Deborah thought she’d misheard. He’d hurled her into the wall the previous evening, and the ringing in her ears still hadn’t stopped. A single glance at the gaping hole Jonathan’s mouth had become was confirmation. The announcement of twins was shocking.
Secretly, she wanted to gloat and stick her tongue out. Served him right for complaining about the size of her ass and stomach, how round they were becoming. He’d blamed it on how much time she spent in bed. He’d been quick to point out how her thighs jiggled when she walked, whereas before they’d been firm and supple. When he would criticize her, she dreamed of spilling her secret, that she’d lied about the timing of conception, that he wasn’t the sperm donor. It was tempting but too dangerous.
His only compliment had to do with the size of her boobs, which he admired in his hands, comparing them to ripe watermelons on the vine, which made her want to go outside and hack them up.
Now her breasts are engorged with milk, and her thoughts drift to breastfeeding and how he’ll handle two babies latched on to her nipples, given that he’s unable to share what he considers his property.
As if on cue, a small cry escapes from the lips of the baby cradled in her embrace. Deborah wants nothing more than to
