After wobbling up the steps, I wrestle with the front door. Usually the porch light is the only illumination, but it’s burned out. It’s not until I’m knocking on the door that I realize how badly I’m shaking.
CHAPTER 39
Deborah
Distracted by clunky footsteps on the porch, Deborah timidly creeps to the kitchen window to see who the culprit is, her tea waiting on the table.
It’s Sibley stumbling to the door, the laces on her sneakers untied, her face red and puffy.
Deborah’s confused—she thought she heard her come in hours ago and go upstairs to bed. When she checked earlier, her car was in the drive. “I thought you were in your room.”
“No. I went out for a bit.” Sibley winces. “But I am drained.”
“You didn’t drive, did you?” Deborah says worriedly. “You look like you could use some tea.” Deborah volunteers to make her a cup. “It might help you sleep. This is my kind of nightcap.”
Her smile is genuine, and Sibley is obliged to return it. “Sure. Are you feeling okay? You still look tired. You need more rest.”
“No. I’m fine, really.” Deborah waves a hand at her. “Sometimes, I think it’s these pills and the effect they have on me.” She gives Sibley’s arm a gentle pinch. “Now that you’re home, I feel safe again.”
“That’s good to hear.” Sibley sinks into a chair. “But all drugs have side effects. Are these even helping?”
“I hope so.” Deborah shuffles to the cupboard to get another mug. “I just want to stop feeling like I’m stuck in a nonstop brain fog. It’s like I never have a clear picture in my mind.”
“Maybe we need to get your meds adjusted,” Sibley suggests. “I’m happy to take you to the doctor. You know I’d love to see Doc Marshall.”
“That’s nice of you, but I’m good.”
“Is there someone else you’re seeing? I’m happy to tag along to your next appointment.”
“No, thank you.” Deborah sets the steaming mug down in front of Sibley. “You look upset, honey. Rough night?”
Sibley rubs the edge of the ceramic. “Oh, Fletch and I had a little fight.”
“Another one? You two are nothing but sparring partners, I swear.” Deborah chuckles. “Hope this tiff doesn’t last as long as the last one.”
“I thought you hated him.” Sibley examines Deborah over the rim, slowly drinking her tea.
Deborah shrugs. “I know his friendship used to mean a lot to you.”
Sibley opens her mouth to say something, then abruptly shuts it.
“Oh, honey, would you mind if I borrowed your laptop?” Deborah asks. “I’d like to look something up.”
“I think I left it in your bedroom.”
“Hmm . . . I checked earlier and couldn’t find it.” Deborah sips her chamomile.
“I don’t remember taking it back upstairs, but I’ll look.”
Sibley disappears upstairs for a few minutes, and when she returns, she insists, “It’s not up there.”
Deborah swallows her last drink of tea. “Let me search my bedroom again.”
“By the way, were you upstairs in my room?” Sibley leans against the doorjamb. “It smells like Jonathan’s old cologne.”
“No, honey. Not today.”
“Weird. Well, I’m going to bed. Night.”
After Sibley disappears back upstairs, Deborah washes out the mugs and sets them on the counter to dry. A wave of nausea settles over her, and unsteady on her feet, she hurries to the bedroom to collapse onto the edge of the bed. Not only is she queasy, but her eyesight also isn’t cooperating. Deborah must’ve taken too many pills earlier, and according to her stomach, she’s going to pay for it. Everything is out of focus, as if Deborah can’t hold her liquor and is about to pass out. She hasn’t felt this way since the first time she accidentally got drunk on communion wine.
Certain she’s about to throw up, she stumbles to the bathroom and splashes her face with cold water. Without bothering to turn on the light switch, Deborah sits alone in the dark for a moment, shutting her eyes against the brewing dizzy spell.
When she opens them, she swears she sees a mysterious figure. Something seems off, obscured, like a shadow puppet dancing across the bathroom wall.
Frantic, Deborah turns on the light, but it’s only her reflection lit up in the mirror. While she waits for her stomach to either expel or digest the contents, Deborah brings her face close to the chipped medicine cabinet, staring at her lined complexion.
How did this happen? she wonders. Where did the years go?
As she’s frowning at herself, Deborah hears a feminine voice ask, “Are you upset about the dress?”
When she doesn’t respond, a young blonde girl appears behind her in the glass. “Or the intruder?”
Stunned, Deborah whispers, “You’re not her, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not Sibley.”
“Then who am I?” The cherubic face smiles at her, but it appears stiff and forced.
“You sent me those letters, didn’t you?”
“Of course. But you didn’t respond. I was never your favorite.”
“What was I supposed to say?” Deborah removes a smudge on the glass with her finger. “You tried to blackmail me, Soren.”
The blonde girl starts to fade from sight, her translucent skin and wheat-colored hair disappearing from view first, leaving nothing but two gaping black holes where her eye sockets should be.
Deborah squints her eyes closed, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter. “Just go away,” she urges. “Just leave me alone, Soren.”
“Soren?” a voice asks.
When Deborah opens her eyes, the girl has morphed into a woman with similar features. “Who’s Soren?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.”
“Mother, what are you talking about? And who’s Soren?”
“I thought you were dead.”
“Dead?” Now it’s the woman’s turn to vanish, except her voice is loud and clear. “Whatever gave you that impression? I know you tried to have me killed, but I guess my desire to live was stronger.”
“No!” Deborah says forcefully. “You died at the hospital. That’s what they . . .”
“Mother,” a different female voice interrupts, “you’re really freaking me out right now.”
“Oh, is that so?” Deborah groans. “What about what you’re doing to me? You
