CHAPTER 42
Sibley
I slam the vehicle in reverse before I stomp down on the gas. Chunks of gravel spit as I back up and seesaw out of the driveway, a whir of dust clouding my path.
Speculating about what might be going on with my mother, I wonder if she has dementia or some form of early-onset Alzheimer’s. Deborah has moments of clarity, and then she becomes a whole other person. I’ve read cases and seen movies with these tragic storylines. The patient typically forgets a face or name and gradually loses their cognitive ability to remember people.
This seems, I don’t know, drastic on another level.
And Soren. I tap my fingers on the wheel.
I need to figure out who this person is to my mother. She kept referring to Soren as “not her daughter,” and I’m beyond confused.
Is she seeing double, or is there something going on with her cognitive functions? Maybe she thinks I’m a double, one part Jekyll, one half Hyde.
I remind myself it doesn’t have to be rational, because my mother’s actions aren’t at the present time.
Wasn’t Einstein the one who said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?
Clearly, I can’t get through to Deborah in her psychosis, or whatever she’s experiencing behind the vacuous expression in her eyes.
I park my car in an empty parking lot, knowing I can’t go back and face Deborah again this evening. For once, I have no desire to ply my nerves with more alcohol. The events of tonight have sobered me up.
I need answers. If Dr. Alacoy won’t speak to me on the phone, I’ll go to her.
I recline the seat in the car, though it’s impractical to think I’ll sleep—first because of the pain radiating from my shoulder, and second, because I keep imagining her coming at me with a kitchen knife. I’m tempted to find a twenty-four-hour drugstore, but I remember everything closes relatively early here.
With a couple hours of restless sleep to my name, I rub my eyes at the intruding sunlight and yank down the visor. I manage to fold up in the back seat for a few more hours, a jacket from the trunk slung over my face to block out the brightness.
When the pharmacy opens, I kill some over-the-counter pain pills for my sore shoulder and rebandage it. I wonder if I should call Doc Marshall to check if I need stitches.
Since no office hours are listed on Dr. Alacoy’s door, and it’s still locked after 9:00 a.m., I wait impatiently at the local coffee shop near the window.
I’m about to call Dr. Alacoy’s cell again when a window shade goes up across the street. When I walk in, the door that was closed before is now open, and I’m surprised to find it’s a small, cozy office, no bigger than my living room back home. The wall divides the office into two adjoining sections, one waiting area and one patient-treatment room.
“Hello?” I knock on the wood doorframe, startling the woman on her hands and knees.
“Holy shit!” she exclaims, half rising. “You scared me!”
When she stands up, she’s a few inches taller than me, even in her sensible flats. She’s dressed in a shapeless dress, and her bleached-blonde hair is knotted in a bun on top of her head.
“I lost an earring,” she groans, pointing to her earlobe.
“That sucks.” Frazzled, I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t mean to bother you; I just thought we could chat for a moment.”
“Is this about scheduling an upcoming appointment?” she asks. “Unfortunately, I’m leaving on vacation this afternoon.”
“No, it’s, uh, it’s about my mother.”
“Oh.” She looks confused. “Your mother?”
“Deborah Sawyer. And I’m Sibley.”
“Patient confidentiality is my first priority,” she explains. “I’m entrusted with safeguarding my clients and acting as their confidante.”
“Understandable.” I nod in agreement. “We all have fiduciary duties to clients or patients.”
“Exactly.” She fervently nods too. “You get it. Are you in the medical field?”
“Absolutely not. I can’t stand the sight of my own blood.” I shrug. “And I have enough problems I can’t fix on my own. How could anyone trust my advice, right?”
Dr. Alacoy stares at me with curiosity. I’m blabbering, and I need to stop.
“I just need access to her medical records,” I finish.
“There should be a form you can download on my website,” Dr. Alacoy says. “If Deborah’s willing to sign the HIPAA waiver, it would cover everything but the psychotherapy notes. If you need those, the documentation is more rigorous in terms of consent.”
“Actually,” I say, trying another tactic, “Dr. Marshall sent me over here. He wanted me to catch you before you left on your trip.” I grimace. “He’s a longtime family friend and our doctor. He’s worried she’s in grave danger.”
Her brow furrows. “Is that so?”
“Yes. It’s an emergency,” I say. “Do you know Dr. Marshall?”
“I do. He works out of the hospital, but I still need the paper signed unless he can scan it from his office. We can schedule a time when I get back, if you’d like.”
“How about this?” I offer. “I’ll go get this signed now. My mother’s next door at the salon, and I’ll be right back.”
“Then why didn’t she come with—”
I interrupt. “I’ll pay you cash for a full session, whatever the going rate is.”
She hesitates.
“Please,” I beg. “It’s important. If not, I’ll have to call Doc Marshall, and he’ll probably want to speak with you directly.”
Looking flustered, Dr. Alacoy hands me a typewritten form, and I try not to run out to my car. After forging my mother’s signature, I wait a respectable amount of time to bring it back in. My sweaty palm perspires on the release as I hand it to her. Trying not to be visible, I wipe my hands on a tissue from my purse.
She peers down her glasses at me. “Does Deborah not want to come in today as
