Staring at my bewildered face, she hurriedly adds, “Not easier to handle but more straightforward to diagnose.” Perusing her notes, she murmurs, “Deborah hasn’t yet mentioned that name in our sessions. Let me ask you . . .” She swipes a misbehaving piece of hair that’s loosened from her knot. “When she accuses you of being a fraud, what do you do or say?”
“You mean, how do I defend myself?”
“Yes.”
“I got upset and argued with her. Tried to convince her she’s wrong.”
“Don’t.”
Dubious, I say, “Don’t tell Deborah she’s not in her right mind and I’m not lying about who I say I am?”
“Exactly.” Alice nods. “I know it sounds counterintuitive, but arguing with her over her reality will only heighten the severity of her reaction to you. In cases like these, it’s best to either redirect their focus to another activity or acknowledge her emotion.”
“Won’t she think I’m lying, then?”
“Not necessarily. It’s like playing pretend as a child. You go along with it. In this case, it’s for your safety, which raises another question: Has she been violent toward you?”
I hesitate, not wanting to admit the truth. Sidestepping the question, I ask, “Does this disease make someone prone to violence?”
“It depends,” Alice discloses, “on what’s going on in someone’s brain. Have you had any altercations with her that made you feel unsafe?”
“Last night. She, uh, she tried to stab me,” I say ashamedly. “Actually, she did.”
“I need to take some notes, Sibley. If you don’t mind.” Her furrowed brow is worrisome. “That’s troubling. Violence isn’t always a factor, but when it is, it can mean . . .”
A shiver goes down my spine. “She won’t stop until I’m dead?”
The automatic flush on her pale cheeks tells me I’m right. Her watch signals a call coming through, and I notice the initials RF flashing on the diminutive screen.
I reach down to grab my wallet out of my purse. “What do I owe you?”
She furiously shakes her head. “I don’t want payment. Consider this a favor to your mother.”
Shakily, I stand, my limbs as rubbery as overcooked pasta. “Even for the copies?”
“No.” She stands. “Let me go grab the envelope.”
When her ballet flats shuffle back across the room, I snap my fingers, remembering another question I had. “Oh, Dr. Alacoy—I mean Alice.” I cradle the envelope underneath my arm.
“Yes?”
“So you’re basically telling me to kill or be killed?”
“Well, I don’t condone murder.” Tilting her head, she murmurs, “I’m telling you to be careful.” Sliding her card across the desk, she says, “Even though I’m going out of town, if you need me, here’s my cell. If anything changes with Deborah’s moods, call me. And Sibley,” she cautions, “if you’re digging in the past or asking her to conjure up old memories, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s for the greater good.” She pats my arm. “Sometimes, what we forget is more important than what we remember.”
CHAPTER 43
Sibley
After I reach my car, I contemplate the jumble of words Dr. Alacoy mentioned. They spin through my head like it’s a turbulent washing machine.
Capgras syndrome.
The imposter syndrome.
Lewy body disease, possibly.
Inside my vehicle, I don’t even get the key in the ignition before the sobs overcome me. The idea of my mother losing her mind, piece by piece, is enough to drive me straight to the farm. I can’t leave her alone. If she’s a prisoner in her mind, descending into madness, she needs me now more than ever. In folklore, there are mythical shape-shifters who, through superhuman abilities, can transform and emulate other beings, whether by divine intervention or manipulation. And though I’m a believer of science and not sorcery, it’s as if another person has inhabited her.
I came home to sort out my own past, provide myself some clarity, and now I’m amid a Hitchcockian thriller.
I sadly wonder if it would be different if I hadn’t left all those years ago. Deborah has had a rough life, and I’ve only exacerbated it, whether I was in proximity or not. And I can’t take all the blame; so much was out of my control and without my knowledge.
An unknown number shows up on my caller ID, but I don’t answer. I’m not in the mood to talk. It rings again, so I shut the sound off.
When I pull into the driveway, my stomach is in knots and thunderclouds are moving in, signaling a shift in weather. I’m apprehensive about a shift in moods. I guess I will have to wait and see which Deborah I get today.
Will I be an intrusive stranger or a welcomed daughter?
I don’t have to wonder for long, because she’s barricaded herself inside her bedroom. I guess I have my answer. I sigh.
I search for my laptop and become frustrated when I can’t find it. Tempted to knock, I listen at Deborah’s door for signs she’s awake, but I don’t hear any noise from her television or sense any movement inside.
Exhausted, I lie down in bed and stare at the ceiling. The room’s now filled with weird energy since my last night sleeping here, when Deborah decided I was an imposter.
Thinking about what the psychiatrist said, I pull out the envelope I have tucked into my tote bag. As I read through the sheaf of papers in Dr. Alacoy’s handwriting, I’m struck at the similarity between her writing and someone else’s, but I can’t place it. It looks oddly familiar.
I hear a loud rumble, and thinking it’s Deborah, I sit straight up in bed.
It’s not, but it is a sign a storm is on the way.
Unable to sleep, I decide to take a shower, and after locking the bathroom door, I shiver as the water runs down my back. Carefully, I wash the wound on my shoulder. I
