Imposter. Jill Hathaway

      The thought of me in a habit, dancing around a mountaintop and singing or some crap, makes me smile. I hold on to the image as I blow my nose.

      The doorbell rings.

      He’s back.

      He’s changed his mind and has come back.

      I peek in the bathroom mirror and make sure my face isn’t too blotchy. Then I hurry out into the foyer. The light is on outside, but through the sheer curtain, I can barely make out the figure standing there.

      I throw the door open, ready to tell Rollins what an idiot I was being and that we should just stay best friends and that’s totally cool with me.

      But it’s not Rollins standing on my front porch.

      It’s my dead mother.

       don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. I feel my jaw drop open, but I can’t force my lips to move or exhale the breath required to make a sound.

      Logically, I know this can’t be my mother. I was there the day she died. I attended her funeral, dropped a single white rose onto her coffin as it was lowered into the ground. It’s as though my eyes are betraying me. She’s just as I remember her—long blond hair, now wet from the rain that started up soon after Rollins took off. Her eyes are bright blue, just like mine. Only her clothes are different. Instead of the ripped jeans and band T-shirts my mother wore when I was little, this woman is wearing khakis and a button-down blouse under a peacoat. She is completely soaked. Mascara trails down her cheeks, but I can’t tell if it’s from the weather or if she’s been crying.

      After a moment, I realize this must be my mother’s sister, Lydia. She’s the aunt I never met. My father explained she moved to California a long while ago and lost touch with the family.

      “You must be Sylvia,” the woman says. “You look just like your mother.”

      I clear my throat. “So do you.”

      “Who’s here?” My father’s voice emerges behind me.

      “Hello, Jared,” Lydia says, almost businesslike. “It’s been a long time.”

      I turn to examine my father’s face. He looks like he’s in shock, just as I was a moment ago. He’s probably struggling with the very same emotions that flooded me—longing for his wife, who passed away years ago, confusion that someone who looks so much like her could just show up on our doorstep, unannounced. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, like he’s not sure what to say. I reach out and touch his arm.

      “I’m sorry to just show up like this.” The woman gestures to the yellow Toyota parked in the driveway. “I can leave if you like.”

      “No,” my father says quickly. “No, don’t go. I’m sorry. I just . . . wasn’t prepared. Come on in. It’s raining buckets outside. Don’t you have an umbrella?”

      I notice a small suitcase on the porch beside Lydia. She stoops down to grab the handle and then walks through the door that my father is holding open for her. I take a step back. It’s so strange to see my aunt here, in my house. She honestly looks like my mother’s ghost.

      “I didn’t bring an umbrella,” Lydia explains, pulling off her soggy coat. “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment-type thing.”

      My father takes the coat from her and hangs it on the coat-tree. “You must be freezing. Would you like some coffee?”

      Shivering, Lydia nods. “That would be great.”

      I hear a thump come from the living room, followed by giggling. If Mattie were to walk into the room right this second, I realize, she would be in for a shock.

      “I’m going to go let my sister know that you’re here,” I say.