The Ghostwriter

  “That’s sweet.” And it is, in a redneck sort of way. “What kind of girl was she?”

  He surprises me, laughing. “Reckless. You ever met a Cajun woman?”

  “No.”

  “They’re hell. I thought women from Texas had backbone. Half our relationship, I was terrified of her. The other half I spent trying my best to protect her from herself.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “She was wild. Not afraid of anything. She’d climb on our wildest stallion and try to break him. She’d walk into the worst bar in Memphis and make friends.” He looks down at the page, his smile drooping into something more melancholy.

  I’d envisioned his wife as a chubby ball of Southern hospitality, one with an apron on and Christian music softly playing. Instead, she sounds fascinating, the type of woman I want to get on paper, right away, before her vision fades, before he says another word and ruins her. “Is your daughter like her?”

  “Not really. I think God looked at the two of us and picked out the better parts. Maggie is quieter. She thinks through things before she acts. And she doesn’t drink or smoke—has no interest in either.” I glance at the soda before him, knowing the answer but still wanting to voice the question.

  “Who was the drinker?”

  “Both of us. She with wine, me with liquor. Luckily, we were both friendly drunks.” He runs a hand over the knee of his jeans. “Ready to get back to work?”

  It is an abrupt change, and I watch as he stands and stretches. “Sure.” I pick up the pen and eye the clean page before me. Part of me wants to go back to work. The other part of me wants to abandon the novel altogether, to run away from Simon and his crooked smile and all of the ways he used to make me feel.

  We all have a Happily Ever After, each story just needs to pick the right time to claim it. And at this stage in the Simon and Helena story, this is as good as it got: his proposal, my carefully considered acceptance. After this? After our wedding?

  It started to go downhill.

  As Mark writes, I steal out of the office and down the hall. I stop at Bethany’s door, gulping at air, and I don’t know if I’m breathless from the exertion of movement or what I’m about to do. When I finally reach forward, my hands tremble, carefully pulling at the edges of the tape, undoing the handwritten piece of paper—one of her first lists—from the door.

  “My rules!” When she screamed, I could feel it in my bones, brittle parts of me breaking inside. “You said that I could request reasonable things and that my feelings would be respected!”

  “We can’t remember all of your rules, Bethany.” I turned to Simon helplessly. This is why I hadn’t wanted a child. I had fifteen hundred words left to write, and she was throwing a temper tantrum over me turning off her bedroom light.

  “Why don’t you write them down?” Simon suggested, crouching down before her, his hands gently holding hers. “Write down your requests, and we’ll vote on them, as a family. If they are all reasonable, then you can keep them, and we will follow them.”

  “You promise?” It wasn’t a request, but a threat, her eyes cutting to me, accusation in them. “You’ll follow the rules, Mommy?”

  “Yes,” I said exasperated. “I’ll follow the rules.”

  My rules had always been an unorganized set—lists I kept in my head, though I certainly vocalized them enough during my life. It wasn’t until Bethany created her own, her practiced script posted on that empty door, that I realized how much simpler it was when the rules were properly stated and communicated. Less than a week after we voted on Bethany’s rules, I began recording my own. Some, like Kate Rodant’s, I shared with the applicable parties. Others, like my Ten Rules for Dealing With My Mother, or my Five Rules of Sex, I kept to myself, in a notebook, frequently editing them, depending on my moods. I didn’t write a set for Simon. If I had, they would have drained my pens of ink. He was a walking pile of mess and disorganization, a man who enjoyed hangovers and dripping nachos, impromptu sex and a lack of retirement planning.

  I may not have been a good mother. I may have been—as my attorney and mother believed—unfit, but I had followed Bethany’s rules. When music played, I danced with her—our arms swinging through the air, our hips bouncing in time to the beat. I didn’t touch her art. I brought cookies—Fudge Stripes, wrapped in a paper towel, and formally presented to her as if payment for passage.

  I open her door and reverently carry the paper to her desk, softly setting it down, realizing the ridiculousness of my precautions as soon as it flops onto the surface. I am treating it as I would have before, back when I needed to preserve her things for the rest of my lifetime. Now, with that timeline chopped, I don’t need to use such care. It only needs to last another two and a half months.

  When I close the door and twist the key in the lock, I can see the faint outline of where the list sat, sticky residue still present along the corners. Before my prognosis, I would have immediately cleaned it, unable to move away from the door until it sparkled. Today, I can barely stuff the key in my pocket, my lungs tight, my heart in pain as I move away from her room and toward the stairs.

  I have to lock it up. I’m not ready for him to see it or hear about her. Not yet.

  I grip the sides of the white granite counter, my breathing short and shallow, my vision spotting. I close my eyes, focus on my inhalations, the exercise doing little to calm the gallop of my heart. I turn away, leaning against the counter, and press my fingers on my eyelids in an attempt to stop the tears from falling.

  There is a soft knock, and I am not fast enough to reach for the knob, to flip the lock. The door creaks open and Simon is there, those handsome features tight with concern. His gaze darts to the counter, to the white stick there. The word PREGNANT is stark and final, and there is a break in his expression, a moment of clear and uncontained joy. He gathers me against his chest and I sob, his happiness causing a fresh injection of panic. He whispers my name, wraps his arms tighter, his kiss soft against my forehead, my tears. “It will be okay,” he swears. “My beautiful, sweet, girl. I promise you, this will be the best thing that has ever happened to us.”

  He was right, of course. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. The best, but also the worst.

  The new medicine is turning me into a zombie. On Thursday, I hear the mail when it comes, the squeak of the vehicle’s brakes, and I lift my head off the recliner, considering the effort to get up, walk through the house, down the steps, and to the end of my drive. The doctor promises that next week will be better, that my body will adjust to the medicinal cocktail, and I’ll feel almost normal. In the meantime, he stresses, I need to have as much activity as possible, and drink lots of fluids.

  Activity is a joke, unless moving a pen across a page counts. Drinking fluids has been an easy directive, the floor littered with empty bottles, my energy level too poor to pick them up, and I can feel my pristine environment slipping away with each pill I take.

  It used to be that the clean and empty house calmed me. It was why I got rid of all of the furniture, all of the memories. It was too painful to look at the furniture, photos, and bits of our old life. I didn’t want to sit on the couch where Bethany lost her first tooth, or at the table Simon and I once made love on. I didn’t want the Peter Lik that I bought with my second bestseller, or the crockpot we got as a wedding present. I wanted it all gone, each item attached to a memory, each day an assault of What Used To Be. I wanted a fresh start, and it worked. The blank slate felt like a different house, one without secrets and death, one where I hadn’t been a fool, one where I had loved Bethany properly, and done everything right.

  Now, with Mark and Chef Debbie’s presence added to the house, it just feels odd. He suggested I use a heating pad that I don’t own. He asked for a bucket when I was nauseous, needed a wrench to fix the sink, both things I threw out four years ago. Debbie has bumped around with the limited d
ishes I own, my kitchen too bare to make much of anything, and finally started cooking elsewhere and just bringing the food here. Kate has been buying enough items to bankrupt us both, her frustrating appearances coupled with shopping bags full of useful items, and I hate that she keeps popping up, and that their presence is helping me. I am useless, empty and lacking in every sense except for the creation of plot.

  There is the hum of an engine, and the mailman drives off. I should go out there. It will give me some exercise. Plus, it’s been a solid week since I checked the mail. The box is probably full, an engraved invitation to anyone plotting to rob my house. Two months ago, I’d have welcomed them in with a smirk, hoping to fight to the death. Now, with this book off and running, my life is too valuable, a joust not worth the risk.

  I lower the footrest of the recliner and stand. I bend over and grab a few of the empty bottles, then straighten, making it to the trashcan, then across the kitchen and to the front door. There, I rest. Mark is gone, back to his hotel, plans to shower and change and hunt down some Thai food for dinner. He’s written eight thousand words in two days, an impressive feat, one that he barely blinks at. During that same time frame, I’ve slept and complained enough for three toddlers. Occasionally, in between snoring and bitching, I’ve marked up some of his work.

  It doesn’t need a lot of changes. He has talent, more than I had expected. I’d planned to mold him, to water his talent and watch it grow, to rewrite his weak words and create something from their framework. But in them, there is already greatness. My tweaks are small, the majority of his work left alone, my lack of effort almost disappointing. Almost. These last two days have been hell. I twist the knob and pull, the door unsticking and swinging open, the afternoon breeze coming in. It’s beautiful outside, one of those cheery days of fall, when a hint of heat is still in the air. It reminds me of summer days, spent on this porch. We had a tarp Simon would set up on the grass, a hose put at one end, the gradual hill of our lawn providing the perfect slide for Bethany. We added dish soap to make it slick, and she’d shriek with excitement as she slid down. It became an event, Simon adding balloons to our mailbox, and inviting the other kids on our street. Some weekends, we had as many as twenty kids streaking around that lawn, Bethany exhausted by the time the sun set and we cleaned it all up.

  I take the front steps carefully, moving among the memories, each one both painful and sweet, like poisonous chocolate, the sticky taste lingering far after I swallowed the piece. At the mailbox, there is a thick stack of envelopes, and I flip through them slowly. A utility bill moves aside and exposes a thin white envelope, my eyes narrowing at the sender’s name. Charlotte Blanton. I stop, one foot on the first step of the porch, and stare at it. What could it contain? What could this woman possibly need? Her behavior is stretching the limits of my patience. First her visit, then her email, and now this. I hold the envelope away from the stack, considering it.

  I’m afraid of it. Scared in the way that I was right after the funeral, the grief/guilt/paranoia cocktail contributing to my short-term dependency on pills, then alcohol, then work. Writing is what pulled me out of it, my characters pulling me away from the Ambien and wine, an impending deadline being the final push I needed to forget everything but my word count.

  Now, with just her name in the return address, I feel my throat close. “May I ask you a few questions?” Lying, my forgotten friend, would save me. If I had to, I could handle questions, just like I always have. “Please. It’s about your husband.”

  Inside the house, I feed the envelope into the garbage disposal, watching the white envelope spin to its death without any desire to see what lies inside.

  I have only nine weeks to go. Dodging Charlotte Blanton, during that time, is certainly doable.

  I lay back on the couch, my feet on a pillow, Simon’s head on my swollen belly. He turns his head, pulling up my shirt and presses a kiss against the skin. “How about the name Jacklyn?” he asks.

  I groan, running my hand through his hair and note, with affection, the way his hairline is changing. “No. How about Bella?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I knew a Bella once.”

  “You seem to have known a lot of girls,” I pout, tugging at a tuft of hair. “Good thing I’m not a jealous woman.”

  He grins, and I love the soft huff of his breath against my skin, the warm weight of his body as he lowers it against me.

  “You’re the only woman for me.” He kisses me, and I smile against his mouth, loving the gentle curve of his fingers over my belly.

  Mark’s cell rings, a muted tone from inside his shirt pocket. I look up from my spot on the floor, my back against the couch, pages of his work spread out before me. He doesn’t react, his butt perched at the edge of my chair, his fingers busy against his laptop. It rings again, and I wonder if he can hear it. “Your phone—“

  “Shh.” He doesn’t look at me, his eyes glued to the laptop screen as the clattering of keys reaches a crescendo. He hits a key with finality and sits back, one hand working open the pocket on the front of his shirt, his chin tucking into his neck as he peers at the screen. When he answers the phone, I set down my notebook, interested.

  His voice is friendly, then changes, worry creeping into the tones, the one-sided dialogue confusing. By the time he ends the call, I’m lost.

  “Is everything okay?” I watch him rise to his feet and I can see the distraction on his face, his cell phone twisting in his hand. I think of his daughter, and concern flashes through my mind.

  “It’s Mater. She—” he sees the look in my face and hurries to explain. “She’s one of my cows. And she’s birthing early.”

  Marka Vantly has cows. All the times I’ve envisioned my arch nemesis, it has been in an elegant penthouse, one that smells of perfume and fresh flowers, her days busy with waxing appointments and massages. Marka Vantly has cows. My imagination couldn’t have been more wrong. “So…” I try to understand the worry on his face. I don’t know anything about cows, but birthing seems to be a normal part of their life cycle.

  “I need to go home. Just for a day or two.” He pulls on his right ear, and glances toward his laptop, still open on my desk. “I’m sorry. She’s one of my oldest. I need to be there.” His hand falls and he looks up at me, a new light in his eye.

  I recognize the glance—the aha moment of a dumb idea. Simon used to get it all the time. You know what… he’d start, a thoughtful look crossing his face. Then he’d propose a “project,” like pushing out the guest room wall and turning it into a game room, one with pool tables, a bowling lane, and wet bar. Or the idea of throwing an Easter egg hunt for the entire neighborhood, complete with a bunny petting zoo and giant furry costumes for me and him. “All the kids can come,” he’d said, as if that was a good thing, as if I wanted hundreds of tiny feet all over our yard. That idea, he’d actually implemented, using Bethany as his pawn, me helpless against the two of them and their ideas of fun. Such bullshit, all of it. All lies, all selfishness and I was so stupid to enable it all, to stand there and foot the bill for what he wanted.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” He nods, as if this idea makes sense. “I got my plane. We can be in Memphis in two hours. I’ve got plenty of room at the ranch, and we can keep working—not lose this momentum.”

  “No.”

  “It’d be better for me to be around, in case you need something, or don’t feel well.”

  “You’re not my nurse, Mark. I’m a big girl. I managed just fine before you.”

  “When’s the last time you took a trip?” He steps back and leans against the desk, and I eye the legs of it, wondering at its strength. Bethany used to sit on that desk, her legs swinging, arms twirling, typically when I’d be trying to work. Her forty pounds couldn’t compare to him, his big shoulders, his wide thighs relaxing against the edge of the desk. It’s easy to imagine him around cows. Simon, in comparison, was smal
l, like me. His t-shirts fit me well, and his chin came just over the top of my head. I remember buying him 32 inch jeans. I remember thinking, as I searched for that ridiculous size, that I was above this. I had more important things to do, words to write, deadlines to hit. I was Helena Fucking Ross, and there I was—pushing a shopping cart, a baby drooling in the carrier before me, a freakin’ pacifier tied to my belt loop.

  I rub at my forehead, anxiety growing as memories collide with the present. I glance at Mark and realize he is waiting. Oh yes. His question. When was the last time I took a trip?

  It’s both the easiest question and the hardest. Did my overnight sprint to Vermont—just four weeks ago—count? I decide it doesn’t, and squirrel those two days away in the Never Going To Talk About bucket. That trip aside, my last trip was with both of them, Bethany strapped in the backseat, a cooler loaded into the back with juice boxes and yogurt sticks, our snacks covered until we hit the Canadian border. The seven-hour drive ended up taking ten, and we were all in a terrible mood by the time we hit the ski resort in Tremblant. It had been a rough start to a great weekend. I’d sprained my ankle within an hour of strapping on skis, and spent the next three days by a crackling fire, getting hours of uninterrupted writing time in while they explored the resort. We had gourmet dinners in the tiny village, one out of a fairy tale. Bethany had shrieked and splashed her way into the hot tub, her pink bathing suit sprinkled with snowflakes, the steam rising into the air, and I’d told her a story of a witch who cooked little children in her big cauldron, one that bubbled over a fire—and we’d turned the lights of the hot tub to red and I made evil faces and pretended to stir the cauldron, dunking her into the water every once in a while to make sure that she was evenly cooked. It was an incredible trip, even if Simon and I did fight on the ride home. Even if he did let her order chicken fingers and soda off the French restaurant’s menu—robbing her of a rare opportunity for culture. Instead, she ate tan sticks of chicken that had been nuked in a microwave somewhere, with a side of fries. Not even poutine. Just plain old French fries, dipped in fat globs of ketchup.