The Ghostwriter

  I can’t think. I can’t do. I stare at the blue screen and relive every minute of that tape. His excited grunt. His whisper against her ear. My eyes drag off the screen and over to the cabinet, to all of the other VHS tapes, all labeled in Simon’s neat font. My stupid husband had assembled enough brain cells to hide his hellish past in clear sight. Football. A label I was guaranteed to never reach for. There are so many others. Golf Tournaments. Hockey matches. Baseball. How many of them are like this one? How truly terrible is the father of my child?

  Something in me lurches, a panic, the realization that time is ticking, and I am wasting it. I glance at the blackout curtains, and wonder how low the sun is, trying to remember the last time I looked at a clock. It’s afternoon, probably at least three. Hopefully not four. He will be home soon, may be driving here right now from the school, his SUV eating up the miles.

  I push to my feet and stagger out of the room, my shoulder catching on the doorjamb, my eyes blurry as I make it to the hall, Bethany’s door closed, the distance so far, the time too short, my heart galloping in my chest. I am having a panic attack. All of the signs are here. I wipe at my forehead and my fingers come away wet. My chest aches, breath labored, tingling in my fingertips. I need to find a clock, to see how little time we have. I can’t be here when he gets home. Just one look at me, and he’ll know. I push open Bethany’s bedroom door and catch a piece of my heart when I see her at her desk.

  Blonde hair. Not long enough to be braided. Pajama pant leggings, a dinosaur print repeating along the length of her leg. Would a man ever grab her in that way? Would a teenage boy whisper threats and promises against the soft skin of her forehead? Would her innocence be lost on grass and dead leaves?

  I close my eyes and set down the pen, moving the notepad off my lap and taking a deep breath, trying to calm the anxiety building in my chest. It’s been four years, yet this room is just the same. The smell of leather in the air. The expensive drapes, recliners, framed movie paraphernalia. Simon’s gaming desk. The giant projector screen and surround-sound speakers. Now, at my spot on the floor, my back against a couch—I am in reach of the duffel bag, the one that still sits, just inside the door. I pull it toward me, remembering how quickly I had packed it, the inside still an unorganized mess of VHS tapes. I carefully sift through them, digging to the bottom and finally finding the one—Packers vs Vikings 1998 Superbowl—that I watched that day.

  I came into this room planning to watch it first, before writing, but stepping inside, feeling the swell of emotions rise in my throat—I didn’t need any further trigger, didn’t think I could manage to see it again, to hear those muffled screams magnified through the extensive surround sound system. I shut the door, made it to the floor, and started to write, the memories as fresh and painful as if they just happened.

  Now, I look down at the damn tape. It’s heavier than I remember, and I turn it over in my hand, taking a good look at it for the first time. The label is worn, as if it was handled often, and there is tiny writing on the front sticker that I hadn’t noticed before. I turn my head and read it. Jess. I pick up a second tape, looking at the same place. This one has an initial after the name. Beth S. I rummage through another five or six, my mind straining to recall any of the names from Simon’s stories or past. None of them ring a bell. Then, a name that gives me pause. Charlotte B. A pain in my chest, one that started with the first name and grew with each new spotting—flares. Charlotte B. I shove aside the notebook and push myself up. Fumbling with the door, I rush into the hall and startle Mark when I burst into the office. “Call Charlotte Blanton.” I pant out the words, my heart beating rapidly. “She works for the New York Post. Ask her if she is from North Virginia.”

  The woman I’ve run from, avoided. I have some questions about your husband. I thought she was suspicious of me, of Simon’s death. Now, I see her question, her email, her pursuit, in an entirely different light. A victim.

  I close the office door and return to the media room, stepping over the pile of tapes, of all of the names I have yet to read. I grab the notepad, my eyes dragging back to the videotape, to the neat print and the simple name. Jess.

  I’ve told myself, for four years, that she doesn’t matter, that Simon is dead and can’t hurt her anymore. I’ve told myself that what happened on this tape is fifteen years old, and that she’s a grown woman now, the scars of her past healed. I’ve told myself—I’ve convinced myself, that because I killed him, that I didn’t owe her anything else.

  Something stops in my chest, and the guilt is almost impossible to breathe through. I tighten my fingers around the pen and force myself to lower it to the page.

  “Bethany.”

  My daughter stops, her head turning, one faint eyebrow rising at the urgent way I’ve said her name. Something in my stance, in the way I cling to the door, gives her additional pause. I must look crazy. Surely, the panic bolting through my chest is showing in my eyes. My eyes catch on her bed, the piles of stuffed animals, and I think of the prior weekend, of the two girls who spent the night with her. They’d been Bethany’s age, just five or six. Surely too young, half the age of the girl on the video. Still, my stomach seizes. “Pack your backpack with your favorite things. Whatever you can fit inside it. Be quick.”

  I need to go to the police. I need to take the tapes, all of the tapes… my mind bounces to the attic, to the boxes and boxes of Simon’s high school days, yearbooks and letterman jackets and awards. I came into our marriage with a stack of notebooks and my computer. He came with a storage facility worth of past. How much of it is tainted? How many secrets are packed in these walls?

  I am suddenly frantic with the need to know everything. His computer history. His student’s names. Simon teaches sixth grade, could he have… I push through Bethany’s room and into her private bath, my knees hitting the hard tile in the moment before I vomit.

  I’ve been a terrible wife, a terrible mother. I’ve let a monster run free.

  Another surge of matter comes up my throat and I grip the cool porcelain, my stomach contracting, breasts painfully pinned to the bowl as my lunch—spaghetti with bits of broccoli—comes up. Dirty water speckles my face from the impact of vomit, and I wipe at my cheek, Bethany’s voice timid and scared from her new place at the door. “Are you oh-kay?” she whispers.

  “I’m fine,” I croak, and I wait a moment to see if my stomach is done. “Pack, Bethany.”

  “Where are we going?”

  A great question. First, the police station. Then? After they arrest Simon? I can’t return here. I can’t live in a house that’s housed so many lies. Maybe Bethany and I should go on a vacation. Come back and move to a new house, maybe a new city. One away from my Mother, from Simon’s incarceration. Yes. I warm to the idea instantly. Maybe Florida.

  I push carefully to my feet, letting my equilibrium adjust before I move to the sink and wash out my mouth, my mind quickly flipping through the things I need to do.

  Grab every tape I can find.

  Empty the safe.

  Put Bethany in the car and drive straight to the police.

  Downstairs, there is the loud scrape of the front door as it swings open and someone steps inside. I freeze, my hand jerking out and turning off the water, my ears straining for sound. Simon.

  “Helena?” My name bounces up the stairs, and I almost collapse with relief.

  “Mother?” I bump the edge of the doorframe on my way out of Bethany’s room, and run to the top of the stairs.

  “Helena, can I borrow your hot glue gun? I’ve got to—“ she peers up at me, her hands clasped on the banister, her head craning in an unnatural fashion. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” The question is a mix of accusation and worry. I can feel the mix of judgment and superiority before she even rounds the stairs.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” The lie falls out as easily as breathing, and my mind immediately questions the deceit. Maybe
I should tell her. I could show her what sits in that VCR just down the hall. I could tell her that her stupid golden boy, the man who she sided with over her daughter, is a fucking pedophile. I open my mouth, then swallow it all when Bethany bolts past me. “JayJay!!!!” My daughter bounds down the stairs, and I rapidly run through my options. I think of the feeling that had cut through me when that front door opened. I think of what time it must be, and what I still need to do, and what will happen if Simon comes home and Bethany and I are still here.

  In that split second, I make a decision, one that removes any risk to Bethany from the equation.

  “Can you take Bethany?” I turn, and enter her room, opening her closet and grabbing the first shoes I find, sprinting back to the hall and down the steps—almost colliding with my mother, who is headed up.

  “Take Bethany where?”

  “To your house. Just for an hour or two. I’ll come by and pick her up.”

  “Let me guess. Struck with inspiration?” There is that plaintive tone in her voice, the one that thinks my stories are childish, and family should always come first.

  I grit my teeth and take advantage of the accusation, one that won’t broach new questions. “Yes. Just for an hour or two. I’ll come by and pick her up from your house.”

  “You know I always love to watch her.” She smiles tightly. “But I would like that glue gun if you have…”

  “I’ll bring it with me. I need to find it.” I hold out Bethany’s shoes and can’t stop the tremble in my hands. “I’ll be there soon.”

  “With the glue gun,” she prods. I’m not bringing her my freaking glue gun. I am going to collect every shred of evidence I can find, pick up my daughter, and run. I’m going to keep Bethany by my side until I know that he is in handcuffs, and then we will move far away. Far away from this woman and her judgments. Far away from this house and that media room. Far away from the man who will never, ever, look at my daughter in that way.

  “Yes.” I smile and all but push her down the stairs. “I promise I’ll bring the glue gun.” Bethany flies by in her dinosaur pajamas and I call out her name. She turns, her arms obediently reaching up and wrapping around my neck, a quick grip of messy fingers and peanut butter breath. I hug her tightly, her body squirming, her patience gone by the time I release her. “I love you.” I whisper against her hair. “Be safe.”

  “Love you Mama.” She brings a hand to her mouth and blows a kiss, the dramatic gesture one learned from a recent movie, the act practiced on every person she comes in contact with. She zigs to the right and then the front door is open and she is out into the sun, my mother looking after her disapprovingly. “She’s wearing pajamas,” she states, as if it mattered, as if tiny dinosaurs affect a child’s day. I myself am still in pajamas, though mine are boring and navy, the same ones from yesterday. She glances at my top, at its big fabric buttons, and sniffs.

  Everything in my life suddenly rests on bus duty. Would Simon have it? Would I have an extra forty-five minutes or is he in his car, right now, pulling into our neighborhood? If he gets here before she leaves, everything will be ruined. If he passes her in the neighborhood, he might flag her down and ask questions. My panic rises. “Mother, please go.” I feel faint with panic and I grip the banister, almost sinking down to sit on the first step.

  “Okay, oh-kay.” She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. “You really don’t look well, Helena. Next week, I’m getting you in at my acupuncturist. No arguing about it. I’m putting my foot down.”

  “Fine.” I lick my lips and can taste the salt of my sweat. “Next week.”

  She pats my arm and her self-satisfaction hangs in the air. “Good girl.” When she walks out the door, it is as slow as a pallbearer. When she shuts the door, I bolt back up the stairs.

  There are so many tapes. I don’t have time to determine which are real memories and which are horrific moments. Half of them are small cassettes, the kind that fit inside a standard-size VHS. I’ve been stupid. All of these sporting events, recorded in person? Simon hadn’t been jetting around the country at sixteen, eighteen, twenty—a camcorder in hand, shooting pro football games. He had been in that town in Virginia, living in that farmhouse, wowing the local residents with his dimples and spiral pass. I grab a duffel bag from our closet and fill it with tapes. I eye the DVDs, our movie collection impressive, and consider adding them to the bag. Could a homemade DVD be tucked inside that Friday the 13th sleeve? Or inside the Madden 2016 case? I step away from the entertainment tower without grabbing them, the duffel bag too heavy already. I am lifting it over my shoulder when my gaze catches on the giant desk, one that took three men to carry upstairs, custom-designed to hold two monitors, a Mac Pro tower, and every possible upgrade. His computer. It is a convenient babysitter, one that keeps Simon busy for hours every evening while Bethany sleeps and I write. I don’t know the passwords, haven’t touched the thing in years. My stomach turns at what it might hold, at what websites he must visit.

  The media room door swings open, and I look up into Simon’s face.

  “Helena.” He studies my face, and I know what he must see. The blotchy skin, the sweat, panic in my eyes, the tremble of my lips. I lie well, but will fail terribly with a man who knows all my tells. His eyes drop to the duffel bag, then dart behind me. I don’t have to turn my head to picture the open cabinets, tapes missing, the mess there must be. “What’s in the bag?” He is good. There isn’t a shaky note in his voice, no crack in his composure. He looks at me, and isn’t even afraid. He should be afraid. He should be terrified. He should drop to his knees, full of explanations.

  Instead, he steps closer, and I think of his confident stroll toward the young blonde.

  I remember how much I used to love his height, his build, the strong lean muscles that line his body. He was so opposite of anything I’d ever expected to end up with. Beautiful where I was plain. Strong where I was weak. Now? Evil where I am innocent.

  My plain weak innocence fails me when his fingers wrap around my bicep, his short fingernails digging painfully into the skin, and I whimper in pain as he yanks me forward. It’s the first time, in our years together, he has ever touched me like that. A week ago, I would have said he wasn’t capable of violence. A week ago, I would have said he wasn’t capable of rape. Now, the man before me is a stranger and I am suddenly very, very afraid.

  “Let me go.” I’m against his chest, the duffel bag still clutched in my left hand, and I can’t release it, won’t release it.

  “Oh Helena.” He looks down at me, with eyes that sag with disappointment. “Why?”

  “Why?” I cough out the word, and spittle flies from my mouth, tiny white dots of saliva peppering the neck of his navy button-up shirt. So proper, my husband. Three-time Teacher of the Year. Loving Father of Bethany. Sickly-Sweet Rapist of Girls. I think of the blonde on the tape, her face as it changed from trust to fear. How many of them have there been? How many still exist? How many are here, in this town, in his classes? Is there a girl, right now, whose life he’s destroying?

  “Yes, Helena.” He steps into the hall, and drags me forward, the loose skin of my arm pinched in his grasp, the look in his eyes hard and unfocused. “Why did you have to snoop?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I scramble along behind him, trying to stand, to get my feet underneath me. Snoop. Has he ever used that word before? My brain shuffles for a better adjective. I hadn’t been snooping. I had been doing research. I trip over a transition piece in the floor. “What are you doing?” I get one foot in place and try to plant my feet, to stop the forward movement. One of his hands comes loose and he grabs a handful of my hair. The pain, when he yanks, is blinding. I scream, and he drags me forward, his hand so tight on my bicep he must be leaving bruises. We come to the top of the stairs and he stops. “What are you doing?” I gasp, my neck bent, head almost sideways, in an attempt to relieve the pain agains
t my scalp. If he jerks his hand to the right, my head will collide with the banister’s marble pillar. I close my eyes and try to think.

  Simon is not a planner. He doesn’t think of details. He often forgets necessary items and skips instruction manual steps. He embarks on projects, then changes his mind. Right now, I can feel his brain working, the frantic search for a solution. The chances are high that he kills me right now—smashing my head against the banister, or tossing me down the stairs. He might make that snap decision without thinking through the consequences, without thinking of how he will dispose of me and his alibi and the hundred tiny details that murderers are responsible for.

  “Where’s Bethany?” He turns his head toward her door, which stands open, the room still and quiet. Had Bethany been home, she would have heard him come in, squealed with happiness and thundered down the hall. That, I might have heard from the media room. That might have given me time to hide the evidence and return to my office. That might have saved me from whatever terrible plan he is about to come up with. But that would have put her in danger, and I’d rather die than have risked that.

  He yanks at my hair and I can’t stop the sob in my throat. My knees hit the floor and part of the pain in my neck ceases. “Where is she?”

  I can’t think of a lie quickly enough. “My mom has her.” If he goes to her, I can steal the tapes. I can steal the tapes, and go to the police, and they will hunt him down. He won’t hurt Bethany, and certainly not in the brief time it will take to catch him. And they will catch him. He isn’t smart enough to hide, and is stupid enough to think that he can.

  “Did you tell your mother?” He leans down until our faces are just inches apart. He bites his top lip, and I can smell the coffee on his breath. Mr. Parks, Teacher of the Year.