Ghosted

  It’s only a few blocks from the grocery store to my father’s house. In this tiny town, it's only a few blocks to get anywhere. I pull my old Toyota into his driveway and park as brakes screech in the street, a big yellow school bus coming to a stop in front of the house. Perfect timing. Lights flash and the door opens, a bundle of energy bursting off of the bus and rushing toward me. “Mommy!”

  I smile as I gaze at her, her hair wild even though I put it in a tight braid this morning. “Hey, little one.”

  Three-and-a-half feet tall, just shy of forty pounds—average, for a five-year-old, but that’s the only thing average about Maddie. Smart, compassionate, creative. She insists on dressing herself, which means nothing ever matches, but the girl somehow makes it work.

  Everything I do is all about her—anything to keep the smile on her face, because that smile is what keeps me going. It’s the reason I get out of bed in the morning. That smile tells me I’m doing okay.

  In a world filled with so much wrong, it’s nice to know I’m doing something right.

  She wraps her arms around my waist in a hug as the bus pulls away. I hear the door bang and watch as my father strolls out onto the porch.

  “Grandpa!” Maddie says excitedly, running to him. “I made you something!”

  She yanks her backpack off, dropping it to the old wood, and digs through it for a piece of paper—a drawing. She shoves it at him, and he takes it, a serious look on his face. Rubbing his scruffy chin, he squints his eyes as he studies it. “Hmmm…”

  Maddie stands in front of him on the porch, eyes wide. I stifle a laugh. How many times have I seen this play out? His house is wallpapered with her art. Same routine, every single time. She eagerly waits for his assessment, nervous, and without fail, he always says it’s the best whatever-she-drew he’s ever seen.

  “This,” he says, nodding, “is the greatest puppy I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

  Maddie laughs. “It’s not a puppy!”

  “It’s not?”

  “It’s a seal,” she says, yanking the top of the paper down to look at it. “See? It’s all gray and it’s got a ball!”

  “Oh, that’s what I meant! A baby seal is called a puppy, too.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Yep.”

  Maddie looks to me to be referee. “Mommy?”

  “They’re called pups,” I tell her.

  She turns back to him, grinning. “It’s a good puppy?”

  “The best,” he confirms.

  She hugs him before grabbing the drawing and running inside the house to hang it up.

  I join my father on the porch. “Nice save.”

  “Tell me about it,” he says, eyes studying me for a moment. “You’re off work early today.”

  “Yeah, well... it’s been one of those days,” I say—one of those days where the past comes rushing back. “Besides, I have to work a double tomorrow, so I’ve earned it.”

  “A double.” He looks confused. “Don’t you have plans tomorrow night?”

  “Yep.” I pause before correcting myself. “Well, I mean, I did.”

  I so rarely have time for a social life that I didn’t even consider that.

  “But I could use the money, and I’ve already got a babysitter on tap,” I say, slapping my father on the back. “Can’t say no to that.”

  Shaking his head, he sits down on an old rocking chair on the porch. It’s starting to drizzle again, the sky darkening. I lean against the railing, staring out at it as Maddie comes back outside, leaping off the porch.

  The girl loves storms.

  I can’t remember the last time I played in the rain.

  That’s what I think as I watch her running through the small front yard, splashing in the puddles and stomping in the mud.

  Did I ever have that much fun?

  Was my life ever that carefree?

  I can’t remember.

  I wish I could.

  “Something’s bothering you,” my father says. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  Turning around, I lean back against the wooden banister, crossing my arms over my chest as I regard him. He rocks back and forth, an identical chair beside him glaringly vacant. My mother used to sit there with him every morning, drinking coffee before he set off to work.

  We buried her a year ago.

  Twelve long months have passed, but the wound still feels raw, the memories of that day gnawing away at me. It was the last time I saw him, too, as I stood right here on this porch. If the headline I caught earlier is any indication, he’s had quite an interesting year.

  “What makes you think it has anything to do with him?” I ask, forcing myself not to react, like it doesn’t matter, but I’m not an actress.

  “You have that look again,” my father says. “That vacant, lost stare. I’ve seen it a few times, and it’s always him.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course. I’m fine.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t fine. I said you looked lost, not that you didn’t know your way.”

  He’s eyeing me warily. I’m not sure if there’s even a point to lying about it when the truth is written all over my face.

  And the truth is, I do feel lost.

  “Caught a story in a tabloid,” I say. “It claimed he’d gotten married.”

  “And you believe it?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s his life. He’ll do whatever he wants.”

  “But?”

  “But they’re filming in the city again.”

  “And you’re worried he’ll show up? Worried he’ll try to see her again?”

  My father motions past me, at where Maddie is still running around in the rain. I smile softly, as she twirls, oblivious that she’s the topic of conversation.

  “Or are you worried he won’t?” he continues. “Worried he gave up and moved on?”

  Maybe, I think, but I don’t say it. I don’t know which possibility worries me more. I’m terrified he’ll force his way into her life and break her heart with his brokenness like he once broke mine. But at the same time, the thought that he might’ve given up scares me just as much, because that’ll hurt her someday, too.

  The rain starts falling harder as I mull over those thoughts. Maddie is running circles around the puddles, soaked. Water streaks her face like falling tears, but she’s smiling, so happy, ignorant to my fears.

  “I should get going,” I say. “Before the storm gets any worse.”

  “Go on, then,” my father says, “but don’t think I haven’t noticed you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yeah, well, you know how it is,” I mumble, leaning down to kiss my father’s cheek before grabbing the backpack from the porch. “Maddie, time to go home, sweetheart!”

  Maddie runs for the car, yelling, “Bye, Grandpa!”

  “Bye, kiddo,” he calls out. “See you tomorrow.”

  Waving goodbye to my father, I follow her. She’s already buckled up when I get in the car.

  My eyes seek her out in the rearview mirror. Tendrils of her dark hair fall into her face. She tries to blow them away, her blue eyes watching me. She has a way of looking at you like she’s looking through you, like she can see how you’re feeling on the inside, those things you try not to let show. It’s unnerving sometimes. For being so young, she’s quite intuitive.

  Which is why I plaster a smile on my face, but I can tell she doesn’t buy it.

  Home is a small two-bedroom apartment a few blocks away. It’s not much, but it’s enough for us, and it’s what I can afford, so you’ll hear no complaints from me. As soon as I open the front door, Maddie takes off through the apartment.

  “Straight into the bathtub!” I shout, locking up behind me. I flick on the hallway light as I make my way to the bathroom, passing Maddie’s bedroom as I go, seeing she’s rooting through her dresser, looking for the perfect pair of pajamas.

  She’s fiercely
independent.

  Something she got from her father.

  “I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready!” she says as she runs into the bathroom when I get the water started. Shoving between the bathtub and me, she grabs the pink bottle of bubbles and squeezes some under the faucet, giggling, as always, when they start to form. “I got this, Mommy.”

  I take a step back. “You got this?”

  “Uh-huh,” she says, not looking at me, fixated on the filling bathtub. She sets the bottle of bubbles down on the floor near her feet before turning the knobs, shutting off the water. “I got this.”

  Like I said… independent.

  “Well, go on then. Do your thing.”

  I don’t close the door, but I give her some leeway, keeping an eye on her from outside the bathroom. I can hear her splashing, playing in even more water, like the rain hadn’t quite been enough. I use the time to gather up laundry, trying to distract myself, but it’s pointless.

  My mind keeps going back to him.

  I sort two weeks worth of dirty clothes into piles on my bedroom floor. Every time I pause, my eyes flicker to my closet, drawn to the old ratty box on the top shelf. I can’t see it from here, but I know it’s there.

  I haven’t thought about it in a while. I haven’t had a reason. Life has a way of burying memories.

  In my case, they’re buried under a mountain of other junk in the closet.

  I fight it, for a moment, but the pull is too much. Abandoning the laundry, I step straight for the closet, digging out the box.

  The cardboard rips when I yank it down, falling apart in my hands. Things scatter around the floor. A picture lands by my feet.

  I carefully pick it up.

  It’s him.

  He’s wearing his school uniform… or as much of it as he ever wore. No sweater, no jacket, and no dress shoes, of course. His white button down is unbuttoned, the tie draped around his neck. Beneath it, he’s wearing a plain black t-shirt. His hands are in his pockets, his head cocked to the side. He almost looks like a model, like the picture belongs in a magazine.

  A knot forms in my chest. It’s suffocating. I can feel the anger and sadness bitterly brewing inside of me, growing stronger as the years go on. My eyes burn with tears, and I don’t want to cry, but the sight of him takes me back.

  “All done!”

  My gaze darts to the doorway as the small cheery voice echoes through the bedroom. I grip the picture tightly, holding it behind my back. She’s dressed in a pair of red pajamas, her hair drenched on the ends, a few bubbles around her ears. Mud still streaks her right cheek.

  “All done?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “Did you even wash your hair?”

  “Nope.”

  Of course she didn’t. She can’t.

  “And what about your face?” I ask. “I’m starting to think you only played in the bubbles.”

  “So? I’m gonna get more dirty later!”

  “So?” I gasp, acting horrified. “You can’t stay dirty. You have school tomorrow!”

  She looks about as thrilled about school as I was as a child. Rolling her eyes, she shrugs, as if to say, ‘why does that matter?’

  Before I can say anything else, her attention shifts to the mess scattered along the floor, her eyes widening as she gasps. “Breezeo!”

  She dodges forward, snatching up the old comic book encased in a plastic protective sleeve. I freeze. I wouldn’t call it vintage, nor is it worth more than a few bucks, but I couldn’t ever bring myself to part with that comic.

  To me, it meant too much.

  “Mommy, it’s Breezeo,” she says, her face lit up with excitement. “Look!”

  “I see,” I say when she holds it up to show me.

  “Can we read it? Please?”

  “Uh, sure,” I say, moving one hand from behind my back to take the comic book from her. “But first, back into the bathtub.”

  She groans, making a face.

  “Go on.” I nod my head toward the doorway. “I’ll be there in a minute to wash your hair.”

  Turning, she trudges back to the bathroom. I wait until she’s gone to set the comic book down and pull the picture out from behind my back. I stare at it for a second, letting myself feel those things once again, before crumbling it up into a ball and discarding it on the floor with all of the other memories.

  Pulling out my cell phone, I scroll through it, dialing a number as I stroll down the hall, hearing it ring a few times before voicemail clicks on.

  ‘It’s Andrew. Can’t make it to the phone. Leave a message and I’ll give you a call.’

  Beep.

  “Hey, Drew. It’s, uh… Kennedy. Look, I’m going to have to take a rain check on tomorrow night. Something came up, and well, you know how it is.”

  Chapter 2

  JONATHAN

  The limo slows as it nears Eighth Avenue, the traffic thick at seven o’clock in the morning, just south of sunrise as the world heads to work. Friday. I’m sure the detours don’t help people get where they’re going, but it’s New York—they ought to be used to it. Never a day goes by that something isn’t going on here. They’re some of the most adaptable people on the planet—New Yorkers—but they’re also some of the most no-nonsense. They don’t have time for bullshit.

  And this morning, it feels like we’re all knee-deep in it.

  People line the streets as we near the metal barricades. Out-of-towners, I’m assuming, because locals aren’t usually the type to give a shit when filming happens in their territory. We’re more of a nuisance than anything, blocking off streets and shutting down neighborhoods, disrupting lives. I have nothing to do with any of that—I don’t pick the place, I just show up when they tell me to—but more than once I’ve had the blame thrown my way. Smug bastard, who does he think he is, shutting down part of Midtown during rush hour?

  “Word must’ve leaked,” the flippant voice says from the seat in front of me, unfazed as usual. Clifford Caldwell, powerhouse talent manager. Nothing ever seems to bother him. Believe me, I’ve tested his limits, so I know. No PR is bad PR. He’s typing away on his beloved Blackberry, attention glued to the screen, but I know he’s talking about the crowd packing the streets.

  “You think?” I mutter, glancing out the window as we crawl past at a snail's pace. Despite the fact that the tinting is pitch black, making it impossible for anyone to see inside, I keep my head lowered, an old black ball cap pulled down low, the battered brim shielding my eyes.

  Production is running under a fake name to keep people away, so prying eyes won’t spoil things they might see on the set, but somebody must’ve already leaked that information for so many people to show up here this morning.

  “I’ll talk to them about tightening security around you,” Cliff says. “See if we can work with the location department to shake up your schedule.”

  “Don’t bother,” I say. “They’ll always be a few steps ahead.”

  Cliff laughs under his breath. “Your optimism is astounding.”

  “Tell me about it,” a lithe voice chimes in from the seat beside me. “Something about this movie turns him into a moody prick.”

  I cut my eyes at Serena as she musses her freshly dyed hair—deep brown now, instead of her usual blonde. Gotta get in character. I can sense her gaze, even though she’s wearing sunglasses. It’s a damn harsh glare. She isn’t happy with me this morning. Or any morning.

  Not a morning person.

  Across from her sits her long-time assistant, Amanda, ignoring us all as she busies herself filtering Serena's email, like every morning, weeding out anything that might trigger a tantrum.

  “That true, Johnny?” Cliff asks. “Because as your manager, I want you to be happy, and as her manager, it’s my job to make sure her co-stars aren’t being moody pricks.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s just been a long week.”

  The metal barrier is moved out of the way as the limo approaches it, and we drive into the quartered off area, past
a wall of security. There’s a slight commotion outside, a few fans screaming, as the limo slips past into a small alley and comes to a stop just out of view. Cliff helps Serena out, taking her hand, while I let Amanda go before stepping out of the limo.

  Serena doesn’t hesitate, waltzing out of the alley and straight to the crowd, a smile suddenly plastered to her face. There are a few more screams, some shrieks as the fans freak out.

  No hiding now.

  I leave her to it. She loves that part and eats it right up. The limelight does her wonders—the adoring fans, the camera. Serena was always destined to be a star.

  Me? I wanted to be an actor.

  I head straight for the row of trailers set up along the backside of the alley, fanning out into the lot of a massive warehouse. Mostly interior shots today, with some filming in the street as they coordinated a mock explosion, according to the call sheet that Cliff shoves at me before disappearing… somewhere.

  Sets are always chaos.

  I’m greeted with a genuine smile as soon as I step into the first trailer. Hair & Makeup. Jazz, with her warm brown skin and bright red lips, is a welcoming sight. It’s not always easy finding a friendly face at this hour, everyone so focused on business. This trailer is the busiest, one of the biggest, half a dozen makeup artists scattered around at brightly lit stations, but I go straight to Jazz.

  “Hey, superstar,” she says, patting the seat of a chair in front of a big mirror, motioning for me to sit down. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

  “You always do,” I say, dropping down in the chair and taking my hat off, setting it aside before running my hands through my thick hair. It’s Jazz’s job to make me look good, and that isn’t always easy—especially when I’ve been sleeping like shit for over a week, dark bags under my bloodshot eyes.

  She gets to work, doing what she does, babbling away about something. I’m vaguely listening, my mind drifting to some damn dangerous thoughts I keep having. Thoughts of a life I could’ve had but threw away like a fucking idiot. It always happens when I find myself back in New York, a magnetic pull that’s hard to ignore, but I do whatever I can to resist it.