by Ana Sparks
Ten minutes later, I reached the house. Relieved to find that Clay and Leah weren’t there, I warmed some leftover shrimp jambalaya in the microwave and sank down onto the living room couch. I hadn’t taken three bites before my phone buzzed again: Aisha was calling.
“Hey, where are you at?” she asked.
“At home, eating a sad meal. Where are you?”
Aisha ignored the question. “I got a phone call from Patricia. She told me what happened. And said you’d probably be too stubborn to call me. Cassie, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said, annoyed. I had an ominous feeling that I would be the object of other people’s sympathy for the next week, at least. “It’s not like I even really knew the guy.”
“No, but he was your dad. Even if he was a heel.”
“Is that all you called to say?” I knew Aisha was just trying to be helpful, but I couldn’t help feeling irritated. I was tired and grumpy and not looking forward to eating this jambalaya and being alone all night.
“No, I called to tell you I’m coming over,” said Aisha. “And you can throw that crap away. I’m bringing real food.”
I caught a panicked glimpse of my reflection in the TV: my mascara was running and dark, raccoon-like circles surrounded my eyes. “Please tell me you haven’t left yet.”
“Like, twenty minutes ago.” There was a flash of headlights on the front windows and the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. “I’m here.”
“Great.” Despite my grumpiness, my heart gave a leap of relief as I rose from the couch to let her in. “See you in a second.”
“Or now,” said Aisha. “Bye.”
She hung up the phone and began heading toward the door, carrying a couple of greasy burger bags in one hand. Stylish as ever, she was wearing a floral-patterned silk dress that fell just over her knees, and her purple hair was a mess of pins and braids.
“Hey, you,” she said, giving me a quick hug and shoving one of the greasy bags into my arms. “Monterey patty melts, the ultimate comfort food.”
I set the bag down on the coffee table. “I love how everyone thinks I need to be comforted, like I’ve just suffered some great loss.”
“Don’t pretend you’re not upset about it,” said Aisha sternly. “I can’t imagine you being thrilled to lose your dad.”
“No, but I feel like I got all my grieving out of the way when my mom died. When he walked away after the funeral, I knew he wasn’t coming back. I had a feeling I was saying goodbye to both of my parents that day, you know?”
My voice broke a little and I tensed up, worried that Aisha had seen through my façade of indifference. From the keen and penetrating look on her face, I gathered that she had known all along.
Seating herself next to me on the sofa, she rested a reassuring hand on my arm. “I don’t know that there’s a bright side to all this, but at least you know what happened to your dad. At least you won’t have to spend years wondering.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
Aisha had emigrated from Lebanon with her mother and grandmother at the age of nine, leaving her dad behind. For a few years, they’d continued to receive money from her father, who had promised that as soon as he raised enough money of his own, he would make the trip to America. But when Aisha was fourteen, the letters had stopped coming, and for years, no one knew what had become of her father. It wasn’t until her last year of high school that she had learned he had been killed in the war.
Given the horrors of her past, it was a wonder that Aisha was as vibrant and whole as she was. I felt embarrassed even claiming the mantle of sadness, given that her own grief had been so much worse.
“Not that this isn’t still devastating for you,” Aisha added. “I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you’re right,” I said sadly, wiping a stray tear from my right eye. “It helps to know where he is now. I won’t have to spend the rest of my life vainly hoping that maybe one day he’ll find his way back to me.”
“Patricia said you might be going to Paris.” She spoke the words delicately, gingerly, as if I was made of porcelain. “I wish I could come with you.”
“I wish I could bring you with me.” I had been looking forward to teasing her about going to Paris without her, but now that we had broached the subject, I found I didn’t have the energy. “I don’t even know if I’ll be able to go. It all depends on whether I can finish this latest assignment.”
“Couldn’t you explain to your editor that your dad just died?”
“Garcia doesn’t accept excuses,” I said sourly. “Not when we’re on a deadline.”
“Well, when is it due?”
“Thursday night.” I scrunched up my face, thinking. “I’ve already done all the research and interviews. I just have to get it all typed up. That’ll take me at least a day to finish.”
“And what day is the funeral?”
“Thursday.” I laughed bitterly. “Even if I could work on it during the flight, there’s no guarantee that I’ll get it all done in time. And after tonight, I don’t even really feel like looking at a computer.”
“I would think having a parent die would give you a ready-made excuse not to look at one for the next week,” said Aisha. “I sort of wish we were still in middle school and Patricia could write you a note: ‘Dear Ms. Garcia, please excuse Cassie from all her assignments today; she has to attend her dad’s funeral.’ Heck, I’ll even write it for you.”
“I wish you could. I am not looking forward to spending the next twelve to eighteen hours putting this assignment together. Then again, maybe I could use the distraction.”
“I think it would be better if you actually faced these things instead of putting yourself into a work coma,” said Aisha gently. “Attending the funeral would be a good start.”
“If the funeral was the only thing going on, I might not even go. I have other reasons for wanting to go to Paris.”
Aisha listened with growing interest as I told her about how my father had left me his entire estate, and how I needed to fly to Paris in order to claim my copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
“Signed first edition?” she said in a low voice. “How much do you reckon that would be worth?”
“Probably a pretty hefty chunk of change, if we’re being honest.” I kicked off my slippers and stretched out on the sofa. “But I don’t want it for the money. It’s not like I’m planning to sell it. I just think—”
The buzzing of my phone interrupted us. I looked down and saw a text from the speed-dating service thanking me for my participation. They wanted to know if I’d “found my true love.” Ha. Not a chance.
Ignoring the text and shifting my legs to get more comfortable, I turned my attention back to Aisha. “Anyway, what were we talking about?”
“The Wizard of Oz.”
“Right. I’d be willing to fly out to Paris if it meant getting that book back. It’s one of the few possessions I still remember from when Mom was alive, and up until tonight, I thought it had been lost.”
“If only you could click your heels and be transported over there,” said Aisha.
“If only we lived in the land of Oz! Instead, I’ll have to climb inside a thin metal tube and be carried across the sea on silver wings, losing a whole day of work in the process. Somehow, I don’t think they’d be willing to postpone the funeral.”
“Dead bodies have an expiration date, unfortunately.” Aisha kicked her flats off grimly. “You have to get them into the ground quick.”
“Thanks for that image,” I said dryly.
“I just want you to be prepared.” She offered me a now-cold fry, which I refused. “So, what is this assignment about? I hope you’re not getting yourself in trouble again.”
“No, Garcia thought I needed something light after the debacle that was my last big story.”
I had recently gone undercover as an employee in one of the vast desert warehouses owned by Fire Cloud, a multinational co
rporation which specialized in developmental technologies. My exposé of the miserable conditions being suffered by the company’s employees had earned me a nasty letter from the head of Fire Cloud security, David Icarus, who had threatened a lawsuit and banned me from all Fire Cloud premises in perpetuity.
“Thank the Lord,” said Aisha. “You didn’t deserve all the hate mail you got after that last article.”
“I’m still not happy about the way Icarus treated me.” Although he had, presumably, been speaking on behalf of the company, I had taken the menacing tone of his email personally. “But at least Garcia gave me her full support.”
“Still.” Aisha scowled from behind her red-framed glasses. “I couldn’t believe some of the things they were saying about you in the comments. I didn’t realize people were so personally invested in Fire Cloud. It was like a cult, the way they came after you.” She added shyly, “I hope you won’t hate me, but I couldn’t resist responding to some of them.”
“Well, you could have refrained from calling them ‘illiterate dinguses,’ but I appreciate it,” I said with a laugh. “It’s nice to know someone has my back.”
“Always,” said Aisha.
I remembered how badly she had been bullied when she’d first come to Phoenix from Lebanon, how the other girls had made fun of her. My insides had boiled with anger when she came into pre-algebra crying because someone had torn the leg off a stuffed bear that had been a gift from her dad. I had told off the entire roomful of students for laughing at her. Now, the roles had been reversed, and she was the one defending me.
“I shouldn’t let it get to me, though, really,” I told her. “I’m sure every journalist faces criticism like this. It’s hard to defend truth in a culture where people want to make up their own facts.”
“Still, I don’t like to think of you having to go through that all over again. I hope Garcia’s got you covering something involving puppies for your next assignment.”
“Ugh, I wish she was. It wouldn’t have taken weeks to finish.”
I had been investigating the growing number of miracles and strange occurrences being reported out in the desert: owls that could speak with human voices, men with the heads of coyotes, sudden healings. A week’s worth of interviews with the locals had convinced me that there was some sort of mass hallucination at work with its roots in the mythology and folklore of the southwest. My father, who I’d known to be a great lover of myths and fairy tales, would have loved it. But since I only talked to him once a year, he’d never hear about it, now.
“I wish I had someone who was willing to type up this assignment for me,” I said idly. “All the notes are there. They just have to be arranged into a coherent story.”
“I’d volunteer if I wasn’t going out of town tomorrow,” said Aisha, who was driving to Albuquerque to visit a friend.
“Maybe I’ll hire someone to do it for me.” I sat up straight on the couch. “Do you think it’s too late to hire a ghostwriter?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, sitting up, too. “Having a stranger do it for you could be trouble.”
“I’m kind of in a bind here,” I said. “Realistically, how badly could it go?”
“I don’t know, Cass…” Aisha bit her lip pensively.
Sensing her hesitation, I said, “But you were all for it, a minute ago.”
“Yeah, I’d be more than happy to type it up for you, if I had the time. I know what your writing is like, and I could at least do a decent impression. But a stranger off the internet…”
“Well, I’ve already done all the work—”
“I know, but still.” She turned to face me, a glimmer of concern in her eyes. “You’ve been in enough trouble lately.”
“Not with my boss.”
“No, but you don’t want to make things any worse for yourself, and you don’t want to make an enemy of your employer.”
There was some truth to this, though I didn’t like to admit it. “It would only be a one-time thing, though. I’m so pressed for time, I don’t see how I can possibly get this finished without help.”
“Ask for an extension.”
I shot Aisha a dubious glare. “You know how Garcia feels about extensions. I might as well be asking to kidnap her firstborn.”
“Right. Anyway, I’d better get going. It sounds like you’ve got a long night ahead of you. I don’t want to keep you from your work.” She stood and reached for her purse. “I hope you’ll think about what I said. I’m just looking out for you, girl.”
“I know you are.”
Reluctantly, I rose and walked her to the door. I hated being alone when I was emotionally overwhelmed. And Aisha had a better grasp on feelings than I did. She was a terrific friend. I knew that if I asked, she would stay in a heartbeat.
Perhaps seeing the sadness in my eyes, she asked, “You gonna be okay?”
“I think so,” I lied. “Promise you’ll call me while I’m in Paris?”
“Are you really thinking of going?” she asked, her eyes aglow. “I wish you could stow me away in your luggage.”
“I wish I could, too, believe me. Maybe I’ll put you on video and carry you around while I tramp across the Champs Elysées.”
“I would cry of happiness, oh my gosh,” said Aisha.
She gave me a goodbye hug. “You sure you don’t need anything?” she asked again.
“No, I’m good.” It was only my own stubbornness that kept me from asking her to stay. I’d wait up for Aunt Patricia instead.
Chapter 3
Cassie
Before I went to bed that night, I booked my flight for the following afternoon. Then, because I was restless and lonely and not yet ready for sleep, I pulled up a freelance hiring website.
I hadn’t logged into this particular site since the year after my graduation from college. The layout had changed significantly since that first jobless summer, so it took me a few minutes to begin finding my way around. Everywhere, people were posting job offers and getting dozens, sometimes hundreds, of replies from eager freelancers. Feeling emboldened and energized by all the positive reviews, I wrote my own ad, saying I needed help finishing an article by eleven p.m. sharp on Thursday. Then, with a quick prayer, I pressed “post” and closed my laptop.
I was nearly asleep by the time my aunt came in that night, and she was still asleep when I awoke the next morning to make coffee. Over a half-hearted breakfast of stale cinnamon rolls, I scanned my emails and found, to my surprise, that I had gotten three responses. The first ghostwriter was having trouble with spelling—“journalism” has only one L and no Z—while the second appeared to have been written by a bot: would love to make your naughtiest dreams come true in Florida. But the third gave me pause:
My name is Irene Quick, and I’m a freelance writer and journalist based in Phoenix. I’ve ghostwritten—at last count—six novels, and my work under my own name has been featured in publications including Slate and Rolling Stone. If you’re in the area, I’d love to meet with you and go over the finer details of the project before we get started. Just let me know.
Impressed by her confidence and credentials, I typed out a response:
Hi, Irene. I’m leaving for Paris on a six p.m. flight but would love to meet up beforehand—maybe for lunch at the Pig and Pickle? Normally, I would just finish this assignment myself, but a death in the family has made that impossible. I’ll give you my number so we can continue this conversation over text.
I set down my phone with a warm glow of satisfaction, heedless of Aisha’s warnings from the night before.
We were only able to meet briefly, but I found Irene to be coolly—almost unnervingly—professional. She wore a black suit that paired well with her dark eyes and plain, shoulder-length dark hair. Her posture was rigid, and when she spoke, it was in a monotone whisper, as if she was afraid of being overheard by the family at the next table.
“Sorry about your loss,” she said over a plate of pork shanks. �
�I just recently lost an uncle who was closer to me than my own dad.”
“If I had lost my aunt, I think I would be a sobbing mess right now,” I said. “I don’t know what I would do without her.”
“Do you have the files for me?” she asked. The subject of our families seemed to make her uncomfortable, and she looked faintly relieved to have left it. “If you do, I can go ahead and get started as soon as we finish eating.”
“Yeah, I’ll email them to you now,” I said as I pulled my phone from my purse. “Honestly, it shouldn’t take more than twelve hours, which you can split into two days, if you’d like. And you will be compensated accordingly.”
“I’m happy to do it,” said Irene. “I know how terrifying deadlines can be. I still occasionally have that dream where it’s three weeks till the end of college, and I only just realized I’ve been skipping the one class I needed to take in order to graduate.”
“You have that dream, too? I thought I was the only one.”
Clay drove me to the airport for my flight. I was mostly quiet on the way there, feeling relieved to have found someone to shoulder the burden of finishing this article, but not looking forward to what would be waiting for me in Paris when I arrived. Ordinarily, the prospect of a trip to Europe would have excited me, but it was hard to get amped about seeing your own father’s coffin.
“You gonna be okay in Paris by yourself?” asked Clay as we eased into rush-hour traffic. The heat of the morning had given way to cool winds and grey skies with the taste of rain in the air.
“I’ve traveled before,” I reminded him. “I spent a whole month in Cambodia on my own. I’ll be fine.”
“I know, but you weren’t grieving at the time.”
“I’m not grieving now,” I said, a little too aggressively. “I’ll be fine, promise.”
Once on the airplane and safely seated, I scrolled idly through the comments on my last article. Around three dozen new comments had been added since I had checked the night before, most of them some variation on, “I hope you die.”