The Ghostwriter

by Alessandra Torre

  Kate swallows, and she’s aged in the last seven years. There are more sags in the skin of her face, more wrinkles on the edges of her red-stained lips. She’s gained a little weight, her black pants suit a little tight in the thighs, her neck fleshier than I remember. She mentioned once, in an email several years ago, that she was getting divorced. Maybe her relationship was like mine—a careful chess match of secrets and power plays. Maybe her ex is responsible for that deep line in her forehead, for the extra pouches of skin under her eyes.

  He probably isn’t responsible for the wet dew of those eyes, the open inhale of that mouth, the spill of tears that suddenly leak out. My agent—the woman who is supposed to spearhead my career, fight for my novels, and stand toe-to-toe with New York’s nastiest publishers, is crying. My opinion of her deflates, and I watch her wet her lips, and take a cautious step toward me.

  “What’s happened to you, Helena?”

  What’s happened to me? I have a story that I don’t have time to tell. I have an empty house that reeks of death. I have no friends, no family, and no one to ask for help. I’m dying, and it’s the best thing that has happened to me in a long time.

  I shrug. “I’ve got a tumor. It’s spread just about everywhere. The doctors gave me three months.”

  She sways, and I hope she doesn’t faint, because I can barely make my own way into the house, much less cart her also. I sigh. “Would you like to come inside?”

  She nods, and brushes a quick finger along her bottom line of lashes. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”

  I sit at the round kitchen table, one of the rare items that stayed in the house after that day. I don’t have the energy to offer Kate a drink, and she doesn’t ask for one, perching on the other chair, her gigantic purse on her knees, her eyes moving everywhere but to me.

  “When did you move in?” she asks, her fingers tightening on the edges of the bright green leather.

  “About ten years ago.” I smile. “I’m not a big fan of furniture.” It’s the easiest explanation for my empty house, one that was once crammed with expensive items and life, noises and smells. Now, I prefer the echoing, empty feel of the downstairs, the bare walls, the lone items that look forgotten in the giant spaces. The only rooms left with life in them are my office and Bethany’s room. The media room is also the same, as is my master bedroom, though I haven’t stepped into either in years. This house occupies five thousand square feet of prime New London real estate, and you could fit all of its belongings inside this kitchen—this stark, utilitarian space, one currently crowded with two strangers and this uncomfortable conversation.

  “Where’s Simon?” She shifts in her chair and glances over her shoulder, as if my dead husband might suddenly appear.

  “Gone.” She knows better than to ask questions, and I’m thankful she never met Bethany, never knew of my pregnancy. I can handle many things, but the mention of her name is a knife in the heart. An attempt to explain her absence would yank it through my gut.

  “Oh.” She frowns, the fingers of her left hand pulling at the top of her thigh, at a loose bit of bunched fabric. “Who takes you to your chemo and stuff?”

  I’m not doing chemo. Or radiation. Or any other “stuff”. But I don’t feel like a ten minute lecture on my responsibilities to myself, so I ignore that tidbit. “I drive myself. Or take a taxi.”

  Her eyes widen at the statement. She probably has a score of friends, all jumping at the opportunity to pick her up, fight city traffic, walk her inside, and sit patiently—through all the forms, the questions, the blood draws and sorrowful conversations. Not that I mind doing it all myself. I’ve had a book to entertain me—Marka Vantly’s latest—an unfortunate choice, but I couldn’t resist the competitive desire to know what my rival is up to.

  “I can stay here,” she offers. “Drive you places. Or,” she glances around. “You know. Help you around the house.”

  “No.” I can’t think of anything worse. The conversation alone would kill me, her incessant chatter and offers and pitying looks… it’d be hell. A worse hell than the one I currently occupy, one where I have to struggle through basic tasks and am ignored by my mouse.

  “When did you find out?”

  “About ten days ago. I’ve been losing weight for a while, and my energy…” I don’t even feel up to finishing the sentence. It hadn’t just been my energy, though that had been the most annoying. There had also been the headaches, the nose bleeds, the equilibrium shifts and fainting spells. I think I’ve had mood swings, though it’s hard to tell when I have so little interaction with others. “The doctor said the tumor is about a year old.”

  “Oh Helena.” She reaches out, across the table, and I move my hands, underneath the table, squeezing them in between my thighs. I regret the action, her face pinching in hurt, her eyes dropping to her hand, and there is a painful moment of embarrassment before she recovers. Her back straightens and she opens her purse, pulling out a folder and pen. “I brought you the paperwork for terminating the Broken contract. You’ll have to return the initial payment, of course.”

  I must have given something away on the phone, raised some internal alarm that caused her to print out this contract, drive three hours to New London, and hand-deliver it here. If I had the energy, I’d feel violated. Instead, I just want to sleep.

  A notebook is also withdrawn, and I perk up at the sight of a pen, some sort of action eminent. “I understand you don’t want my help,” she begins. “But let’s talk about what you do need.” She raises an overgrown eyebrow in my direction. “Housekeeper? Cook? Oh!” She bends her head down and starts to write. I watch the word DRIVER appear in neat, block-like letters.

  A year ago, I would have asked her what the hell she’s doing, barging in and trying to take over my life. A year ago, she wouldn’t even be sitting at this table. I would have ordered her off my lawn, told her to go back to the city, and then sent her a tersely worded email where I listed all of her errors while subtly threatening to fire her.

  A year ago, I didn’t need anyone’s help. Now, I’m not in the position to turn away assistance, despite the snarl of my pride, which I swallow.

  “So,” she says brightly, as if this is a class project and she’s been appointed our captain. “We can find someone to take you to the doctor, and pick up your medications and such. And a housekeeper and cook—are you okay with that?”

  I pull at my bottom lip, considering the idea. Simon always wanted a “house manager”—someone to pick up after us, to handle the landscaping guy, and replace light bulbs, and tend to his every need. I had shot that idea down at every turn, panicked at the idea of a stranger opening my drawers, rearranging my things, and jumping into the middle of our lives.

  “We can set private zones,” Simon argued, his jaw stubbornly jutting out, his arms crossing over that broad chest. “She won’t set foot in your office, or the media room, or…” he glanced around as if the kitchen might be up for discussion. “Or wherever else you don’t want her.”

  Her. It had always been a her. And maybe that’s why I hated the idea. I didn’t need a woman in my house, laying claim to my processes, analyzing my marriage, or parenting, or personal quirks.

  “I don’t want someone here.” I release my lip and look up at Kate, my muscles tensing for a fight.

  “Fine,” she smiles, and I am reminded of how annoying it is to be around overwhelmingly cheerful people. “I can look into daily meal deliveries, someone to just drop off the food.” She eyes the floor and I wait for her to mention cleaning, to notice the dust bunnies that have begun to accumulate as my health has deteriorated. I watch her pen move, her attention returning to the page, and she writes DAILY MEAL DELIVERIES down, then looks back to me. “Do you need a nurse?”

  “No.” I’m suddenly hungry. It must be this talk of food, my stomach pinching at the thought of something fresh and home-made, my last few mon
ths spent sampling every TV dinner out there. But I can’t mention food now. It’d only encourage Kate’s pesky invasion, justify her meddlesome activity and give credibility to this stupid list she is intent on creating. I wonder if these daily meal deliveries can include desserts. I would kill for some strawberry shortcake. Or French toast. Or—

  “Anything else?” She peers at me, and I can see in her barely hidden smile that she is enjoying this. Not my pain or sickness, I don’t think she’s a Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy candidate. But the action pleases her, the ability to assist me, to do something—that she enjoys. And maybe it’s that understanding that causes me to open my mouth, to confess the need, the fear, that I hadn’t fully yet faced myself.

  “I need you to find me a ghostwriter.”

  KATE

  A ghostwriter. Kate presses her tongue against her teeth in an attempt to not open her mouth, to ask for clarification on a concept that she never thought Helena Ross would ever, ever, consider. Forget swallowing the pride of having someone fix her meals. This was a job a thousand times more personal, more invasive—not to mention impossible. There is no way that Helena Ross will ever be okay with another set of hands touching her manuscript, reading her words, much less writing on her behalf. Kate carefully sets down her pen, sliding her hands into her lap and schooling her features into a pleasant mask of acceptance.

  “You want to hire a ghostwriter,” she repeats. “For the new book you’re writing?” The book that she had driven here to talk Helena out of, hoping that a face-to-face with the woman might go further than a phone call.

  “Yes. I’m worried I won’t have time to finish it. A ghostwriter might work more quickly.” Helena’s eyes are on the table, on a long crack in the wood, one that runs down its center, then branches off to the left.

  “The book that you want me to sell to Tricia Pridgen?”

  “Yes.”

  Well, Helena could forget that possibility. As difficult as it would have been to sell that manuscript before—at least a Helena Ross novel had some value. A ghostwritten novel, under the Helena Ross name… that was poison, especially to someone like Pridgen. Kate pushes the value of a posthumous book out of her head, the concept still too raw to actually consider.

  A dozen questions compete on the top of her tongue. Why is this book so important? Why write a book at all? Why not spend her last four months doing something fun and exciting, crossing bucket items off with a wave of her filthy-rich finger? Why not just make this book a short story? What compensation structure is she thinking about for the ghostwriter?

  She chooses the most urgent one. “Do you have someone in mind?”

  HELENA

  For the first time since retaining Kate Rodant, I draw a blank. Bringing up the concept of a ghostwriter had seemed like such a huge step in itself. Thinking of who that ghostwriter might be… my mind seizes.

  It reminds me of when I researched surrogacy. Not for myself, but for one of my characters. I spent twenty minutes on the phone with a Boston woman who had carried three babies for other women, and spoke about the experience with the detached air of a psychopath. Back then, I couldn’t decide if I’d prefer a woman like that over one that would truly care about the fetus, and might develop an emotional attachment to something that was, in fact, mine and not hers.

  I abandoned the storyline for the same reason I now want to abandon this conversation: it was exhausting to think about, the stakes just as high, the choices just as terrible.

  I need someone with skill, someone who knows my writing style, someone with talent. Someone who doesn’t need to tell their own story but can adopt mine. Someone who won’t get emotionally attached to the story, someone without feelings at all.

  It takes me longer than necessary to see the answer, one which pecks at the edge of my brain before pushing in.

  I know who I need.

  And I’d rather die than ask her.

  KATE

  “Marka Vantly.”

  Kate studies Helena’s face, which holds no trace of humor, though the words must, surely, be a joke. Kate may not have known about her illness, or her strange empty house, but she knows one thing about her client: Helena hates Marka Vantly. Another agent in Kate’s firm once represented Marka on a minor sub-rights deal and Helena had threatened to fire Kate for it, vehement that there be no association between their brands. It’s why Helena has stuck with Hachette, though Random House has offered her far higher advances. Marka is with Random House, and any house who would sign a self-published author… Helena had shredded their seven-figure contract and mailed it back to Kate with an eloquent card that all but told them to go to hell, exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point.

  Kate picks up her pen. “Why Marka Vantly?” She glances down at the page, carefully writing the woman’s name down, and fighting to keep her features bland. Marka won’t do it. The woman is a publisher’s dream, her release calendar booked past next year. Plus, there is no secret of their rivalry. You might as well ask Darth Vader to water Luke Skywalker’s plants.

  Helena looks up, her eyes considering Kate as if deciding whether she is fit to receive the answer. “I don’t know,” she finally says, her words slow and methodical.

  Even Kate, limited in her Helena knowledge, can hear the lie, the casual indifference seeped in a hundred secrets. “Are you sure?”

  She watches Helena’s hands clench, her head turning away, her gaze toward the window. There is nothing there to see, the blinds drawn despite Kate’s repeated offers to open them.

  “Yes.” Helena’s lips tighten around the word. “Call her agent and set it up.”

  HELENA

  Kate doesn’t understand. I can see it in the way she holds her cell phone, her shoulders stiff, eyes continually darting my way as if wanting me to stop her. She’s asked three times if I’m sure, and I’ve made it clear she doesn’t need to ask again.

  Simon loved to question me. He was never satisfied with hearing something once, he felt the continual need to reassure himself of a response. When we bought the house, he asked me seven times if I was sure. Was it the right neighborhood? The right price? Did we need a bigger one? Or was this too big? I told him I liked it, reassured him it would be fine, but still, he worried. Fretted. Pestered me.

  I remember walking into our kitchen on closing day, and thinking it was done. I remember inhaling the scent of fresh lilies, convinced that in this new town, away from his friends, from the noises and sounds of the city, that he would finally calm down, that we would get settled and be happy and that all of the questions would finally stop.

  A woman should be able to celebrate her first home, but I only remember wanting some silence.

  “I’m going to call her agent.” Kate speaks from her place at the kitchen counter, her phone out, thumb poised, and I swear to God, if she stalls any longer I will chop off her finger and use it to push the buttons myself.

  “Then do it already.” I think a new set of rules may be in order. Kate seems to be stubbornly stuck to my side, and as bitchy as my rules may be, this is a shining example of their worth. Rule #1 could be something along the lines of When You Say You Are Going to Do Something, Shut the Hell Up and Do It.

  Kate clears her throat and I glare at her fingers, the tension in my chest releasing as she begins to dial.

  KATE

  No one answers. Kate pulls her cell away from her mouth, her fingers tapping on the granite countertop, and turns to Helena. “Voicemail.”

  “Leave a message.” Helena hunches forward over a ceramic mug of tea, the directive muttered in Kate’s direction. Her moods seem to change with no clear stimulus, set off by triggers that Kate has yet to figure out. It reminds her of her own aunt, a schizophrenic woman who baked cookies in one moment, then snatched them from your hand and shoved them into the trash, muttering about poison and government conspiracies. Helena is a
far milder case, her shifts more minute in nature, her highs and lows ranging from mildly entertained to irritable and depressed. This complete focus on a new book, on Marka Vantly—seems to come from nowhere. For her to walk from Broken, just weeks from the delivery, and spend her final months on a brand new book, one ghostwritten by Marka Vantly? It makes no sense. Helena Ross might need a shrink, or a stronger prescription, or a vacation in Tahiti, but she doesn’t need a ghostwriter.

  The voicemail ends, a tone sounding, her cue to speak. She leaves a message, a rambling speech introducing herself—and asking the agent to call her back. Ron Pilar has represented Marka for over a decade, her star one of a dozen in his stable. He is the agent she always dreamed of becoming, a dream that died years ago, around the time that gray hairs started appearing in her red curls. Ron won’t know who she is; he probably won’t even call her back. She ends the call and looks up to find Helena’s eyes fixed on hers.

  “Terrible message,” the woman says mildly. “First time leaving one?”

  Kate lets out a controlled breath. “To him, yes.”

  “Does he intimidate you?”

  She smiles despite herself, the curiosity in Helena’s voice so… fact-finding. At another time, Kate could have been a future character, an insecure woman in a yet-to-be-written novel. “Yes,” she admits. “He’s a very big name in our industry.”

  “And you aren’t?” Again, such genuine innocence in her question. As if she doesn’t realize how pathetic it is for an agent to have only one successful client.

  Her lips tighten, the only crack she fails to contain. “No.”

  The answer doesn’t faze Helena, her focus returning to herself, as it always has. “How long will it take for him to call you back?”