The Ghostwriter

by Alessandra Torre

  “I need a scene,” he says, lifting the bottle and filling my glass. “A good one between the two of you. A happy memory. One to add before this. One pre-engagement.”

  I sit back in my chair and bring my knees to my chest, cupping the wine glass with both hands, its contents the color of pale sunshine. I close my eyes and try to find one scene—one happy moment when we were in love, reckless and passionate, our minds void of all sense.

  I don’t come up with one. I think of a hundred.

  Midnight. The glow above us, his hands tight on the rungs of the ladder, a skinny one that snaked up one leg of the water tower. A spray can stuffed into the waist of his pants; he lifted one foot and hesitated, looking down at me, the terror on his face illuminated from above. He made it fifteen feet and stopped, our initials quickly sketched on the leg of the tower in bright orange paint, a shaky heart around them. When he made it back down he was panting, his armpits soaked in sweat, his face disappointed when he saw the short distance that he’d traveled. I told him that it was beautiful. He kissed me and his lips trembled.

  I finish off the glass and blink, my eyes wet.

  Our first time. His sheets smelled like hamburgers and sweat. We turned on the fan and the hum almost drowned out his roommate’s tv. I was nervous and we were both drunk, our night spent at a bar, celebrating my print deal, my head spinning from too many appletinis. He didn’t have a condom and we discussed it, our slurred conversation filled with immature logic and groping, the act begun and finished before any conclusion was reached. He pulled me onto his chest and told me he loved me. I closed my eyes and calculated my ovulation window, given the date of my last period.

  Mark pushes a napkin across the table at me, and I pick it up, looking down at the pattern, pink apples stamped into the thin paper, their cheery repetitions occasionally interrupted by a green leaf. Kate must have bought these.

  “Let me get you to bed.”

  He’s standing now, his hands helping me up, the kitchen dim, the afternoon light gone. What time is it? I look at the oven but the numbers on it blur, either from tears or intoxication.

  “I can make it.” I step away from him, then think better of it. “Never mind.” I reach out and he takes my arm. He’s thicker where Simon was thin, his arm hair coarse where Simon’s was fine, and he’s taller, by at least four inches. “My room’s at the top of the stairs.” I’ll have to lay down in our old bedroom, that stiff four-poster bed where Bethany was created, the one I haven’t slept in since That Day. I’ll move, once he leaves. I’ll only have to lay there for a few minutes, for the sake of appearances.

  I say goodbye to him at the entrance to my room, and walk into the space I rarely enter. I drag back the covers, and half-crawl, half-fall, into bed. The sheets still smell like Simon’s cologne. I can still feel his lips on my collarbone when I pull them up to my chin. It isn’t just this bed. The memories of him, as much as I fight them, exist. In the shower, I sometimes think of his kiss. In the car, I remember how he would reach over, his hand cupping mine, his thumb caressing the back of my hand, and tighten imperceptibly at quiet moments—a hug of sorts. I remember how much we laughed. Our inside jokes. How he would beam at me when I said something witty. When I hit my first bestseller list, we opened cheap wine and sat on the floor of that apartment and made a ramen noodle bonfire. That night, in bed, a laptop open, his arm around me, we’d looked at houses. “The sky is the limit,” he’d said, and we’d gone crazy, flipping through homes we never thought we’d be able to afford, envisioning lives beyond belief. We’d known. We’d known that this was our new life, and that there would be more bestsellers. We’d thought that everything, from that point forward, would be perfect.

  I close my eyes and, despite every intention not to—feel the pull toward sleep. I hate Simon with my entire soul, and I love him with every other inch of my body, and neither really matters because he is dead, and I killed him.

  My new worst friend somehow tags along to my doctor’s appointment.

  “Helena Ross? Are you the Helena Ross?” The nurse looks up from my bracelet, her pierced brow pinching upward as if concerned by the concept. She can’t possibly read my books. She has a rainbow magnet stuck over a photo of her and a “friend”, one with more body hair than me, and we all know that’s saying something. If this girl reads my straight-laced romances, complete with the obligatory male/female pairing, then she needs to expand her library immediately.

  “No, I’m not. But I get asked that a lot.” I try to pull back my hand, but she holds it firmly, two fingers pressed against the underside of my wrist.

  “Wait, sweetheart. I need to get your pulse.”

  My pulse is probably perfect, calmed by the lie. I’ve always been a liar. Maybe that’s why writing came so naturally. A thousand lies, disguised in a character’s voice, bits of my life sprinkled through the pages, the perfect camouflage for whatever it is I feel the urge to say.

  “I got a great parking spot.” Mark comes from somewhere, a grin on his face like he has accomplished something other than irritating me. I’m still not sure why he’s here. We wrote all of Saturday and most of Sunday, finishing off the weekend with some well-needed alone time. Then, this morning, he was there—on my porch—all but insisting that he bring me to this appointment, even though a taxi was on call and available.

  “Yippee.” I watch as the woman drops my wrist and reaches for the blood pressure cuff.

  “This place is nice. The chemo area has little cubbies. Much nicer than where Ellen was.”

  Ellen. His voice softens when he says it. I feel a pang of jealousy and poke out. “Please don’t make this entire thing a tribute.”

  His nostrils flare a bit and I watch with interest. He has more minute reactions than Simon ever did. Like flared nostrils. I always thought that was a book thing, one of those literary reactions that never actually happens in real life, like swooning heroines or angrily shook fists. I expect an apology but he says nothing and I like him a little more for it.

  “Looking good!” The woman says brightly, and I don’t know how that could be possible, but I can’t bitch at a woman wearing purple kitten scrubs. “Let’s get you in to see the doc.”

  The doc is different than the one who handed over my death sentence. He’s an oncologist, and will handle my crumbling body for the remainder of my life. I stare at the Harvard diploma on his wall as he explains, without introduction or cushioning, the next few months, and how my body may react to it. He is an enthusiastic prescription writer, and fills out five different scripts, passing me the stack that will allow me enough drugs to weather a gunshot wound. I tell him that I’ve done just fine on my current meds, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s pure doom, wrapped in pale skin and too much ear hair, his voice clinical and dull, the kind that has me ready to nod off within minutes. He doesn’t meet my eyes, he doesn’t smile, and if there was an empathy class at Harvard, he flunked it.

  We’ll get along just fine.

  Two hours later, I walk through my front door and pass a stranger. She is a short squatty woman with an apron, one who avoids eye contact and shuffles past—the cook that Kate found. I bite my tongue, listen to Mark drill her senseless, and make it to the sunroom, settling into the recliner and leaning it back. I turn as Mark enters, his guard dog duties complete, and watch him set his giant leather duffel down. “You don’t need to be here.” This is the third time I’ve said it. I don’t want you here. The revised statement lies on the end of my tongue, pushing, easing its way out. He moves to the kitchen, and hunger stops my statement. I watch with interest as he opens the fridge and pulls out a container of food.

  “Debbie—that’s the chef—said she put the food in here.”

  I look past him, at the open door of the fridge, my perfect alignment of water bottles and Cherry Cokes now crowded to the side and replaced with enough Tupperware containers to get Octomom and her b
rood through three Thanksgiving dinners. I eye the container in Mark’s hand, watching as he opens the microwave and sets it inside. “What’s that?”

  “Lasagna.” He presses a button, and the electronic hum of radiation fills the air. “I’m thinking you need an official poison taster. Just in case Debbie read one of your novels and wants revenge. I volunteer as tribute.”

  “Ha.” I say flatly, but smile despite myself. “Chivalrous of you.”

  “It’s a cowboy thing.” He sniffs the air, and I’m almost angry at how good it smells. Maybe I should have hired a chef before. If this tastes good… if I’ve been missing out on four years of edible enjoyment… I’m going to be pissed at Kate for alerting me to this mistake.

  Mark glances at me. “You hungry?”

  I tilt my head, distracted by a knock on the front door. This is what happens when you start talking to people. I go from a life of solitude to Grand Central Station. Mark moves forward, his back straight, and my mouth twitches at the protective stomp of his stride. I hear the crack of the door, murmured voices, a female apology, and the sound of clunky feet tripping toward me. A heard of giraffes would be quieter, and I know, even before I see the bright pink clogs and polka-dotted socks, who will be there. I groan.

  “Helena!” Kate sounds surprised, as if we are bumping into each other at the grocery store, and not inside my house, three hours away from Manhattan. “Hey!”

  “You really didn’t need to come back.” I told her this. In every single email, and the phone call this morning, I told her not to come. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  She steps further into the sunroom, and completely ignores me. “I know. You didn’t want me to come and I’m not here to stay, I promise.” She turns to Mark with a smile. “I’m Kate. Helena’s agent.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Mark Fortune.” I watch Kate’s face redden as he extends a hand. Perfect. I’m so glad we’re eHarmonying up my house. If the cancer doesn’t make me nauseous, all of this togetherness will. I clear my throat and they both turn to me. “If you aren’t here to stay, why are you here?”

  “Well… When I left the city this morning, before you called me… I didn’t realize that Mr. Fortune would be here—” She flashes him a quick smile. “And I’d thought you might want some company.”

  Oh, yes. That’s me. A companionship addict. I say nothing and the silence grows.

  “Well.” Kate wheezes out the word, and awkwardness hangs in the air. The microwave dings, and she brightens. “That sounds like food. Let me get it.”

  Mark follows her into the kitchen, and I relax my head against the recliner, the only item in this room. The big overstuffed chair was a Lazyboy special, one I often write in, and—just as often—fall asleep in. There is something soothing about the act of writing, a drug that lures you into another world, but then forgets to stop, and sometimes carries you all of the way into sleepdom. I kick my feet free of the blankets and look at the backyard. The windows in this room have gotten filthy—the outside caked with years of pollen and grime, the bottom screens littered with dead bugs and the occasional leaf. I used to wash them every summer. I would get a giant bucket of soapy water and a sponge, put on a bathing suit and a 70’s playlist, and give them a thorough once-over. Bethany would try to help, her tiny hands gripping the big sponge, her reach only accessing the bottom panes, her attention gone at the first sighting of a lizard, or spider, or Simon’s call.

  I remember the smell of hamburgers, the baseball cap Simon wore, the taste of his kiss as he would pull me against him and brush fallen pieces of hair from my eyes. We once danced, out on that patio, the grill sizzling behind us, Bethany singing beside us, his eyes tender as he looked down on me.

  In that moment, during that Rod Stewart song—there hadn’t been the arguments, the competition. There hadn’t been my mother, or any rules. There had only been a love song, and the sway of hips, and the scent of charcoal in the air.

  In that moment, I would have sworn we were going to be okay.

  Three months later, he was dead.

  MARK

  Helena moves to the sofa, where she falls asleep, a half-eaten tub of ice cream on the floor beside her, the television on, housewives arguing in seaside mansions. He turns the volume down and pulls the blanket over her, her face relaxed. She looks so young, not more than a few years older than Maggie, though she must be at least a decade older. He pauses at the ice cream, then leaves it in place, his earlier attempt to remove it met with violent opposition.

  He walks into the kitchen, passing an empty glass to Kate, who dips it into the soapy water. “Is she sleeping?” she asks.

  “Yeah. The anti-nausea medicine they gave her is pretty potent. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s out the rest of the night.” He steps next to her and pulls open an empty drawer, then another. “You know where hand towels are?”

  “Here.” She hands him one. “She seems to have only one of everything. Most of these drawers are empty.”

  “That seems to be a recurring theme in this house.” He glances around, at the stark kitchen. “Book sales struggling?” It’s a joke, and he’s pleased when she smiles.

  “Ha.” She passes him a plate to dry. “I think she’s just the opposite of a hoarder.”

  She thinks. The intrigue surrounding Helena Ross grows. “So you don’t know her well.” A sad realization, the only two people who care enough to be here—both strangers.

  “No. She likes her space.” She pulls the drain on the sink and shoots him a wry look. “Which is why I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

  “I sort of elbowed my way in. She seemed like she needed some help.”

  “Huh.” A single syllable seeped in suspicion. She turns to him and folds her arms across an ample chest. “She’s not the easiest thing to work with.”

  “I know. I’m trying my best with the content.” And he has, truly, tried. He’s put more effort into their chapters then he’s ever put in anything before. Part of it is because he understands how seriously she is taking the project. The second motivation is an insecure desire to please a legend. A legend now snoring, one arm hanging limply off the couch. A legend who has read everything he’s written so far, and yet hasn’t given a line of feedback. He must be performing well, must be nailing the feel. Otherwise, she would lash out, and give him some of that famous Helena Ross hell.

  “She’ll rip your heart out, but she doesn’t mean it.” She pauses, and he can feel the assessment in her stare. “I think she needs you. More than just your words. She needs someone to help her through this.”

  “My wife.” He stops and collects himself. “I’ve been through this before, I can—”

  “No.” Kate shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant. This book, that’s what she needs help with, that’s where her focus is. Her death?” She meets his eyes. “She treating it like a side effect.”

  As a child, I only loved myself, and even that was a love dipped in confusion and self-criticism. As an adult, I learned to love in a stilted fashion, my relationship with Simon similar to that of my first ski lesson. Slow at first, my hand gripping the safety rope, my breath in my throat, waiting for the eventual fall, the eventual tumble. After I began to trust him, that’s when the danger really started. That’s when the hills became taller, more like mountains. And my risk went from that of a skinned knee to something much more deadly.

  I wake up on the couch, the words echoing in my head. I grab a stack of Mark’s latest content and write the paragraph in the margins, the room dark except for the television. There. The beginning of the next chapter, done. I set the pages aside, my entire body aching when I stand and stumble into the kitchen. There, the light is on above the microwave, pill bottles in a perfect line along the counter, a note in front of them.

  Wake me up.

  I don’t recognize the handwriting, but it can’t be Kate’s.
It’s messy and male, and missing a please. I am turning to the stairs when I see his feet. They are bare, jutting off the end of my recliner, and there is the low sound of a snore. I plod into the sunroom and peer at him, his mouth hanging open, features slack. Men are so ugly when they sleep, and Mark is typical, the second snore coming louder than the first, his face twitching as it struggles through the inhale.

  He didn’t need to stay here. I’m perfectly capable of sleeping on my own. Chances are, given Kate’s prior visit, any dishes are done, the trash taken out and toilets cleaned. He should be sleeping in his hotel, that duffel bag somewhere other than my floor.

  Speaking of which… I consider the bag, which slouches next to his chair. Settling onto the cool tile, I pull it toward me, my eyes lifting to him for a moment before I pull the zipper open.

  The contents of the bag are fairly unexciting, a grab bag of old man underwear and clean shirts. There are no pants, and I eye the leg of his jeans, which hang off the edge of the recliner. I relax a little when I find his dopp kit, his toothbrush and razor inside, his invasion of my home not creeping into a bathroom. I find myself mildly disappointed that there is no porn magazine, or flask, or pill stash—no well-creased photograph or love letter hidden inside a book or passport. I do find a wallet, my hands careful as I pull out the overstuffed leather billfold. Lots of cash, over a thousand dollars. A driver’s license in the name of Mark Fortune, his birthdate putting him in his early fifties, his height a generous six foot, weight of 205. He is an organ donor, one point in his favor, and has a motorcycle license. I thumb through the other cards, my hands plucking them out as I go. An automobile association card. A—