The Ghostwriter

by Alessandra Torre

  Bethany is the only thing that gets me through it. Soon, I will have her in my arms. Soon, everything will be okay.

  I jog when I can, and walk the rest of the time, moving as fast as I can manage, my feet flopping around in Simon’s big shoes, a blister forming on the bridge of my foot. I practice the lines of my story, the tone of my voice, the look on my face when I see my mother. “You’re always telling me to exercise more. I decided to jog over. Do you feel up to an early dinner? You could drop Bethany and me at the house afterward.” She will ask questions, she always does. She will smile and agree but there will be an edge of irritation. She will get on to me for forgetting my wallet and my cell. She will go into all of the things that could have happened, and how I can’t, I just simply can’t, be so absentminded. Not when I am a mother, and have Bethany to think of. She will rattle on and on about stupid possibilities, her voice growing more superior, more condescending, more frustrating. None of it will matter. I’ll have Bethany back and be just days away from a new life, one far away from her judgments and admonishments. I inhale deeply and imagine the smell of Bethany, the soft skin of her cheek, the curl of her hair. I am almost there, just blocks away from never letting her out of my sight.

  Just ahead of me, Mom’s house, the edge of her white picket fence. Maybe Bethany will be in the front yard. I force myself forward, the ache in my side flaring, and round the street corner, rising on my toes to see as much of Mother’s house as possible.

  Yes. There is a light on in the kitchen, a glow of gold in the fall of dusk. I manage to jog, my feet dragging along the concrete, a squirrel darting across my path. A car approaches, and I wait for it, cutting across the road as soon as it rolls past. I let myself in the gate and climb the front steps, trying the door. It is locked, and I reach out, pressing on the doorbell. She has to be home. I try to calculate how much time has passed since she picked Bethany up. An hour and a half? Two?

  I press the bell again, more urgently, and listen to the faint buzz. Where could she be? I leave the front porch and move down her driveway and around to the back. If only I had my cell. Maybe they are at the park. Maybe she texted or called. Maybe they went to the library, or for ice cream. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I should have grabbed the spare key to her house. I’d had the key, right there among the others. Stupid me.

  Her back door is also locked and I almost scream in frustration. Her garage is locked, and I can’t tell if her car is in there. But she wouldn’t not answer the doorbell. I slump into one of her front rockers, and wait.

  CHARLOTTE

  Her cell phone rings, a steady pulse of attention that Charlotte ignores. Something about this story will help, she can feel it in her bones. She waits for the older woman to collect herself.

  “When I pulled into their driveway, Simon’s car was there.” She inhales as if she needs the air to continue. “I was surprised, but also pleased. Before I had stopped by Helena’s…” she pulls at the neck of her sweater. “I had been planning on running some errands. I brought Bethany inside and spoke to Simon briefly.” Her mouth tightens, a hundred tiny lines in her skin coming to life. “He was fresh out of the shower, and distracted, and I was—” she lifts a hand and covers her face, too overcome to speak. “I was thinking about my dry cleaning. I told him that Helena had asked me to watch Bethany, but that she’d given me mismatched shoes. He told me to just leave Bethany there, that he could watch her.” Her hand falls away from her mouth for a moment, and she lets out a brittle sob. “So I did. I left them both there.” She lifts her eyes and meets Charlotte’s. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for that.”

  “The article says that Helena drove your car to the scene.” Charlotte fights the urge to pull out the newspaper clipping and reconfirm the facts. “How did she end up with—”

  “I got my dry-cleaning after I dropped off Bethany.” Her face flushes, embarrassment tangling with the guilt. “I didn’t know Helena was at my house, waiting.” She looks back down at the page. “And there was traffic, and the cleaners couldn’t find my shirt, this silk shirt that I was going to wear to a wedding…” her voice drops off and she swallows. “When I got home, Helena was on the steps of the front porch. She looked so… so happy to see me.” Her eyes search Charlotte’s for understanding. “When she opened the car door and didn’t see Bethany…” she rests her knuckles against the bright coral color of her lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that look on her face before. The way she looked at me—as if I had committed a crime. As if returning a child to her home was criminal.”

  Returning a child to Simon Park’s home. Charlotte feels a stab of dread that doesn’t even factor in the carbon monoxide. “So, Helena asked to borrow your car?”

  “Oh no.” Janice shakes her head sadly. “There was no asking.”

  “You did what?” With each breath, the panic grows, the fire fanned, my psyche closer to the very thin edge of hysteria.

  “I dropped her back off at the house. With Simon.” My mother shifts the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder, and her keys glint at me from her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  I can’t see through the panic. I can’t think through my fear. At some point, I step forward. Somehow, I have her keys. She is holding her hand, her face twisted in anger, her mouth moving, yelling, but I can’t even hear her. I only hear my heartbeat, the dull thud, the crack of my steps against the gravel, the creak of leather seats as I shove myself into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

  I drive. There is the blow of a horn, and a car swerves. The pedal won’t go further, and my legs are stretched out too far, the seat way back, the mirrors on the car all wrong. Something clips against my bumper, and I grip the wheel tightly, holding it through the turn.

  All I can see is her face. Her tiny hand lifting to those lips, the blowing of a distracted kiss.

  When I turn down my street, I see the ambulances, the police cars. I stop in the middle of it and get out, tripping over something in my haste, my palms skinning on the rough asphalt, the skin burning. I move, stumble. I shove at a body and my foot hits the curb, climbs up the driveway.

  I am stopped by arms around my waist, the black chest of a uniform bumping against me, strange hands on my shoulders. Yelling. The whip of wind and hair across my face. I scream at them that this is my house, and they don’t care. I tell them that my child is inside, and something on the man’s face… I will never forget that look, the way that his face hardened and softened, all at once. I see that look, and I understand what it means.

  I love her. Even when I left her, even when I was happily writing in that psych ward or slamming dishes onto the floor in frustration—I loved her. I loved her. I love her. I need her. I need… need…

  I can’t see through the tears, I can’t hear through my own screams. His chest won’t break, I pound on it until my fists sag, until he lifts me against his chest and carries me to an ambulance.

  I beg him to see my daughter, but he says nothing.

  MARK

  After six hours of silence, she leaves the room and walks past the office door, heading to the other end of the hall. He looks up from his spot at the desk, watching her slowly trudge by, the notepad in hand, her head not turning to him. There is the quiet sound of the door closing, and he waits for a moment.

  Silence.

  He rises and goes to the room that she left, the door wide open, and he glances in, surprised to see a fully furnished space—a theater room that Maggie would fall in love with. Flipping off the light switch, he closes the door, a key still stuck in the lock. Returning to the office, he settles onto the couch, propping his feet on the end of it and folding his arms across his chest. Staring up at the ceiling, he wonders what she is doing.

  “I’ll write it. But I need you to leave me alone to do it.”

  There is a fine line between leaving her alone and neglect. At some point, she’ll need food. Medicine. Sleep. H
e glances at the clock, and considers an interruption. Considers telling her about Charlotte Blanton, and her mention of an article.

  He’ll give her a few more hours. But then, if she is still awake, he’ll bring her something to eat. He closes his eyes, and relaxes against the leather cushion.

  Three hours later, there is no response to his knock, and he quietly turns the knob and cracks open the door, tilting his head inside. The light from the hall first illuminates a child’s light switch, Beauty and the Beast dancing around the edge. The walls are a pale pink, the carpet cream. He sees the edge of a dollhouse and instantly, soberly, understands. He carefully steps inside and stops, looking down at her. A nightlight plays gently over the scene—her body curled around the notebook, her hand possessively over the top of the page, words half filling the space. Her eyes are closed, her body slack, and he bends over to pick her up, and then stops. In two months, it is the first time she has looked at peace, the lines in her forehead slack, her expression calm, her fists uncurled. His eyes move to the page, where a dozen lines repeat the same thing.

  I love you.

  I love you.

  I love you.

  I love you.

  I love you.

  He ignores the other pages, a sea of them across the floor, underneath her elbow and head, pages upon pages of story. Instead, he grabs a blanket from the floor, stretching it over her body, then steps backwards, gently closing the door. Returning to the office, he stretches back out on the couch and closes his eyes.

  A love story has a series of requirements, an equation for success. Love + Loyalty = Happily Ever After. I’ve written and read enough in this life to understand that an equation for success rarely produces it, but that breaking the rules typically guarantees failure. I think marriage is the same way.

  Can you love a monster? I did. I loved him, and I hated him, both for the entirely wrong reasons.

  Did we have loyalty? No. I was more loyal to my books, to my words, to my characters, than I was to him. He was more loyal to his secrets, his crimes, his perversions, than to me.

  Was there a Happily Ever After? I told you, early on in this book, the chances of that.

  I wake up on Bethany’s floor, my neck sore, a page sticking to my palm when I lift it. I assemble the loose papers, turn to the last chapter, and write the book’s final scene. I have written a lot of The Ends in my lifetime. This one is both the hardest, and the easiest, I have ever written. I print the letters in a neat script, then slide the page off my lap, letting it flutter to the floor with the others.

  Done. My story, start to finish. I’ve spent the last six weeks thinking that I wouldn’t be able to tell it, wouldn’t be able to walk back through that day, through those terrible moments. Now that I have, I feel lighter, as if I’ve physically stripped the moments from my heart and transferred them to the page. They say confession cleans the soul. I should have confessed a long time ago.

  I close my eyes and sit back against the wall, stretching out my legs and flexing my fingers. Now that I am finished, there is only one thing I want to do.

  I move slowly to my feet, my back protesting, my chest tight from the hours of constriction. I crack the wrists of each hand as I move quietly out to the hall, passing the office, Mark’s snores coming quietly through the open door, and continue to my old bedroom. Going inside, I use the restroom, then stand at the sink, meeting my eyes in the reflection as I wash my hands.

  Am I ready?

  I turn off the water and lean forward, examining myself. I look like death. I feel even worse. At the moment, the only thing that doesn’t hurt is my mind. I reach down and open the center drawer of the vanity, pulling out the only thing in there, a small white vial of liquid. Four ounces of peace. Four ounces of surrender.

  Am I ready?

  I pull it out and set it on the table.

  MARK

  The hand is soft but insistent, pushing against his shoulder, and he jerks awake, his back wrenching painfully as he sits up.

  “Shit.” Helena’s voice moves, and there is the stumble of feet across the rug. “You scared me.”

  He blinks, trying to see in the dark. “What time is it?”

  “Late. I finished. Can you read it?”

  He moves a foot onto the floor, pressing on his lower back as he sits fully upright. “Now?”

  “No, Steinbeck. In the morning. I just woke you up to ask you the question.”

  He can see more now. The hang of her dark hair, the outline of her glasses. She stands in the middle of the room, clutching a stack of pages. A ghost, that’s what she looks like, the pajamas hanging off her frame, her long fingers skeleton-like in their clutch. “You’re being sarcastic.”

  “God, you’re dense when you first wake up. Yes. I’d like you to read them now.”

  He rubs at his eyes, the fuzz of sleep dropping off. “Fine. Let me get some coffee.”

  He stands up and stretches, something in his neck popping.

  She assembles a fire, her hands moving quickly and without hesitation, kindling crackling, the amber glow smoldering, then expanding, the hearth soon full of flames. “Impressive,” he remarks, carrying in two mugs and passing her one.

  “Thanks.” She cups the ceramic with both hands, bringing it to her face and inhaling the scent deeply, her hair auburn in the fire’s glow. She doesn’t look ghost-like in this light. She doesn’t even look sick. She looks beautiful. Beautiful and healthy, the fire working magic across her features. He settles into the couch and reaches for the stack of pages. She sits back, and lifts the mug, taking a long sip. She hums out a small sound of satisfaction, but it’s already lost in the room, his eyes on the page, her voice clear in the words, as if she is reading them aloud. He settles in, the coffee forgotten, and reads.

  When he finishes, Helena’s eyes are closed, her head resting on the leather, the coffee cup gone, a blanket now wrapped around her. The fire is low, gentle light coming from it, a pop coming as a log shifts. Her eyes open and she looks at him. “Are you done?”

  He nods. For the first time in a long time, words escape him. “I’m sorry,” he manages.

  She lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, her hands smoothing over the front of the blanket. “How was the writing?”

  He looks down at the final page, trying to sort through his feelings, to separate his emotions from the content. “Very strong. Better than I ever could have done.”

  “Oh God, don’t get humble on me now.” One corner of her mouth lifts, and it’s almost like a different person, a new Helena, one free of the burdens that lay in these pages.

  “No, really.” He looks at her. “It’s…” he tries to find the right word, a way to discuss the way the words had gripped him, gutted him. “It’s difficult to read, it’s so vivid. It’s painful. I can’t imagine going through that. Discovering that. Reacting to it. It’s heartbreaking, Helena.”

  She smiles thinly, her lips pressed together tightly, and looks towards the fire, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She takes a deep breath, and he can see the containment of emotion, the moment that she regains control. She wipes a hand across her cheek and glances back at him. “Did you speak to Charlotte Blanton? Did you find out if she is from Virginia?”

  “She is.” He nods, remembering the stiff phone call, his mind suddenly connecting the dots between this manuscript and their conversation. “She’d like to speak with you. She’s writing an article. Probably about Simon.”

  Helena twists her mouth in a gesture he knows well, one somewhere between a grimace and a frown, the same expression she gives when he asks if she needed to rest. “I don’t want to speak to her. I know I should…” she kicks one foot out from underneath the blanket, stretching towards the fire.

  A minute stretches into two, and when she opens her eyes, her expression has changed. “The book doesn’t have much of a resolution.”
She looks at him, and the Charlotte Blanton conversation appears to be over. “Will you write an epilogue?”

  He picks up the coffee cup, then sets it down, the ceramic cool. “An epilogue?” He considers the idea. “What would you want it to say?”

  “I’m not sure.” She picks at her bottom lip. “I guess whatever you think, you feel.”

  “That’s a little ambiguous.” He sets the pages down beside him. “It’s the final note of your book. It’s not something I can take lightly.”

  “It’s not going to be authentic if I tell you what to write. Just wait, until after all of the edits and proofs are completed, and then just see what’s in your heart.” She drops her hand from her lips and looks up at him.

  “You mean, after you’ve passed away.”

  She doesn’t flinch. “Yes. You can tell them who you are, or what your job in the book was. I don’t mind if they know I’ve had help.”

  They. The gods in their world, the eyes on which the axis rotated. The readers. The critics. What would they think? Was his reading of the content skewed by his relationship with her? Would they vilify or martyr her?

  “Please do it. It would mean a lot to me.”

  She watches him with eyes too wise for such a young woman. Eyes that know his inability to say no. Six weeks ago, those eyes begged him to accept her job proposal. Too much has happened since then. A lifetime worth, literally her lifetime worth. Each chapter he wrote had felt like experiences lived. Watching her now, seeing her struggle… he’s surprised she’s made it this far. “Of course I’ll do it.”