The Ghostwriter

by Alessandra Torre

  Her shoulders relax. “Thank you.”

  Silence falls, and he thinks through the chapters he just read, through everything that happened in this house. He glances at her, at the thin pallor of her face, the hollows under her eyes. “What you did—it was to protect your child. Any mother would have done the same thing.”

  Her fingers twitch atop the blanket. “Not all mothers,” she says quietly, and she’s right. Would Ellen have? It is difficult to know. On that day, so many minute changes would have led to a hundred different scenarios, the majority of which could have avoided death. “I was selfish, standard practice for me.”

  “You loved her.” He says firmly. “You fought for her. What happened, her being there, was an accident.”

  “I know.” She tilts her head against the recliner, bringing up one knee and hugging it to her chest. “I know.”

  She doesn’t. Any parent who loses a child holds themselves responsible, even if the act is completely unrelated to them. And in this case, she lit the match that caused the fire. She’ll never forgive herself for that, she’s carried that weight for four years. She’ll continue to carry it until she dies. That is how life is, it gives us burdens to carry and doesn’t give a damn about the weight. We shoulder it or we break.

  “Do you believe in Heaven?” She doesn’t look at him, she pulls at her shirt sleeves, pulling the material over her fists.

  “I do. Ellen’s there now, waiting on my ugly ass.” He smiles, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I imagine she has a list of things to yell at me about.” The DUI for one. He’d spent a night in the county jail for that, and had heard her voice the entire night, a steady barrage of disappointment. The shame alone had been enough for him to set down the bottle and get help.

  “You think I’ll see Bethany again?” Her voice is as soft as he’s ever heard it.

  “I know you will. You’ll have eternity with her.” He speaks firmly, believing every syllable with his entire heart. She turns her head slightly and meets his gaze, and the edge of her mouth trembles, just a fraction. On her, it is as good as an ear-splitting beam. He smiles back.

  MARK

  He waits until late morning, after the sun has finished its climb over the oak tree, the home warming, the heater switching off, light flooding through the front windows, before he goes to her. Her bed is empty, and he returns to the child’s room at the end of the hall, rapping gently on the door before pushing it open.

  The sleeping bag he overlooked the first time is in use, her thin body on its side, her jet black hair splayed over the pillow, eyes closed, both hands tucked under her pillow. She looks so peaceful that he steps back, not wanting to wake her. Reaching for the door, he sees the envelope, propped up on a stack of pages, his name written on its front. He glances at Helena and steps forward, crouching and lifting up the thin envelope, turning it over, the seal undone, the hand-written page sliding easily out. He reads the first sentence and falls to his knees, crawling forward across the floor, pulling at the blanket, his breath coming out in gasps. The fleece pulls away from her, revealing her striped pajamas, her body not reacting to the exposure, nothing moving in her face, in her chest, everything too peaceful, too still. He slides his hands underneath her and lifts her into his chest, burying his face into her, choking out her name as she falls, limp, against him.

  Closing his eyes, he grips her tightly, her skin cool and unresponsive, and sobs.

  Dear Mark,

  I’m sorry you had to be the one to find me. I’m sorry that I didn’t warn you. Please don’t mourn my death. Please celebrate my life, the tiny stretch of happiness that you brought to it. You made my final months mean something. You gave me the greatest gift anyone could give to another person: peace. I am the happiest I’ve been since she died. I’m finally ready to forgive myself. There has never been a better time for me to leave.

  The drug I took is a heavy sedative, one prescribed to me by two Vermont doctors who specialize in assisted deaths. I will die in my sleep, and won’t feel a thing. When you read this, my pain and grief will be over, and I will be with Bethany. I can’t wait to touch her face. I can’t wait to hug her to me and tell her all about you, and Mater’s baby, and that night you kidnapped me and forced me to watch Matthew McConaughey and eat contraband candy.

  I can’t bear to see Charlotte Blanton’s face; I’m too selfish to hear her story. I assume she is looking for closure, and wanting to better understand the man who took her innocence. I don’t know that man. I know my husband. I know the things that I loved about him. I know the things I hated. Neither of them gave me any hint to his secrets. In the media room is a duffel bag with all of the tapes. Please give them to her, along with the letter I’ve placed on top of it, and a copy of the manuscript.

  I could not have picked a better writer to tell my story. You are truly talented, one of the best I have ever read. In all of your novels, I found inspiration. In our novel, I found truth and self-forgiveness.

  Underneath this letter are the final scenes of our story. Aside from proofs, I’d like you to keep it as original as possible. In my desk, you’ll find a few more chapters, random memories that I’ve written down and held back until now. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier about Simon. It was important to me that you wrote my impressions of him in a naive way. I didn’t want those memories tainted by what I later discovered. I wanted the reader to understand how I was so stupid. I wanted them to understand why I did and reacted and failed—the way I did.

  Please don’t be sad for me. Please don’t, for one moment, mourn. We all knew it was coming. I just needed to hurry it along. I needed to go out on my terms. I needed to find peace with myself, and then not lose that feeling.

  In this moment, I can feel her smile. In this moment, I can almost remember her hugs. I want to go to her. I want to be done with whatever this life is. If there is a heaven, I am ready for it. If there is a hell, I believe that I am not destined for it. And if there is nothing but oblivion, I am ready to close my eyes and sink into that emptiness. I am ready for nothing. I am ready to say goodbye to this world and die.

  You are a good man. I wish I’d had a father like you. I wish I’d married a man like you. I wish, all of those years ago, we had become friends and not enemies. I wish Bethany could have met and known you. I wish I could have known you for longer than I did.

  Thank you for your friendship. Thank you for your words. Thank you for helping me with the most important task of my life. And thank you for picking up the pieces, once I am gone. I look forward to reading your next book in heaven.

  Your friend,

  Helena

  KATE

  Kate shifts into park and slowly opens the door, stepping from the car and meeting the eyes of the man who stands at the end of the driveway, his hands in his pockets. She steps toward him and Mark opens his arms, crushing her against his chest. She grips him around the waist, her face turned against his shirt, and breaks, her chest heaving with the sobs, the tears flooding her eyes, dampening the flannel of his shirt. He squeezes her tightly, his cheek against the top of her head, the warmth of his embrace the only thing keeping her together.

  “She didn’t have any pain,” he said gruffly. “I asked the EMTs about it. She just went to sleep last night and didn’t wake up.”

  She nods, swallowing hard. “Can I see her?”

  “If you’d like.” He nods toward the ambulance. “She’s in there.”

  Until she sees her, she almost doesn’t believe it. Death had seemed too weak of a path for Helena. The thought of a world without her, without more Helena Ross stories, without her weekly emails and rules, and opinions… in one quick moment, it is as if Kate has lost her entire reason for existing. Helena, simply put, can’t be dead. She can’t be gone. She can’t.

  Yet there she is, her pale face slack against a cheap hospital cot.

  Kat
e blinks quickly, the tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, her fingers reaching forward and gripping the rails of the gurney. Too much emotion pushes forward, her heart not prepared for it. This isn’t supposed to happen yet. She is supposed to have more time to prepare, she is supposed to be calm and cool and able to handle this. She isn’t supposed to break in half. Her mouth trembles, and she presses her lips tightly together.

  “She left you a letter,” Mark says, from outside the ambulance. “Reading it might help. It did for me.”

  “A letter?” Kate turns to look at him, surprised. “For me?”

  He reaches back, pulling an envelope from his pocket and holding it out to her. “Here.” He steps back. “I’ll be in the kitchen, whenever you’re done.

  She carefully takes the envelope, moving out of the way as the EMTs crowd the space, Helena’s gurney locked into place as they prepare to leave. Walking down the driveway a bit, she sits down on the concrete drive and works the page out of the envelope.

  Dear Kate,

  I gave you rules because I was afraid. Don’t ever second-guess your ability. Don’t ever think of me in any way except as a pain. I have been terrible to you. Please forgive me. It came from a place of guilt and self-hatred. Please, in this final letter, allow me a few more moments of bossiness.

  1. In the file cabinet in the utility room is my will. My attorney is my executor and his information is listed on the inside flap of the folder. Please give him a call. I’ll save you the drama of wondering at its contents. I’m leaving all of my assets to the victims of Simon Parks. I’m asking Charlotte Blanton to track them down based on the contents of video tapes that Mark is giving her. I am hoping, given her history in Wilmont, that she will recognize most of them.

  2. Also in the utility room is a stack of unpublished manuscripts. They are works that I never felt comfortable enough to publish. Feel free to read through them and see what you think. You have always been honest with me about my writing. Please read them in the same critical manner. If you think that there are any quality pieces there, feel free to pitch them. If there is rewriting to be done, please ask Mark to co-write on those titles. I understand that this is more than your standard duties. Please let this letter act as authorization for my estate to pay you a forty percent commission on those titles. You are one of the few individuals that I trust to not let the economic benefits outweigh your judgment of the content.

  3. As far as this novel, I have been editing and rewriting it as we have gone, so I believe that it is fairly polished in its current state. Please pitch it to Tricia Pridgen, and have any sales proceeds put into an escrow account for future victims that Charlotte may find.

  I’m certain that I’m forgetting something. I’m also certain in your ability to make the best decisions on my behalf. Don’t hesitate if faced with a question. You know the answer, especially where I am concerned.

  Thank you. I never said it enough, and it is too weak here. But it is sincere. Thank you for everything that you did for my writing and my career. Thank you for making me into one of the biggest names in our business. Thank you for your guidance and wisdom and for making it possible to spend so much of my life doing what I love. I appreciate you, and I never showed that enough.

  With love,

  Helena Ross

  She reads the letter twice, then slowly leans back, laying back on the cement drive, looking up into the branches of the tree, fresh tears leaking out of her eyes.

  I appreciate you, and I never showed that enough.

  She chokes out a laugh. Damn Helena. Becoming a human in her final moments of life.

  CHARLOTTE

  The phone rings and she ignores it, her pen in motion, Janice Ross’s strained voice coming through the mini-recorder. She creates a new bullet point and grabs the police report, underlining the time of Simon Parks’ 911 call, his report of his daughter’s fainting, his inability to get her to wake up. She pauses the tape and stares at the page, her eyes darting across the facts, trying to piece the circumstances together. Five months of work. Five months of sorting through every Simon Parks, dead and alive, in the country. Five months of digging through reported molestations and trying to find other victims. Five months of nothing, and now—a bunch of pieces that she can’t assemble into anything. There is the rap of knuckles against wood and she turns to see her editor, a woman whose patience in the area of Simon Parks is beginning to run thin. Today, however, her face is friendly. “Shipping and Receiving just called. There’s something for you at the front desk.”

  She pushes away from the desk slowly, making a final note on the page before sliding her bare feet into her sandals and standing, her walk to the reception area unhurried. She rounds the corner and slows when she sees the neat stack of boxes, stacked high on the counter. “These all for me?” she asks the receptionist, reaching forward and signing the release form.

  “Yep. This envelope goes with it.” The woman passes over a thick manila envelope. Eyeing the sender’s name, Charlotte’s heart picks up pace.

  Snagging the envelope, she glances toward the boxes. “Can you have someone bring these to my office?”

  She doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, she heads back to her desk, her hands hurriedly prying open the envelope and pulling out a thick stack of pages.

  Dear Charlotte,

  I didn’t know who you were. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t have avoided you. Then again, maybe I would have. I don’t know. I saw a video of Simon four years ago, and have tried to forget it ever since. I’ve hidden when I could have been helping. Please forgive me for that. I was mourning the death of my daughter, and struggling with guilt. I was convincing myself that I was both the villain and the victim, and completely lost sight of the children and women like yourself.

  I can’t fix the last four years. I can’t go back twenty, to before he became a monster. The only thing I can do is move forward and ask you to help me. With this letter should be several things. One is a manuscript—it is the story of my relationship with Simon, and the truth about his death. I’m sorry for not sharing that story with you in person, and for not listening to your own. In addition to the manuscript, there will be several boxes. They contain every videotape that Simon had. I haven’t watched them. I hope most of them are innocent recordings, but fear that a majority of them will be documented instances of pedophilia and molestation. There is also Simon’s laptop, and the hard drive to his computer. I don’t know his passwords, but my estate will pay for the forensic analysis necessary to pull whatever incriminating files may exist.

  If you are receiving this letter, and these items, I have passed away from a combination of terminal cancer and pharmaceutical assistance. In death, I hope to be a better person than I was in life. I hope to right some of Simon’s wrongs, and am writing to ask for your help in doing so.

  I understand that you are an investigative journalist. Your job is to find and uncover secrets, to research. I would like you to track down Simon’s victims, using the tapes and his computer files. I have appointed an executor, an attorney who will equally compensate each documented victim that you find. There isn’t a way to reimburse a child’s innocence, but money is the only thing I have to give them. Money, and the peace of knowing that he is dead. I hope this will, in some small way, help their struggle. You will, of course, be the first compensated victim. My attorney will also reimburse you for any travel or expenses incurred in finding and confirming the victims. If you need additional compensation for your time, please request that from him.

  Words are how I have made my living, but I am at a loss of what to say to you. I will never understand what you went through. I will never understand how I fell in love with a man who would do such terrible things.

  Thank you for reaching out to me. I’m sorry that I was too afraid to speak to you. I’m sorry that, right now, I am taking the coward’s way out, and writing you instead of spe
aking to you in person.

  Thank you, in advance, for your help.

  Sincerely,

  Helena Ross

  She has passed her office. She turns back, stepping into the small room, and sinking into her chair, rereading the last lines of the letter, her hands careful as she sets the stack of pages onto her desk. She moves the letter to the side, the next item giving her pause, a check clipped onto the top of a letter, one from an Antonio Sacco, an estate attorney in New York. She ignores the letter, her eyes skimming across the check, over and over, the sounds of the office, the chill in the air, everything fading at the pale green check with the neat, cramped writing. Her name so clearly stated. The amount stuttering across the page. One million dollars.

  Funny how, in a single moment, your entire life can change.

  She moves the check with careful precision, hiding it underneath Helena’s letter, then picks up the manuscript. It’s the first she has ever held, hundreds of pages clipped together, the title page simple, with only the title and Helena’s maiden name.

  DIFFICULT WORDS

  by Helena Ross

  She leans back in her chair, tucking a foot beneath her, and flips over the title page.

  Difficult Words Epilogue

  Dear Reader,

  Helena Ross died four years after the death of her husband and child. She was laid to rest in New London Cemetery, alongside her daughter. Her gravestone was simple, picked out shortly after her terminal diagnosis, the marble imprinted with only her name, years of life, and two words: I’m sorry.

  Before she passed, she wrote me a letter, one now framed in my study, right next to the first letter from her that I ever received. Helena was not an easy woman to love, but she touched my life in a way that few people ever have. I will miss her in my life. I will miss her stories. I will miss her rare and hard-earned smiles.