I heard about this auction through the local media and my curiosity was instantly aroused. I had enjoyed watching this actress in her popular TV series and was saddened by her death. But that’s not why I’m here. The horrific circumstances of her murder had triggered an idea yearning to be created and the fact that I sold her my house, makes this creation all the more urgent to bring to fruition. I don’t believe the house was jinxed, nor do I believe in accidents or coincidence. I believe this moment was meant to be. I’m here for a reason.
“Number eleven, Lauren Carter’s journal,” the auctioneer announces. His assistant holds up the journal for all to see. I restrain my hand from rising, awaiting the bidding. “I’ll open the bidding at two hundred dollars. Who’ll give me two hundred?” A man in the front row nods, then a second man tops him with two hundred and fifty. These men are recognizable dealers, their aim is to resell. My hand shoots up. “I have two hundred and seventy-five dollars from the lady in the fourth row. Do I hear three hundred?” I hold my breath and then – “Three hundred dollars, to the lady over here,” he said pointing to a woman decked out in gold jewelry. I instantly feel disdain for this woman. I can’t let her get this so I raise the bid.
“Three twenty-five!” I shout. The gold woman turns and looks at me and promptly raises her bid to three fifty. I respond with a bid of three seventy-five and stare at the back of her head, willing her to stop.
“Four hundred.” A man’s voice rises loudly from the back of the room.
“Four fifty,” another bid. Oh no! This is going too fast.
“Four seventy-five,” I shout, too eagerly.
“Five hundred.” The loud man bids against me. I must try to sound less frantic.
“Going once, to the gentleman at the back…”
“Five twenty-five,” I say, trying to sound more composed. If I show complacency, they might all back off. Huh! Not a chance! Another round ensues.
“Five fifty,” the man at the back bids again.
“Five seventy-five,” a new bid! I'd promised myself that I wouldn’t go beyond five hundred, but my arm disregards my good intentions as I frantically wave it at the auctioneer. His voice echoes my bid and I hold my breath…
“Six hundred dollars,” he says. I am unflinching, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the journal. I wait. There is a moment of silence, then I hear six twenty-five from the gold woman.
“Six fifty,” I shout, knowing I’m beyond my limit, but the thought of that woman dipping into Lauren’s thoughts chills me.
“Do I hear any more bids?” said the auctioneer.
“Six seventy-five,” bids Goldie again.
“Seven hundred,” I respond. I’m way beyond my limit now. I try visualizing that I already have the journal in my possession… hope this helps!
“Seven twenty-five,” her again! That’s not supposed to happen. I’m determined to own this!
“Seven fifty,” The words stumble past my thumping heartbeat, which is caught in my throat. Then I hear something miraculous… silence! No man bidding at the back, no Goldie, no bidding, just silence. My adrenalin peak freezes time as I cast my eyes around the room, preserving the moment in anticipation of my reward.
“Going once, going twice, going a third time to the lady in the fourth row at seven hundred and fifty dollars… sold!”
*
The hammer fell with a loud thud and the journal was mine. This was the defining moment of my life, but I was unaware of the incalculable ramifications that would follow.
*
I drove home ecstatically and laid my prize on my desk. This frantic obsession within, was now satisfied. The journal belonged to me. I ran my fingers over the cover, caressing every corner and imperfection. It felt smooth from much handling, not only by Lauren, but others too. I knew it had been the source of the investigation into her death, providing much detail about her life, her marriage and her illness. Now, as I turned the first page, I was unprepared for the astonishing revelations that lay before me. I remained spellbound by her outpouring of intelligent linguistic communication. The way she conveyed ideas and events, her documentation and vivid descriptions forged an intimate connection between us. I read until daylight dissolved into dusk, my eyes strained from sheer concentration, diminishing light and intermittent tears. As I slowly transitioned from her reality back into my own, I realized that my mind had merged with hers and I now possessed a slice of her life.
I’d had two books published and this was to be my third. I had planned to write this story from the angle of a sad woman, thinking it would portray a sorrowful episode of Lauren’s life, which it did. But instead of a victim’s point of view, I heard the powerful voice of a strong woman shouting out from the pages. A voice that expressed a gamut of emotions from anger and outrage, to love and acceptance. Her detailed description of her struggle with a failing marriage and her husband’s emotional cruelty. Her explicit portrayal of everyday life with a sex addict and her acceptance of a terminal illness. I found her intelligent and pragmatic, especially during the last phase of her life, when she had the courage to execute her finances, change her will and outsmart her appalling husband. She was a courageous woman whose bravery may have influenced her demise, as her husband was later convicted of her murder.
I opened my computer and wrote in bold text, The Journal and began drafting the outline of my third novel. I paused for a few minutes to think about Lauren. I found myself drifting into a calm state of mind and I spontaneously decided to make a pledge. I promised to be true to her… to do her justice in portraying her character, so that all women who may be experiencing similar situations will gain strength and act with courage to overcome their ordeal and reclaim their lives. I pledged to be her personal advocate. She would speak through me.
I worked late that first night, shaping the outline of the story. The quietness was energizing and I stopped occasionally to snack and drink coffee, returning to my computer refreshed. I was drafting a fictional novel based on the facts of her life and the work flowed easily. My words transcribed her thoughts that she documented so diligently, almost as if she’d written them herself. I finished the outline surprisingly fast, so decided to begin the manuscript. I’d only written a couple of pages, when I realized that the style of this work was changing. It became noticeably different from my own. It had a familiarity that I couldn’t quite place and my mind was too tired to try. I was saturated with stimulating facts and ignorant of the cause of these impending changes.
I wrote solidly every night for eight weeks. I worked every afternoon and long into the wee small hours. I wrote like a crazy woman, attaining phenomenal key speeds in order to transcribe the words in my head. I wrote in a different style conveying knowledge that I had not obtained. I gave up my social life, disconnected the phone and ate my way through the freezer. I was a woman possessed, unable to function until the last word of this testimony was written and I could shout aloud – “It is finished!”
*
My agent called and I answered with trepidation.
“I love it!” she said, “It’s perfect. Don’t change a word.”
“Oh, I’m so relieved. I wanted to portray Lauren Carter truthfully and—” I paused and continued in a more serious tone. “What I’m trying to say may sound strange, but… I didn’t write this alone.”
“Are you saying that you co-wrote the story? This could become complicated.”
“No, not literally, but… let’s meet and I’ll explain,” I said, trying not to sound stupid.
*
My agent was a glamorous ex-actress, who retired after playing too many bit parts in second-rate movies. Now she stared in her own production, having built a booming talent and literary agency in LA. The role of CEO was much more secure for an older single woman, whose passion aligned with mine; reading and writing quality literature.
*
“Hello Helen,” I said as I entered her new office, which towered over the LA skyline. I walked towards t
he wall of windows and found myself on a level with a descending jet. “Arrrh! That seems close!”
“Yes that can be a little scary at first, but I’ve gotten used to it. Would a caffeine fix help?”
“No thanks, I’m high enough from your comments.”
“Meant every word!” she said. “But I’m anxious to discuss this co-writer of yours?” she looked serious. I smiled and sank into the soft couch for the duration of the tale which I was about to tell.
“It all began when I read about the sale of Lauren Carter’s journal. It was to be sold at auction along with her other possessions. I knew instantly that I had to own it. I became obsessed by this object, outbidding all others to obtain it. Once it was in my safekeeping, I read every word, eager to comprehend and embrace her thoughts. I began writing that same day, immersed in a deep state of mental concentration. It’s as though I were driven by an unseen force to explore and portray its contents.” I glanced at Helen, checking her response.
“Go on,” she said. “I’m intrigued.”
“The intensity of Lauren’s words had imprinted themselves on my mind so strongly that I was compelled to work late into the night and that’s when I first felt her beside me. I seemed to sidestep my reality and connect with hers. A calmness slowly descended through my body, similar to an intravenous anesthetic, traveling stealthily along the pathway of my veins. Then, as I placed my hands on the keyboard of my computer, I felt her soft feather-like fingers cover mine. My brain was happily dormant as she directed my hands with her gentle touch and together we tap-tap-tapped throughout the night.” I paused and noticed that Helen was emotionally moved by my story.
“I usually write best in the morning,” I continued. “But my whole routine changed and a new pattern began to emerge. I wrote the fictional part of the story during the afternoons, encompassing her detailed, well-documented descriptions of her husband’s addiction and her strength in arranging her financial affairs. I entwined fiction with fact and wrote about her acting career, her years as a popular TV star, even including her amusing offer from a Mafioso admirer. As night fell, I’d feel the tone of the writing change. At first, I thought it was just fatigue and I tried to fight it and continue my theme, but it was like treading water, I couldn’t make any progress. Then I’d feel a nudge, as though I was being elbowed out of the way, followed by a sensation of sheer serenity. My senses surrendered and I transcended into a trance-like state and I knew she was once again beside me. She was to join me every night for the duration of the book. So when I say this was a collaboration, it truly was just that.
“My role was to transcribe her words, which were strong and passionate. She gently, but forcibly took charge of my computer, my hands and my mind. I was her instrument, there to relate all her emotional turmoil onto my screen. Through me, she recorded her sadness, her pain and her acquisition of erudite knowledge in human behavior. This was not to be just a sad tale, but a way to empower women who felt entrapped in similar circumstances. Women who were too scared to change the dynamics of their abusive marriages; women who lacked her strength. This was her legacy for which I am committed to fulfill.” I looked at Helen and noticed the tears streaming down her checks, washing away her make-up. She looked beautiful, bathed in emotion, in spite of the loss of camouflage.
“Would you like to see the journal?” I asked. She nodded, unable to speak. I fetched it from my purse and placed it on her lap. She soon composed herself and stroked the journal tenderly before opening it, slowly turning the pages and noting the entries. But when she came to the last page she looked puzzled.
“How strange?” she said. “Look at the last line… it’s in a different handwriting,” and she read aloud, In matters of life and death… there are no accidents. Do you think her husband wrote this after he murdered her?”
“I don’t know, but there’s something more I should tell you. When I came to the end of the book and wrote about her husband’s conviction of her murder, she left me. Lauren simply disappeared. I felt she trusted me to finish the book alone and so I did. But I have no clue who wrote that last line.”
“All this drama, it’s far too much for one day,” said Helen, flushed with emotion. “I suggest we celebrate… and I have just the thing!” Helen opened her wine cooler and produced a bottle of Moet & Chandon champagne. “Here’s to the success of the most intriguing, singularly remarkable, extraordinary novel I have ever encountered… not forgetting the talented author,” and she raised her glass.
“Authors…” I said. “There were two of us,” and I too raised my glass in a toast. “Rest in peace Lauren, our work is done.”
Chapter 8
FUSION
Book signing was a favorite occupation and I felt proud of my latest work. The critics lavished it with unusual praise and Lauren Carter and I were in favor. A line had formed behind a stand displaying a picture of the book and I was seated with pen in hand, ready for action.
“I loved Lauren Carter,” one woman said. “You did her justice, well done.”
“I’ve read your other books dear and this is the best,” another said.
“Just make it out to my wife, she likes you,” and so it continued. Whatever their names, whoever they were, I duly inscribed as requested and signed their copies. These readers take the time to offer generous compliments and I’d be lost without them. I wrote this book for them, for me and for Lauren so it was with pleasure that I savored this event. The line was long and the sales exceptional. I broke for refreshment and to rest my hand, which was beginning to cramp with the repetitive action of holding a pen. Strange, I thought, a writer who can’t hold a pen for more than a couple of hours and I smiled to myself at the irony.
“Share the thought?” a friendly man said as he approached me.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said, gently exercising my wrist.
“You’ve hurt your hand, let me see,” and he tucked the book he was holding under his arm and took my hand in his.
“Really, it’s nothing, just cramping. I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m unused to holding a pen for so long.” My words didn’t deter his gentle examination and now, using both of his hands, he proceeded to massage my palm and my wrist. Then he took each of my fingers in turn and using light pressure he stroked them firmly from the base to the tip. The sensation of his touch lingered long after he had completed the task. Either he had cured my hand cramps or I was experiencing esthesis. The pain had gone and I was left with a sensation of tingling pleasure, which was not confined to my hand.
“There,” he said, still holding my hand. “You’re all set for another session of signing.”
“How do you know who I am?” I asked. He gave me back my hand and released the book from under his arm.
“I recognized you… your photo,” he said, holding up a copy of The Journal in front of me. “I’ve just bought your book and I’m going to join the line to have it signed.”
“You don’t have to wait… you’ve been so kind, I’ll sign it now,” I offered, reaching inside my purse for a pen.
“No, I’ll wait,” he said, as he placed his hand once again on mine, ostensibly to prevent my action, but our eyes betrayed us in a lengthy gaze that conveyed more than words.
My outward appearance was calm as I resumed my afternoon duty of signing. But inside a burbling spring of excitement was rising. My chance encounter with a stranger had unsettled me, but then nothing happens by chance. I expected him to be in line, to be the next person requesting my signature on his new copy of my book, but as the last few people became visible he was not among them. At times, I used my peripheral vision to check the sitting areas in the bookstore, but nothing. My new-found excitement crashed and left only a sinking feeling in place of a spring. I scolded myself, remembering where my romantic notions had led me before. My first book Paranoia had come from choosing a bad marriage partner and I had vowed that I would never do it again. My belief that nothing happens by chance prevails, but this chance encoun
ter seemed not to hold a special meaning. No coincidental occurrence, nothing but a sweet moment in a writer’s afternoon. I was misled by a stranger’s kindness in the hope of a fortuitous outcome and that’s an end to it. I composed myself and signed copies for the three remaining people who had patiently waited in line.
The manager joined me as I rose to leave and we exchanged pleasant book talk, vowing to repeat this business arrangement with the release of my next book. I turned to retrieve my jacket which I’d left on the back of my chair and there he was, sitting behind me, smiling.
“I said I’d wait, remember?” He walked towards me and politely lifted my jacket from the chair and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Book stores can be a little chilly after a long afternoon. What would you say to one more signing with some coffee to warm you up?”
“I’d say that my signing improves greatly when my hands are warm.”
We found a quiet table in the corner of a coffee shop where interruption was unlikely. A moment of silence preceded our opening conversation, in which we surveyed each other’s faces extracting signals to gain an instinctive advantage. He spoke first.
“I was hoping we could talk,” he said. “I heard about The Journal on the radio… some arts program. I was driving and they mentioned Lauren Carter and then they praised your book based on her life and I knew I had to read it… had to meet you… and here I am.” He looked to me for reassurance.
“Did you like her?” I enquired.
“I think I was a little in love with her,” and he smiled bashfully.
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