The Ghostwriter(10)
Seven years since they’ve last seen each other. Other clients would have hugged her. Or smiled. Yet, for Helena, the greeting is almost warm.
“I wanted to speak to you,” Kate says, forcing her shoulders back, her posture into place. “About your retirement.”
“Has seeing me answered that question?” Helena asks dryly.
It hadn’t, until that question, that terribly simple clue that clicks all of the puzzle pieces into place. In the brief moment it takes Kate’s heart to seize, she understands.
Helena Ross isn’t retiring. She’s dying.
It’s interesting to see the reaction when it hits, the pale flush that covers Kate’s generous cheeks, the widening of eyes, the stiffening of her chin, as if she’s expecting a blow. I watch the action as an observer, the author part of my brain carefully cataloging the indicators for some future book that I’ll never write. It’s an automatic action and I stop myself before the pain of reality hits. It comes anyway. I will never write another book again.
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.