The Ghostwriter(28)
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 brood 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.