The Ghostwriter(30)

“Worried about my finances?”

“You still have a Blockbuster card?” I don’t wait for a response. “God, you’re old.” I pull out the AARP card. “Is this teensy discount worth destroying your sex appeal?”

“That’s the determining factor in my inability to get laid? An AARP card?” He eases his way out of the chair and I hear the actual creak of limbs as he stands.

“It can’t help.” I flip to the other side of the wallet, moving past a Discover card (who still uses those?), a concealed weapons permit (good to know) and a player’s card for a New Orleans casino. “Speaking of which, do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.” He shuffles to the kitchen, and I watch him pass, wondering if the bottom of his feet are clean. “You want anything to eat?”

I drop the wallet and consider the question, my hunger warring with my fear of sickness, my head a bit loopy from the drugs. “Maybe some toast.” He moves farther into the kitchen, and I hear a cabinet open. “Thank you,” I call out, turning to look over my shoulder, his movements slow and careful, those of someone still half asleep.

“You’re welcome.” He finds the toaster and I turn back to his wallet, examining an insurance card before moving onto the last item, a laminated photo of a girl, thirteen or fourteen in age.

“This your daughter?” I ask, turning over the photo in my hand. On the back, there is writing, neat and pink and cursive.

I love you. Maggie

Original girl. Bet she thought about that inscription for ages.

“Yep. That’s her. It’s an old photo. You like jam?”

“No.”

“Good.” He shuts the fridge. “You don’t have any.”

“You get along with her?” I slide the photo back into the leather sleeve and close it, dropping the wallet into the bag and standing. The room tilts, and I grab the recliner and wait for a moment as my vision returns to normal.

“I do.” He scrapes butter over crisp toast, and glances up at me. “Sit down. I’ll get you some water. You should drink as much as you can, it helps to flush out your system and the meds.”

“And she’s at Ole Miss.” I say, remembering our earlier conversation. I try to picture the daughter of this man, what she looks like, acts like. “Sounds like the name of a cow.”

He shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His shirt is stretched out, there’s two days’ worth of stubble on his face, but I can still see where he was, decades ago, attractive. “It’s a nickname, for the University of Mississippi.” He turns away, walking to the fridge, and I watch as he fills a glass with ice water. “What’s with the lack of furniture?”

I shrug, taking the glass. “I’m a minimalist.”

“I’d say.”

The sarcasm pokes at me and I can’t stop the bristle that moves along my spine. “I got rid of most of the furniture once I was alone.” I rip off a bite of toast and chew.

“You could have sold the house. Moved into somewhere smaller.”

“Yep.” I take a sip of water and feel my first hard stab of nausea. Selling the house used to be a common suggestion. Right after the funeral, I got flyers and market reports from realtors, all boasting about the stats of the home, none mentioning the stigma that might follow it. I looked it up once, the effect on value of a home that has hosted death. It’s not a fact that has to be disclosed. These walls could hide blood splatters and a home-made dungeon, the oven used to cook organs, and we’d never have to tell a soul. But in this small town, everyone knows. Everyone knows about the strange widow in the big empty house, and the day it all fell apart.

Mark doesn’t seem to know. The newspaper articles and obituary both used my married name, Helena Parks. I’ve Googled my maiden name and Bethany’s, my maiden name and Simon’s, my maiden name and death, and nothing comes up. I am protected, though I can’t say the same for him. Last night I Googled Mark Fortune, and a treasure trove of tragedy emerged. He told me about his deceased wife. The rest, the DUI, the bankruptcy, the rehab… he hasn’t mentioned. It’s fine. I have my secrets, and he has his. The book is what matters.

“Did you buy this house with your husband?”

I feel the action a split second before it comes and I lunge for the sink, my chin barely clearing it before I vomit, the toast rough and painful on its exit, the taste hitting my gag reflex and I retch again, spraying the spotless surface of my sink.

Mark slides a water bottle toward me, and I grab for it, rinsing and spitting into the sink, my hand clutching at the faucet handle and pulling it, needing to wash out the sink. I run the disposal, the counter vibrating under my forearms, and I don’t have the strength to look when Mark gently touches my arm. “I’ll clean that. Let’s get you into bed.”

I can’t take a second night in my old bed. Eventually, I’ll show him Bethany’s room, the tattered remains of my heart. For now, I push away from the sink. “I’ll sleep on the couch. You should go to your hotel.”

“I’m fine in the recliner. I’m too tired to drive, assuming you don’t mind me staying.”

I do mind. I want to be alone. I don’t need his ice water, his concerned looks, his constant mothering. I want my house and my privacy back. I want my happy place, which is in Bethany’s room, in my sleeping bag, surrounded by her things. “Whatever,” I mutter, slowly moving past him and toward the living room.