The Ghostwriter(31)

The couch flickers with color, still lit by the television, and I pull back the blanket and crawl onto my belly, pulling the pillow against my cheek, my eyes closing. The last thing I remember, before falling asleep, is him feeding me more pills.





The phone wakes me. It is a siren, loud and incessant, and I roll over on the couch, pulling the pillow over my head and waiting for it to stop. Then, I remember Mark, hear the click of a door as he moves through the house, his weight creaking the floor boards, his steps echoing through the empty house. I throw off the pillow and lift my head. “Don’t answer that!” I fall off the couch, my fingertips scraping along the floor, and then I’m standing, my steps drugged and confused, the room tilting as I move through the dim room and toward the kitchen. “Don’t answer—“ I run into his chest, my fingers curling against the flannel of his shirt, and I look up into his face, surprised.

“I’m not answering it.” He supports me, and looks around for a chair, nothing around, and I feel his hands tighten on my forearms. “Let’s get you back to the couch.”

“No.” I straighten, my bearings found, and stand, pushing against his chest. “I’m fine.” The phone stops, and we both fall quiet as the machine beeps from its place in the hall, one room away. I let out a sigh of relief when a telemarketer’s automated voice comes on. I’ve dreamed of Charlotte Blanton, her visit, her email… a call must be next.

“Are you hungry?” Mark’s voice is mild, as if my drunken sprint to the phone was normal.

“I think so.” I make it over to the stove and eye the scrambled eggs in the skillet. “You cooked these?”

“Yes. They’re edible.”

The eggs look more than edible. They look delicious. I grab a paper plate from the cabinet and spoon some onto it.

“You can take more. I’ve already eaten.”

“This is enough.” I consider the toast, which sits beside the stove. I move on.

“Coffee?”

“Yes please.” I sit down and see a stack of papers, crisp and double-spaced. “Is that new content?” I was so hesitant, at the beginning, to read his work. I watched him type, I answered his questions, and I waited. My hesitation was a mix of fear and worry. I was afraid he wouldn’t do it justice. I was worried his words would be flat.

My fears had been unfounded. I’d known, when I started the first paragraph, one that had smoothly continued what I had begun… that he would do fine. He easily captured my voice, followed my outline well, and kept the tone I wanted.

“Yep. I swung by my hotel and printed it.” He sets down a cup of coffee. “How do you like your coffee?”

“Black is fine.” I eye the pages, the eggs forgotten.

“I wrote some more this morning, but haven’t had access to a printer.”

I nod, pulling the pages closer. “Can you grab me a pen? There’s some in the drawer to the left of the fridge.”

I sit back, kicking a foot up on the opposite chair, my fork stabbing absently at eggs as I read on. I finish the plate and barely notice when he replaces it, cut strawberries appearing, everything gone by the time I finish the content, my stomach full, my fingers tapping against the edge of the final page, itching to write some words of my own.

“Can you email me the rest? I can print it here.”

“Already done.” He shakes a medicine bottle. “Want some medicine?”

“The anti-nausea please. Whatever’s been knocking me out…”

“That’s the anti-nausea.”

I make a face, but still hold out my hand for the pill. “I’m not very entertaining.”

“I disagree.” Our eyes meet as I take the pill.

I roll my eyes and turn, glancing at the clock. 10:14 am. In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve slept over sixteen hours. I should be wide awake, but all I want is to lay down, my fatigue even worse than yesterday. “Let’s move to my office.”

“You’re the boss.” He picks up the pages, glancing down at my notes, before he straightens. He doesn’t move, and I realize that he doesn’t know where my office is. I’ve lived in a world of my own creation for too long, one where the sole character is a neurotic, nosy individual who can’t receive a stranger’s mail without opening it. If you had put me alone in his house, I’d know his social security number and the condition of his air filters by now. This man has seriously wasted his time, fixing me food and typing away. Now, with my legs in working condition, my mind somewhat clear, he’s lost his chance at invading my privacy.

The steps have gotten higher in the last two days and I literally wheeze at the top, taking a moment to catch my breath, Mark patient as he leans against the banister.

“It’s a steep flight,” he remarks, as if my struggle is normal, and I glare back at him.

“Bite me.” He should be better at this. He should know not to coddle or be kind. He should know that, within this pathetic body, I am strong and independent.

I point down the hall and at my office door. “In there.”





The last guest in my office was Simon. Some days, during the winter, when the heat rattles on and there has been no fresh air for days, I can smell his scent. It invades this space, my hand clawing at my neck, the fan useless against it. On those days, I open the window and let in the freezing burst of fresh air. I huddle in a blanket, my space heater on, and work. The cold is worth the erase of him, and when summer comes, it’s like he never existed at all.