The Ghostwriter(34)

I may not have been a good mother. I may have been—as my attorney and mother believed—unfit, but I had followed Bethany’s rules. When music played, I danced with her—our arms swinging through the air, our hips bouncing in time to the beat. I didn’t touch her art. I brought cookies—Fudge Stripes, wrapped in a paper towel, and formally presented to her as if payment for passage.

I open her door and reverently carry the paper to her desk, softly setting it down, realizing the ridiculousness of my precautions as soon as it flops onto the surface. I am treating it as I would have before, back when I needed to preserve her things for the rest of my lifetime. Now, with that timeline chopped, I don’t need to use such care. It only needs to last another two and a half months.

When I close the door and twist the key in the lock, I can see the faint outline of where the list sat, sticky residue still present along the corners. Before my prognosis, I would have immediately cleaned it, unable to move away from the door until it sparkled. Today, I can barely stuff the key in my pocket, my lungs tight, my heart in pain as I move away from her room and toward the stairs.

I have to lock it up. I’m not ready for him to see it or hear about her. Not yet.





I grip the sides of the white granite counter, my breathing short and shallow, my vision spotting. I close my eyes, focus on my inhalations, the exercise doing little to calm the gallop of my heart. I turn away, leaning against the counter, and press my fingers on my eyelids in an attempt to stop the tears from falling.

There is a soft knock, and I am not fast enough to reach for the knob, to flip the lock. The door creaks open and Simon is there, those handsome features tight with concern. His gaze darts to the counter, to the white stick there. The word PREGNANT is stark and final, and there is a break in his expression, a moment of clear and uncontained joy. He gathers me against his chest and I sob, his happiness causing a fresh injection of panic. He whispers my name, wraps his arms tighter, his kiss soft against my forehead, my tears. “It will be okay,” he swears. “My beautiful, sweet, girl. I promise you, this will be the best thing that has ever happened to us.”

He was right, of course. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. The best, but also the worst.





The new medicine is turning me into a zombie. On Thursday, I hear the mail when it comes, the squeak of the vehicle’s brakes, and I lift my head off the recliner, considering the effort to get up, walk through the house, down the steps, and to the end of my drive. The doctor promises that next week will be better, that my body will adjust to the medicinal cocktail, and I’ll feel almost normal. In the meantime, he stresses, I need to have as much activity as possible, and drink lots of fluids.

Activity is a joke, unless moving a pen across a page counts. Drinking fluids has been an easy directive, the floor littered with empty bottles, my energy level too poor to pick them up, and I can feel my pristine environment slipping away with each pill I take.

It used to be that the clean and empty house calmed me. It was why I got rid of all of the furniture, all of the memories. It was too painful to look at the furniture, photos, and bits of our old life. I didn’t want to sit on the couch where Bethany lost her first tooth, or at the table Simon and I once made love on. I didn’t want the Peter Lik that I bought with my second bestseller, or the crockpot we got as a wedding present. I wanted it all gone, each item attached to a memory, each day an assault of What Used To Be. I wanted a fresh start, and it worked. The blank slate felt like a different house, one without secrets and death, one where I hadn’t been a fool, one where I had loved Bethany properly, and done everything right.

Now, with Mark and Chef Debbie’s presence added to the house, it just feels odd. He suggested I use a heating pad that I don’t own. He asked for a bucket when I was nauseous, needed a wrench to fix the sink, both things I threw out four years ago. Debbie has bumped around with the limited dishes I own, my kitchen too bare to make much of anything, and finally started cooking elsewhere and just bringing the food here. Kate has been buying enough items to bankrupt us both, her frustrating appearances coupled with shopping bags full of useful items, and I hate that she keeps popping up, and that their presence is helping me. I am useless, empty and lacking in every sense except for the creation of plot.

There is the hum of an engine, and the mailman drives off. I should go out there. It will give me some exercise. Plus, it’s been a solid week since I checked the mail. The box is probably full, an engraved invitation to anyone plotting to rob my house. Two months ago, I’d have welcomed them in with a smirk, hoping to fight to the death. Now, with this book off and running, my life is too valuable, a joust not worth the risk.

I lower the footrest of the recliner and stand. I bend over and grab a few of the empty bottles, then straighten, making it to the trashcan, then across the kitchen and to the front door. There, I rest. Mark is gone, back to his hotel, plans to shower and change and hunt down some Thai food for dinner. He’s written eight thousand words in two days, an impressive feat, one that he barely blinks at. During that same time frame, I’ve slept and complained enough for three toddlers. Occasionally, in between snoring and bitching, I’ve marked up some of his work.

It doesn’t need a lot of changes. He has talent, more than I had expected. I’d planned to mold him, to water his talent and watch it grow, to rewrite his weak words and create something from their framework. But in them, there is already greatness. My tweaks are small, the majority of his work left alone, my lack of effort almost disappointing. Almost. These last two days have been hell. I twist the knob and pull, the door unsticking and swinging open, the afternoon breeze coming in. It’s beautiful outside, one of those cheery days of fall, when a hint of heat is still in the air. It reminds me of summer days, spent on this porch. We had a tarp Simon would set up on the grass, a hose put at one end, the gradual hill of our lawn providing the perfect slide for Bethany. We added dish soap to make it slick, and she’d shriek with excitement as she slid down. It became an event, Simon adding balloons to our mailbox, and inviting the other kids on our street. Some weekends, we had as many as twenty kids streaking around that lawn, Bethany exhausted by the time the sun set and we cleaned it all up.