The Ghostwriter(36)
“When’s the last time you took a trip?” He steps back and leans against the desk, and I eye the legs of it, wondering at its strength. Bethany used to sit on that desk, her legs swinging, arms twirling, typically when I’d be trying to work. Her forty pounds couldn’t compare to him, his big shoulders, his wide thighs relaxing against the edge of the desk. It’s easy to imagine him around cows. Simon, in comparison, was small, like me. His t-shirts fit me well, and his chin came just over the top of my head. I remember buying him 32 inch jeans. I remember thinking, as I searched for that ridiculous size, that I was above this. I had more important things to do, words to write, deadlines to hit. I was Helena Fucking Ross, and there I was—pushing a shopping cart, a baby drooling in the carrier before me, a freakin’ pacifier tied to my belt loop.
I rub at my forehead, anxiety growing as memories collide with the present. I glance at Mark and realize he is waiting. Oh yes. His question. When was the last time I took a trip?
It’s both the easiest question and the hardest. Did my overnight sprint to Vermont—just four weeks ago—count? I decide it doesn’t, and squirrel those two days away in the Never Going To Talk About bucket. That trip aside, my last trip was with both of them, Bethany strapped in the backseat, a cooler loaded into the back with juice boxes and yogurt sticks, our snacks covered until we hit the Canadian border. The seven-hour drive ended up taking ten, and we were all in a terrible mood by the time we hit the ski resort in Tremblant. It had been a rough start to a great weekend. I’d sprained my ankle within an hour of strapping on skis, and spent the next three days by a crackling fire, getting hours of uninterrupted writing time in while they explored the resort. We had gourmet dinners in the tiny village, one out of a fairy tale. Bethany had shrieked and splashed her way into the hot tub, her pink bathing suit sprinkled with snowflakes, the steam rising into the air, and I’d told her a story of a witch who cooked little children in her big cauldron, one that bubbled over a fire—and we’d turned the lights of the hot tub to red and I made evil faces and pretended to stir the cauldron, dunking her into the water every once in a while to make sure that she was evenly cooked. It was an incredible trip, even if Simon and I did fight on the ride home. Even if he did let her order chicken fingers and soda off the French restaurant’s menu—robbing her of a rare opportunity for culture. Instead, she ate tan sticks of chicken that had been nuked in a microwave somewhere, with a side of fries. Not even poutine. Just plain old French fries, dipped in fat globs of ketchup.
“Helena?” Mark speaks gently and I blink, the room coming into focus.
“It hasn’t been that long,” I say. Five years.
“It’ll be fun, I promise. And it will help clear your head. While you feel good, let’s go.”
It’ll be fun. It will most definitely not be fun. I don’t know what Mark Fortune’s version of fun entails, but it probably involves sweating and bugs.
While you feel good, let’s go. Do I feel good? I take a self-assessment. This week has certainly been leaps and bounds above last, my nauseous reactions to the meds gone, my dizziness reduced to rare bouts, my energy almost back. “Feeling good” isn’t really the phrase to describe it, but I certainly feel more capable, less shaky, and a little bit like my old self. According to the doc, the short-term effect of the meds will help, but my energy will begin to wan, my headaches will worsen, my appetite lessen, and I’ll be practically bedridden within another month. Mark’s right. If I am ever going to travel, this week is the time. Where he’s wrong is his assessment that I have any interest in the journey, although getting a peek into Marka Vantly’s world is tempting.
“Thank you for the invite,” I shake my head. “I’m going to pass.”
“Ever seen a baby cow be born?”
“I’ve never seen a lot of things, that doesn’t mean that I’m interested in any of them.”
“Stop being stubborn.” He smiles kindly, and I hate the comfort I find in the gesture. “It’s September in Memphis. It’s the most beautiful time of the year. And Mater’s like you—old and crotchety. You’ll get along well.” He holds out his hand for me and I take it without thinking, his strong pull getting me easily to my feet.
In my thirty-two years of life, I’ve only been to a handful of places. New York. New London. Tremblant. Maine. Washington, DC. Vermont. They’ve all been the same. Cool, both in their people and their climate. I like Northerners. I’ve read stories based in the South, in cities like Memphis, and am appalled at the people described. The type who throw their arms around someone right when meeting them. The kind who trust too easily, ask too many questions, then gossip that information all over town. In New York, if you invite random strangers in for tea, you’ll be raped and dead within a week. I think that’s almost the way it should be; we should all have a healthy fear of each other.
I realize that Mark has packed up his things, the cord of his laptop stuffed into his leather duffel, the papers I had spread on the floor now stacked, a paperclip found and securing their corners. His laptop slips into the bag, and he eyes my pajama pants. “I’ll go downstairs,” he announces, “and grab some snacks. Don’t worry about packing too much, you’ll fit into Maggie’s clothes if you need anything.”
“I’m not going.” The words stop him at the door and he pauses, a heartbeat of time passing before he turns.