The Ghostwriter(54)
“The movie’s a comedy,” he says from his place by the sink, speaking loudly over the running water. “Might be good to clear our heads.”
He’s talking about the movie like it’s still a possibility. I’m not going to a movie. The last movie I saw was an animated one with Bethany. I checked her out of kindergarten and we played hooky and shared Twizzlers and an Icee, and Simon said I was setting a bad example.
“No movie.” I use the end of my pen to push his phone away. Maybe the simple sentence structure will get through to him. Bad Author. No Movie. Write Now.
“Want to work through the next chapter?”
Another chapter? I’m still exhausted from the last, which had taken three days and left me emotionally drained. Up next, Bethany’s fourth year and the square off of Me against Them. We are climbing the hill toward the climax, though Mark doesn’t know that yet. He has no idea that all of these pieces, all of the stories, are blocks of dynamite, carefully placed and positioned for the eventual explosion.
“Helena?” Mark prods. “Want to do the next chapter?”
“I’m still editing this.” He should know this, should see I still have a dozen pages to go.
“Then I’ll head out. Do you need anything before I go?”
I can feel something lingering in the air, something he is hiding. He wants to leave, yet he never leaves early. I set down the pen and turn in the seat, really looking at him for the first time.
MARK
Suspicion is not a new look on Helena, but it still stabs when it hits. He shifts against the counter’s edge and meets her stare. She seems to be calculating, eyeing puzzle pieces and moving them together. He helps her out, his words slow and unemotional, the sentences as clear as he can make it.
“I’m picking up Kate from the airport at seven. The movie starts at eight. Would you like to come with us?”
“No movie.” The words are quick, an automatic response as she continues to think.
“Okay.” He lets out a long breath. “Would you like to come to the airport with me to pick her up?”
“We need to work.” She’s stuck on this, her dedication impressive, if not exhausting.
“I can’t write any more until you tell me what to say.” This side of her is new, and he wants to ask questions, but doesn’t want to start a fight. She’s taking enough drugs to kill a small animal, and he’s dealt with some of them before, handled the side effects of increased irritability, ones that had occasionally turned Ellen into a raging bitch.
“I’m sorry. I get paranoid about…” she sighs. “Things. I don’t care if you and Kate are close, but I don’t want you to tell Kate anything about this.” She taps the top of the manuscript with her finger, and he sees the vulnerability in her eyes. A spark of understanding flares.
“I don’t. We don’t talk about anything like that.” His conversations with Kate had been strictly Helena-focused, but never about that. They had been almost business-like in their execution, calls about groceries, doctor appointments, blood test results and travel arrangements. He’d expected, in every call, a question about the manuscript—but there had been none.
“I am a very private person.”
“I don’t talk to anyone about the things you tell me.” She must read the truth on his face, her shoulders relaxing slightly, her voice dropping in intensity.
“I’m sorry.” She looks down, her fingers lining up the pages, making them perfectly straight in their stack.
“No need to apologize.”
“My mother and Simon…” her voice trails off and he crosses his arms over his chest, waiting her out. She presses her lips together, her eyes darting across the table. “I shouldn’t assume that you are the same.” She looks up and his hope disappears that a revelation is coming. Her face is closed, the expression one he’s becoming increasingly familiar with. When she gets like this, there is no discovery to be had, no confessions of the past, no stories to record. When she gets like this, he can only retreat and wait. “Enjoy the movie.” She smiles and there isn’t a bit of sincerity behind the gesture.
He waits for more, but she picks the pen back up, and he loses her to the words, her head dipping, body relaxing, eyes moving. When he leaves, the house is quiet, his truck halfway to the motel before he realizes he never built her a fire.
My earnings have gotten excessive. Simon doesn’t have to work, but he does. I don’t have to write, but writing has never been about the money anyway. So I’m writing. He’s working, and he’s spending.
First, a new Jaguar coupé, one that Bethany’s carseat wouldn’t fit into, one that took up the only spot in a garage that was quickly filling with more and more things. It caused too many fights, and was quickly replaced by a Range Rover.
Then, a sailboat, my name emblazoned on the side as if that would make the terrible purchase okay. An expensive chore, that’s what “The Helena” was. Simon wanted to spend a summer on it, talked about me writing out on the open sea, like it would be exciting to bathe in a gallon of water, and vomit from rough weather, and constantly be on the lookout to make sure that Bethany doesn’t fall over the side. We paid marina rent on that boat for two years before it sold. Every month, I hated him when I wrote that check. Every month, a small dark part of me wished he would go out sailing, catch a storm, and never come back.