The Ghostwriter(62)

Happy. I can’t think of the last time I was happy. Riding on the back of that four-wheeler, I’d felt a burst of something. Finishing a novel always filled me with a strong sense of accomplishment. In the movie tonight, there’d been a moment when I hadn’t been able to stop myself and had laughed. But happy? Happiness wasn’t possible anymore. Happiness left when Bethany did.

I think of my daughter. I wasn’t the perfect mother. In some ways, I failed her as often as this woman failed me. In other ways, I failed her a million times worse. I roll over, curling away from her and onto my side, my back to the fire.

“I’m happy.” The lie spreads as smoothly as butter. “And I forgive you.”

It isn’t a lie for her. The lie is for Bethany, a deposit into the bank of karma, an offering to the gods, an understanding that—if I ever had a last moment with Bethany, I’d need her forgiveness, I’d need her acceptance, I’d need her love.

“Goodbye, Mother.” I don’t tell her that I love her. I can’t.

I wait, listening to the crackle of the fire, and stiffen when her hand brushes over my shoulder, her mouth lowering to my head, a stiff kiss deposited there.

“Goodbye, Helena. Sleep tight.”

I don’t move, and when the front door creaks open, I close my eyes. When it pulls tightly shut, I let out my breath and throw off the blanket.

I take my time on the stairs, moving carefully to the hall, and unlock Bethany’s bedroom door. I lower myself to the floor and crawl onto the sleeping bag, my eyes on her desk, on the crude artwork pinned to the wall above it. A family, four bodies together, a giant heart encircling us all.

She had wanted it. Happiness. Togetherness.

But putting things on paper don’t make them so.





Simon hunches over the steering wheel, his knuckles white, jaw clenched. A dinner at my mother’s, ruined. All because Oscar Wilde had anal sex.

“I can’t believe you talked to her about keeping Bethany.” I slump against the seat. A family should be a fortress. We should stand together, fight together, protect each other. Instead they’ve been scheming—comparing notes on my parenting, bringing up all my little mistakes, and making their own decisions about what’s best for my daughter.

“I can’t believe you talked to Bethany about that.”

THAT. As if it was unspeakable. “The trials were a major part of his life. It’s an important lesson to teach her. You expected me to teach her about Oscar Wilde and not—“

“She’s a CHILD!” He screams the word loud enough that I stop. “She shouldn’t know the details of anal sex!”

“I didn’t go into great detail,” I point out. “I simply answered her questions.” Of which she had had a lot. I don’t blame her, the appeal of the act confuses me too.

“I don’t want to talk about any of it now.” Liar. He doesn’t want to talk about it in front of Bethany. “We can discuss her care closer to school starting.”

“No. I feel like Bethany should be included in this.” I twist in the seat, and look back at her.

“Included in what?” Bethany pipes in, setting down her block with interest.

“Nothing.” Simon reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly in warning.

I yank it away, my wrist twisting painfully in the action. “We’re discussing you staying with JayJay during the day when Daddy starts teaching this fall.” Teaching. A strong word for the fluffy crap of fourth-grade curriculum.

“Why?” Her favorite word.

“Yes, why Simon?” I raise my eyebrows at him and the car shakes as he passes a car unnecessarily closely, the jerk back into our lane done with spite. “Why do you think Bethany would be better with Janice than with me?” In another scenario, I might not have cared if Bethany spent her days with my mother. Mother should have approached me from the stance of offering to help. Instead, she and Simon had come at me offensively, citing Bethany’s well-being as the reason she shouldn’t stay with me.

“You’re busy with writing and we aren’t discussing this now.” He looks up, into the rearview mirror. “Bethany, go back to your toy.”

“I’m not busy with writing, I’ll be fine.” I clap my hands and smile at my daughter. “Good! Glad we settled that.”

She smiles at me, an automatic movement, but I see the look in her eyes. The hesitation. I think, in that moment, she sees my fear.

Simon doesn’t. He only sees an escalation of The Problem.

Me.





“I feel like we’re jumping a bit.” Mark flips over a fresh page and draws a line, his pen sketching out a familiar shape. An outline. A year ago, it would have filled my heart with joy. Now, I close my eyes. “You and Simon meet.” He adds the items to the page. “You marry. You get pregnant. You have Bethany. You go away for treatment. You come back. You have two seemingly happy years that we buzz through—with the obvious exception being the letter you found.” He looks up at me. “And now you’re focusing on her at four years old.”

“That was when my mother and Simon started to really team up against me.”

“Was this the beginning? Her not wanting Bethany to stay with you during the day?” He looks up at me, and I hate the calm way he asks the question. It is textbook psychology, the way my mother used to broach subjects, the way the postpartum shrink spoke when he asked if I ever thought about harming my child.