The Ghostwriter(67)
I need to go to the police. I need to take the tapes, all of the tapes… my mind bounces to the attic, to the boxes and boxes of Simon’s high school days, yearbooks and letterman jackets and awards. I came into our marriage with a stack of notebooks and my computer. He came with a storage facility worth of past. How much of it is tainted? How many secrets are packed in these walls?
I am suddenly frantic with the need to know everything. His computer history. His student’s names. Simon teaches sixth grade, could he have… I push through Bethany’s room and into her private bath, my knees hitting the hard tile in the moment before I vomit.
I’ve been a terrible wife, a terrible mother. I’ve let a monster run free.
Another surge of matter comes up my throat and I grip the cool porcelain, my stomach contracting, breasts painfully pinned to the bowl as my lunch—spaghetti with bits of broccoli—comes up. Dirty water speckles my face from the impact of vomit, and I wipe at my cheek, Bethany’s voice timid and scared from her new place at the door. “Are you oh-kay?” she whispers.
“I’m fine,” I croak, and I wait a moment to see if my stomach is done. “Pack, Bethany.”
“Where are we going?”
A great question. First, the police station. Then? After they arrest Simon? I can’t return here. I can’t live in a house that’s housed so many lies. Maybe Bethany and I should go on a vacation. Come back and move to a new house, maybe a new city. One away from my Mother, from Simon’s incarceration. Yes. I warm to the idea instantly. Maybe Florida.
I push carefully to my feet, letting my equilibrium adjust before I move to the sink and wash out my mouth, my mind quickly flipping through the things I need to do.
Grab every tape I can find.
Empty the safe.
Put Bethany in the car and drive straight to the police.
Downstairs, there is the loud scrape of the front door as it swings open and someone steps inside. I freeze, my hand jerking out and turning off the water, my ears straining for sound. Simon.
“Helena?” My name bounces up the stairs, and I almost collapse with relief.
“Mother?” I bump the edge of the doorframe on my way out of Bethany’s room, and run to the top of the stairs.
“Helena, can I borrow your hot glue gun? I’ve got to—“ she peers up at me, her hands clasped on the banister, her head craning in an unnatural fashion. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” The question is a mix of accusation and worry. I can feel the mix of judgment and superiority before she even rounds the stairs.
“Nothing’s wrong.” The lie falls out as easily as breathing, and my mind immediately questions the deceit. Maybe I should tell her. I could show her what sits in that VCR just down the hall. I could tell her that her stupid golden boy, the man who she sided with over her daughter, is a fucking pedophile. I open my mouth, then swallow it all when Bethany bolts past me. “JayJay!!!!” My daughter bounds down the stairs, and I rapidly run through my options. I think of the feeling that had cut through me when that front door opened. I think of what time it must be, and what I still need to do, and what will happen if Simon comes home and Bethany and I are still here.
In that split second, I make a decision, one that removes any risk to Bethany from the equation.
“Can you take Bethany?” I turn, and enter her room, opening her closet and grabbing the first shoes I find, sprinting back to the hall and down the steps—almost colliding with my mother, who is headed up.
“Take Bethany where?”
“To your house. Just for an hour or two. I’ll come by and pick her up.”
“Let me guess. Struck with inspiration?” There is that plaintive tone in her voice, the one that thinks my stories are childish, and family should always come first.
I grit my teeth and take advantage of the accusation, one that won’t broach new questions. “Yes. Just for an hour or two. I’ll come by and pick her up from your house.”
“You know I always love to watch her.” She smiles tightly. “But I would like that glue gun if you have…”
“I’ll bring it with me. I need to find it.” I hold out Bethany’s shoes and can’t stop the tremble in my hands. “I’ll be there soon.”
“With the glue gun,” she prods. I’m not bringing her my freaking glue gun. I am going to collect every shred of evidence I can find, pick up my daughter, and run. I’m going to keep Bethany by my side until I know that he is in handcuffs, and then we will move far away. Far away from this woman and her judgments. Far away from this house and that media room. Far away from the man who will never, ever, look at my daughter in that way.
“Yes.” I smile and all but push her down the stairs. “I promise I’ll bring the glue gun.” Bethany flies by in her dinosaur pajamas and I call out her name. She turns, her arms obediently reaching up and wrapping around my neck, a quick grip of messy fingers and peanut butter breath. I hug her tightly, her body squirming, her patience gone by the time I release her. “I love you.” I whisper against her hair. “Be safe.”
“Love you Mama.” She brings a hand to her mouth and blows a kiss, the dramatic gesture one learned from a recent movie, the act practiced on every person she comes in contact with. She zigs to the right and then the front door is open and she is out into the sun, my mother looking after her disapprovingly. “She’s wearing pajamas,” she states, as if it mattered, as if tiny dinosaurs affect a child’s day. I myself am still in pajamas, though mine are boring and navy, the same ones from yesterday. She glances at my top, at its big fabric buttons, and sniffs.