The Ghostwriter(68)
Everything in my life suddenly rests on bus duty. Would Simon have it? Would I have an extra forty-five minutes or is he in his car, right now, pulling into our neighborhood? If he gets here before she leaves, everything will be ruined. If he passes her in the neighborhood, he might flag her down and ask questions. My panic rises. “Mother, please go.” I feel faint with panic and I grip the banister, almost sinking down to sit on the first step.
“Okay, oh-kay.” She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. “You really don’t look well, Helena. Next week, I’m getting you in at my acupuncturist. No arguing about it. I’m putting my foot down.”
“Fine.” I lick my lips and can taste the salt of my sweat. “Next week.”
She pats my arm and her self-satisfaction hangs in the air. “Good girl.” When she walks out the door, it is as slow as a pallbearer. When she shuts the door, I bolt back up the stairs.
There are so many tapes. I don’t have time to determine which are real memories and which are horrific moments. Half of them are small cassettes, the kind that fit inside a standard-size VHS. I’ve been stupid. All of these sporting events, recorded in person? Simon hadn’t been jetting around the country at sixteen, eighteen, twenty—a camcorder in hand, shooting pro football games. He had been in that town in Virginia, living in that farmhouse, wowing the local residents with his dimples and spiral pass. I grab a duffel bag from our closet and fill it with tapes. I eye the DVDs, our movie collection impressive, and consider adding them to the bag. Could a homemade DVD be tucked inside that Friday the 13th sleeve? Or inside the Madden 2016 case? I step away from the entertainment tower without grabbing them, the duffel bag too heavy already. I am lifting it over my shoulder when my gaze catches on the giant desk, one that took three men to carry upstairs, custom-designed to hold two monitors, a Mac Pro tower, and every possible upgrade. His computer. It is a convenient babysitter, one that keeps Simon busy for hours every evening while Bethany sleeps and I write. I don’t know the passwords, haven’t touched the thing in years. My stomach turns at what it might hold, at what websites he must visit.
The media room door swings open, and I look up into Simon’s face.
“Helena.” He studies my face, and I know what he must see. The blotchy skin, the sweat, panic in my eyes, the tremble of my lips. I lie well, but will fail terribly with a man who knows all my tells. His eyes drop to the duffel bag, then dart behind me. I don’t have to turn my head to picture the open cabinets, tapes missing, the mess there must be. “What’s in the bag?” He is good. There isn’t a shaky note in his voice, no crack in his composure. He looks at me, and isn’t even afraid. He should be afraid. He should be terrified. He should drop to his knees, full of explanations.
Instead, he steps closer, and I think of his confident stroll toward the young blonde.
I remember how much I used to love his height, his build, the strong lean muscles that line his body. He was so opposite of anything I’d ever expected to end up with. Beautiful where I was plain. Strong where I was weak. Now? Evil where I am innocent.
My plain weak innocence fails me when his fingers wrap around my bicep, his short fingernails digging painfully into the skin, and I whimper in pain as he yanks me forward. It’s the first time, in our years together, he has ever touched me like that. A week ago, I would have said he wasn’t capable of violence. A week ago, I would have said he wasn’t capable of rape. Now, the man before me is a stranger and I am suddenly very, very afraid.
“Let me go.” I’m against his chest, the duffel bag still clutched in my left hand, and I can’t release it, won’t release it.
“Oh Helena.” He looks down at me, with eyes that sag with disappointment. “Why?”
“Why?” I cough out the word, and spittle flies from my mouth, tiny white dots of saliva peppering the neck of his navy button-up shirt. So proper, my husband. Three-time Teacher of the Year. Loving Father of Bethany. Sickly-Sweet Rapist of Girls. I think of the blonde on the tape, her face as it changed from trust to fear. How many of them have there been? How many still exist? How many are here, in this town, in his classes? Is there a girl, right now, whose life he’s destroying?
“Yes, Helena.” He steps into the hall, and drags me forward, the loose skin of my arm pinched in his grasp, the look in his eyes hard and unfocused. “Why did you have to snoop?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I scramble along behind him, trying to stand, to get my feet underneath me. Snoop. Has he ever used that word before? My brain shuffles for a better adjective. I hadn’t been snooping. I had been doing research. I trip over a transition piece in the floor. “What are you doing?” I get one foot in place and try to plant my feet, to stop the forward movement. One of his hands comes loose and he grabs a handful of my hair. The pain, when he yanks, is blinding. I scream, and he drags me forward, his hand so tight on my bicep he must be leaving bruises. We come to the top of the stairs and he stops. “What are you doing?” I gasp, my neck bent, head almost sideways, in an attempt to relieve the pain against my scalp. If he jerks his hand to the right, my head will collide with the banister’s marble pillar. I close my eyes and try to think.
Simon is not a planner. He doesn’t think of details. He often forgets necessary items and skips instruction manual steps. He embarks on projects, then changes his mind. Right now, I can feel his brain working, the frantic search for a solution. The chances are high that he kills me right now—smashing my head against the banister, or tossing me down the stairs. He might make that snap decision without thinking through the consequences, without thinking of how he will dispose of me and his alibi and the hundred tiny details that murderers are responsible for.