The Ghostwriter(76)

I press the bell again, more urgently, and listen to the faint buzz. Where could she be? I leave the front porch and move down her driveway and around to the back. If only I had my cell. Maybe they are at the park. Maybe she texted or called. Maybe they went to the library, or for ice cream. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I should have grabbed the spare key to her house. I’d had the key, right there among the others. Stupid me.

Her back door is also locked and I almost scream in frustration. Her garage is locked, and I can’t tell if her car is in there. But she wouldn’t not answer the doorbell. I slump into one of her front rockers, and wait.





CHARLOTTE

Her cell phone rings, a steady pulse of attention that Charlotte ignores. Something about this story will help, she can feel it in her bones. She waits for the older woman to collect herself.

“When I pulled into their driveway, Simon’s car was there.” She inhales as if she needs the air to continue. “I was surprised, but also pleased. Before I had stopped by Helena’s…” she pulls at the neck of her sweater. “I had been planning on running some errands. I brought Bethany inside and spoke to Simon briefly.” Her mouth tightens, a hundred tiny lines in her skin coming to life. “He was fresh out of the shower, and distracted, and I was—” she lifts a hand and covers her face, too overcome to speak. “I was thinking about my dry cleaning. I told him that Helena had asked me to watch Bethany, but that she’d given me mismatched shoes. He told me to just leave Bethany there, that he could watch her.” Her hand falls away from her mouth for a moment, and she lets out a brittle sob. “So I did. I left them both there.” She lifts her eyes and meets Charlotte’s. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for that.”

“The article says that Helena drove your car to the scene.” Charlotte fights the urge to pull out the newspaper clipping and reconfirm the facts. “How did she end up with—”

“I got my dry-cleaning after I dropped off Bethany.” Her face flushes, embarrassment tangling with the guilt. “I didn’t know Helena was at my house, waiting.” She looks back down at the page. “And there was traffic, and the cleaners couldn’t find my shirt, this silk shirt that I was going to wear to a wedding…” her voice drops off and she swallows. “When I got home, Helena was on the steps of the front porch. She looked so… so happy to see me.” Her eyes search Charlotte’s for understanding. “When she opened the car door and didn’t see Bethany…” she rests her knuckles against the bright coral color of her lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that look on her face before. The way she looked at me—as if I had committed a crime. As if returning a child to her home was criminal.”

Returning a child to Simon Park’s home. Charlotte feels a stab of dread that doesn’t even factor in the carbon monoxide. “So, Helena asked to borrow your car?”

“Oh no.” Janice shakes her head sadly. “There was no asking.”





“You did what?” With each breath, the panic grows, the fire fanned, my psyche closer to the very thin edge of hysteria.

“I dropped her back off at the house. With Simon.” My mother shifts the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder, and her keys glint at me from her hand. “What’s wrong?”

I can’t see through the panic. I can’t think through my fear. At some point, I step forward. Somehow, I have her keys. She is holding her hand, her face twisted in anger, her mouth moving, yelling, but I can’t even hear her. I only hear my heartbeat, the dull thud, the crack of my steps against the gravel, the creak of leather seats as I shove myself into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

I drive. There is the blow of a horn, and a car swerves. The pedal won’t go further, and my legs are stretched out too far, the seat way back, the mirrors on the car all wrong. Something clips against my bumper, and I grip the wheel tightly, holding it through the turn.

All I can see is her face. Her tiny hand lifting to those lips, the blowing of a distracted kiss.

When I turn down my street, I see the ambulances, the police cars. I stop in the middle of it and get out, tripping over something in my haste, my palms skinning on the rough asphalt, the skin burning. I move, stumble. I shove at a body and my foot hits the curb, climbs up the driveway.

I am stopped by arms around my waist, the black chest of a uniform bumping against me, strange hands on my shoulders. Yelling. The whip of wind and hair across my face. I scream at them that this is my house, and they don’t care. I tell them that my child is inside, and something on the man’s face… I will never forget that look, the way that his face hardened and softened, all at once. I see that look, and I understand what it means.

I love her. Even when I left her, even when I was happily writing in that psych ward or slamming dishes onto the floor in frustration—I loved her. I loved her. I love her. I need her. I need… need…

I can’t see through the tears, I can’t hear through my own screams. His chest won’t break, I pound on it until my fists sag, until he lifts me against his chest and carries me to an ambulance.

I beg him to see my daughter, but he says nothing.





MARK

After six hours of silence, she leaves the room and walks past the office door, heading to the other end of the hall. He looks up from his spot at the desk, watching her slowly trudge by, the notepad in hand, her head not turning to him. There is the quiet sound of the door closing, and he waits for a moment.