The Ghostwriter Page 10

  “What are you doing?”

  I glance up, from my spot on the floor, watching as he slowly hefts the recliner upright. “Going through your wallet.” I hold up a black American Express card. “I thought you had to spend a million dollars a year or something to get one of these.”

  “Worried about my finances?”

  “You still have a Blockbuster card?” I don’t wait for a response. “God, you’re old.” I pull out the AARP card. “Is this teensy discount worth destroying your sex appeal?”

  “That’s the determining factor in my inability to get laid? An AARP card?” He eases his way out of the chair and I hear the actual creak of limbs as he stands.

  “It can’t help.” I flip to the other side of the wallet, moving past a Discover card (who still uses those?), a concealed weapons permit (good to know) and a player’s card for a New Orleans casino. “Speaking of which, do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No.” He shuffles to the kitchen, and I watch him pass, wondering if the bottom of his feet are clean. “You want anything to eat?”

  I drop the wallet and consider the question, my hunger warring with my fear of sickness, my head a bit loopy from the drugs. “Maybe some toast.” He moves farther into the kitchen, and I hear a cabinet open. “Thank you,” I call out, turning to look over my shoulder, his movements slow and careful, those of someone still half asleep.

  “You’re welcome.” He finds the toaster and I turn back to his wallet, examining an insurance card before moving onto the last item, a laminated photo of a girl, thirteen or fourteen in age.

  “This your daughter?” I ask, turning over the photo in my hand. On the back, there is writing, neat and pink and cursive.

  I love you. Maggie

  Original girl. Bet she thought about that inscription for ages.

  “Yep. That’s her. It’s an old photo. You like jam?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” He shuts the fridge. “You don’t have any.”

  “You get along with her?” I slide the photo back into the leather sleeve and close it, dropping the wallet into the bag and standing. The room tilts, and I grab the recliner and wait for a moment as my vision returns to normal.

  “I do.” He scrapes butter over crisp toast, and glances up at me. “Sit down. I’ll get you some water. You should drink as much as you can, it helps to flush out your system and the meds.”

  “And she’s at Ole Miss.” I say, remembering our earlier conversation. I try to picture the daughter of this man, what she looks like, acts like. “Sounds like the name of a cow.”

  He shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His shirt is stretched out, there’s two days’ worth of stubble on his face, but I can still see where he was, decades ago, attractive. “It’s a nickname, for the University of Mississippi.” He turns away, walking to the fridge, and I watch as he fills a glass with ice water. “What’s with the lack of furniture?”

  I shrug, taking the glass. “I’m a minimalist.”

  “I’d say.”

  The sarcasm pokes at me and I can’t stop the bristle that moves along my spine. “I got rid of most of the furniture once I was alone.” I rip off a bite of toast and chew.

  “You could have sold the house. Moved into somewhere smaller.”

  “Yep.” I take a sip of water and feel my first hard stab of nausea. Selling the house used to be a common suggestion. Right after the funeral, I got flyers and market reports from realtors, all boasting about the stats of the home, none mentioning the stigma that might follow it. I looked it up once, the effect on value of a home that has hosted death. It’s not a fact that has to be disclosed. These walls could hide blood splatters and a home-made dungeon, the oven used to cook organs, and we’d never have to tell a soul. But in this small town, everyone knows. Everyone knows about the strange widow in the big empty house, and the day it all fell apart.

  Mark doesn’t seem to know. The newspaper articles and obituary both used my married name, Helena Parks. I’ve Googled my maiden name and Bethany’s, my maiden name and Simon’s, my maiden name and death, and nothing comes up. I am protected, though I can’t say the same for him. Last night I Googled Mark Fortune, and a treasure trove of tragedy emerged. He told me about his deceased wife. The rest, the DUI, the bankruptcy, the rehab… he hasn’t mentioned. It’s fine. I have my secrets, and he has his. The book is what matters.

  “Did you buy this house with your husband?”

  I feel the action a split second before it comes and I lunge for the sink, my chin barely clearing it before I vomit, the toast rough and painful on its exit, the taste hitting my gag reflex and I retch again, spraying the spotless surface of my sink.

  Mark slides a water bottle toward me, and I grab for it, rinsing and spitting into the sink, my hand clutching at the faucet handle and pulling it, needing to wash out the sink. I run the disposal, the counter vibrating under my forearms, and I don’t have the strength to look when Mark gently touches my arm. “I’ll clean that. Let’s get you into bed.”

  I can’t take a second night in my old bed. Eventually, I’ll show him Bethany’s room, the tattered remains of my heart. For now, I push away from the sink. “I’ll sleep on the couch. You should go to your hotel.”

  “I’m fine in the recliner. I’m too tired to drive, assuming you don’t mind me staying.”

  I do mind. I want to be alone. I don’t need his ice water, his concerned looks, his constant mothering. I want my house and my privacy back. I want my happy place, which is in Bethany’s room, in my sleeping bag, surrounded by her things. “Whatever,” I mutter, slowly moving past him and toward the living room.

  The couch flickers with color, still lit by the television, and I pull back the blanket and crawl onto my belly, pulling the pillow against my cheek, my eyes closing. The last thing I remember, before falling asleep, is him feeding me more pills.

  The phone wakes me. It is a siren, loud and incessant, and I roll over on the couch, pulling the pillow over my head and waiting for it to stop. Then, I remember Mark, hear the click of a door as he moves through the house, his weight creaking the floor boards, his steps echoing through the empty house. I throw off the pillow and lift my head. “Don’t answer that!” I fall off the couch, my fingertips scraping along the floor, and then I’m standing, my steps drugged and confused, the room tilting as I move through the dim room and toward the kitchen. “Don’t answer—“ I run into his chest, my fingers curling against the flannel of his shirt, and I look up into his face, surprised.

  “I’m not answering it.” He supports me, and looks around for a chair, nothing around, and I feel his hands tighten on my forearms. “Let’s get you back to the couch.”

  “No.” I straighten, my bearings found, and stand, pushing against his chest. “I’m fine.” The phone stops, and we both fall quiet as the machine beeps from its place in the hall, one room away. I let out a sigh of relief when a telemarketer’s automated voice comes on. I’ve dreamed of Charlotte Blanton, her visit, her email… a call must be next.

  “Are you hungry?” Mark’s voice is mild, as if my drunken sprint to the phone was normal.

  “I think so.” I make it over to the stove and eye the scrambled eggs in the skillet. “You cooked these?”

  “Yes. They’re edible.”

  The eggs look more than edible. They look delicious. I grab a paper plate from the cabinet and spoon some onto it.

  “You can take more. I’ve already eaten.”

  “This is enough.” I consider the toast, which sits beside the stove. I move on.

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes please.” I sit down and see a stack of papers, crisp and double-spaced. “Is that new content?” I was so hesitant, at the beginning, to read his work. I watched him type, I answered his questions, and I waited. My hesitation was a mix of fear and worry. I was afraid he woul
dn’t do it justice. I was worried his words would be flat.

  My fears had been unfounded. I’d known, when I started the first paragraph, one that had smoothly continued what I had begun… that he would do fine. He easily captured my voice, followed my outline well, and kept the tone I wanted.

  “Yep. I swung by my hotel and printed it.” He sets down a cup of coffee. “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Black is fine.” I eye the pages, the eggs forgotten.

  “I wrote some more this morning, but haven’t had access to a printer.”

  I nod, pulling the pages closer. “Can you grab me a pen? There’s some in the drawer to the left of the fridge.”

  I sit back, kicking a foot up on the opposite chair, my fork stabbing absently at eggs as I read on. I finish the plate and barely notice when he replaces it, cut strawberries appearing, everything gone by the time I finish the content, my stomach full, my fingers tapping against the edge of the final page, itching to write some words of my own.

  “Can you email me the rest? I can print it here.”

  “Already done.” He shakes a medicine bottle. “Want some medicine?”

  “The anti-nausea please. Whatever’s been knocking me out…”

  “That’s the anti-nausea.”

  I make a face, but still hold out my hand for the pill. “I’m not very entertaining.”

  “I disagree.” Our eyes meet as I take the pill.

  I roll my eyes and turn, glancing at the clock. 10:14 am. In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve slept over sixteen hours. I should be wide awake, but all I want is to lay down, my fatigue even worse than yesterday. “Let’s move to my office.”

  “You’re the boss.” He picks up the pages, glancing down at my notes, before he straightens. He doesn’t move, and I realize that he doesn’t know where my office is. I’ve lived in a world of my own creation for too long, one where the sole character is a neurotic, nosy individual who can’t receive a stranger’s mail without opening it. If you had put me alone in his house, I’d know his social security number and the condition of his air filters by now. This man has seriously wasted his time, fixing me food and typing away. Now, with my legs in working condition, my mind somewhat clear, he’s lost his chance at invading my privacy.

  The steps have gotten higher in the last two days and I literally wheeze at the top, taking a moment to catch my breath, Mark patient as he leans against the banister.

  “It’s a steep flight,” he remarks, as if my struggle is normal, and I glare back at him.

  “Bite me.” He should be better at this. He should know not to coddle or be kind. He should know that, within this pathetic body, I am strong and independent.

  I point down the hall and at my office door. “In there.”

  The last guest in my office was Simon. Some days, during the winter, when the heat rattles on and there has been no fresh air for days, I can smell his scent. It invades this space, my hand clawing at my neck, the fan useless against it. On those days, I open the window and let in the freezing burst of fresh air. I huddle in a blanket, my space heater on, and work. The cold is worth the erase of him, and when summer comes, it’s like he never existed at all.

  Mark takes the couch and I sit down at my desk, powering on my laptop, his email one of several. My first attempt to print is unsuccessful, and I groan as I lean over the printer, unplugging the back and then resetting it. There should be a rule in the universe, one that states that mortal problems will fade with a terminal diagnosis. I’m dying. I shouldn’t have to deal with petty shit on my way out.

  Once the pages print out, I take a seat next to him on the couch. We both read, him going through my notes and me marking up his new content. His writing is only getting stronger—falling into the rhythm of the story, staying vulnerable while visually stimulating—and it’s a giant level above his normal novels. When I look up, he’s settled against the cushion, his eyes closed. “Can I ask you something?”

  “This should be interesting,” he replies, without opening his eyes.

  “If you can write like this…” I lift the pages, “why don’t you? Why write the… stuff that you publish?”

  One eye opens and he manages a glare. “God, you’re offensive even when handing out compliments.” He exhales, sitting up and rolling his neck. “And the stuff you refer to is the only thing that I can manage to sell. I’ve written other stuff, good stuff.” He nods to the pages in my hand. “Better than that. Self-published it. But no one bought it.”

  “So you reduced your quality for sales?” It is a stupid concept, even to my drug-muddled brain.

  “Without sales, this is all a hobby.” He gestures to my office. “When I was first published, I couldn’t afford a hobby. Romance was flying off the shelves, and no one cared about contemporary fiction with heart.” There is a sharp edge to his words, and I glance at him, trying to understand the irritation in the vowels. Does he hate smut? I can’t imagine hating the novels I write, spending months in a story that I don’t respect.

  “So you sold your soul and invaded my world,” I muse, looking back down at the paper.

  “Readers seem to like my stuff.”

  I twist my mouth, swallowing the things that I want to say. Marka captured a lot of the lower end market—their tastes not exactly literary nor picky.

  “Your notes…” he lifts the papers in his hands. “They’re kind.” He sounds so surprised that I smile. “I’ve been expecting a lot more red.”

  “So was I.” I shift in the seat and feel the first wave of sleepiness, the nausea pill working its magic. “But your characters are good, and the tone is right.”

  “It’s not hard to imagine a happier version of you.”

  I smile, but it is forced, my cheeks tight when I stretch them apart. I barely remember my happier days. Sometimes I think that my memory is inventing them, filling in blank slots of time with Hallmark-movie clips. “I’m not certain that version of me ever existed.” I sit at my desk, grabbing at a pen, desperate for a task. “Let’s do a few more scenes.”

  I had never been a girl to think about marriage. The institution of it all had bored me and the romance had intimidated me, the fate reserved for prettier girls, ones who kissed more and slouched less. When Simon first brings up the notion, I laugh. When I watch the strong flex of his hands as he carefully opens the ring box, when I see the intense mix of vulnerability and hope as he asks the question… I almost cry.

  In the beginning, it was wonderful. Simon seemed oblivious to the flaws that society loved to point out in me. He didn’t care about my lack of friends, or curves, or sex skills. He gave me space, yet chased me down. He brought me flowers, and impressed my mother. And his proposal, ten months after we met, hadn’t seemed too quick, but just right.

  “How?”

  I look over at Mark, irritated by the interruption. “What?”

  “Tell me the story. The proposal.” He shuffles through the pages. “You’re skimming over it here.”

  “Oh.” I lean back in the chair and cross my arms over my head, stretching. “It was at a restaurant. You know. Wine. Candles. One knee.” The ring had been tiny, but that hadn’t been the problem.

  “You said no?” He is guessing, and my flat tone must have given something away.

  “I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared.” I made a list that night, though I never gave it to Simon. Five Rules for a Proper Proposal. Don’t put the woman on the spot. Don’t have an audience. Don’t eat garlic before the act. Don’t check out the waitress’s ass mid-proposal. Don’t ask unless you are certain that the answer is yes.

  I drop my hands and sit up. “I went home and thought about it. I wrote down some pros and cons.” I still have that list. If I reach right and open up the bottom drawer, it’ll be there, filed under his name, the tab marked HISTORY. My pro and con list on Simon Parks.

&nbs
p; Pros: He has nice teeth.

  Cons: Sometimes, I don’t trust him.

  That first con, I should have listened to. There were seven more, underneath it, but that one right there… it was the only thing I needed. And I ignored it, like the stupid lovesick girl I had been.

  I swallow. “He had several good qualities, which I listed. Those, coupled with the probability of anyone else ever wanting to pair with me… followed by an analysis of whether I wanted to be single or married…” I shrug. “I decided to go for it.”

  “That’s the most unromantic story I have ever heard.” He looks dismayed, so much so that I laugh.

  “Disappointed in the Queen of Romance?” I tease. The Queen of Romance. Such a joke, the title handed down by my publisher, a New York powerhouse that doesn’t have the foggiest idea of my innermost thoughts.

  “Heartbroken.” He sighs, and leans forward over the page. “Do you want to tell the proposal like that? It’s a little awkward.”

  “I suppose you did it better.”

  He rubs a thick finger over his forehead, and I’ll be damned if the man isn’t blushing. “I did okay.”

  “Tell me.” I scratch an itchy spot on my nose.

  “It wasn’t anything major. We were at her parents’ house—a tiny crackerbox of a place in Mississippi. I asked her father, then asked her to go on a walk. Did it there.” He blinks, and I can see the vacant stare of a memory in his eyes, one edge of his mouth lifting up.

  “It was getting dark, and the mosquitos were so bad, you could barely pause without waving one off. She hadn’t wanted to go for a walk—and was complaining up a storm… about the heat, about the bugs. I finally stopped her under this big old tree and told her to shut her mouth long enough for me to propose.”

  He looks at me, and his mouth fully breaks into a grin. “She missed the proposal entirely. She just kept smacking at bugs and looking up into the tree like she might scale it. I had to hold her arms still and get her to look in my eyes. Then, I asked her again.” He shrugs. “And she said yes.”