The Ghostwriter

by Alessandra Torre

  “Helena?” Mark speaks gently and I blink, the room coming into focus.

  “It hasn’t been that long,” I say. Five years.

  “It’ll be fun, I promise. And it will help clear your head. While you feel good, let’s go.”

  It’ll be fun. It will most definitely not be fun. I don’t know what Mark Fortune’s version of fun entails, but it probably involves sweating and bugs.

  While you feel good, let’s go. Do I feel good? I take a self-assessment. This week has certainly been leaps and bounds above last, my nauseous reactions to the meds gone, my dizziness reduced to rare bouts, my energy almost back. “Feeling good” isn’t really the phrase to describe it, but I certainly feel more capable, less shaky, and a little bit like my old self. According to the doc, the short-term effect of the meds will help, but my energy will begin to wan, my headaches will worsen, my appetite lessen, and I’ll be practically bedridden within another month. Mark’s right. If I am ever going to travel, this week is the time. Where he’s wrong is his assessment that I have any interest in the journey, although getting a peek into Marka Vantly’s world is tempting.

  “Thank you for the invite,” I shake my head. “I’m going to pass.”

  “Ever seen a baby cow be born?”

  “I’ve never seen a lot of things, that doesn’t mean that I’m interested in any of them.”

  “Stop being stubborn.” He smiles kindly, and I hate the comfort I find in the gesture. “It’s September in Memphis. It’s the most beautiful time of the year. And Mater’s like you—old and crotchety. You’ll get along well.” He holds out his hand for me and I take it without thinking, his strong pull getting me easily to my feet.

  In my thirty-two years of life, I’ve only been to a handful of places. New York. New London. Tremblant. Maine. Washington, DC. Vermont. They’ve all been the same. Cool, both in their people and their climate. I like Northerners. I’ve read stories based in the South, in cities like Memphis, and am appalled at the people described. The type who throw their arms around someone right when meeting them. The kind who trust too easily, ask too many questions, then gossip that information all over town. In New York, if you invite random strangers in for tea, you’ll be raped and dead within a week. I think that’s almost the way it should be; we should all have a healthy fear of each other.

  I realize that Mark has packed up his things, the cord of his laptop stuffed into his leather duffel, the papers I had spread on the floor now stacked, a paperclip found and securing their corners. His laptop slips into the bag, and he eyes my pajama pants. “I’ll go downstairs,” he announces, “and grab some snacks. Don’t worry about packing too much, you’ll fit into Maggie’s clothes if you need anything.”

  “I’m not going.” The words stop him at the door and he pauses, a heartbeat of time passing before he turns.

  “Helena.”

  It is not a simple name. In just the three syllables, he manages to pack in everything that he is doing for me, for this book. He is saving the final days of my life. He is allowing me my confession. He will, one day soon, keep my secrets until I die. And he wants me to go to Memphis. It seems, on this good day of health, like a small concession.

  “Okay.” I purse my lips. “But only a couple of days.”

  “I’ll take you home the minute you ask.”

  I nod, a grating movement that almost creaks from unuse, and his face splits open in a smile. He is jogging by the time he moves down the stairs, the heavy vibration of boots against wood echoing through the house.

  Oh, how quickly a life can change.

  I haven’t mentally prepared for the flight. The drive here was too short and dominated by Mark, his jaw not pausing since the time we climbed into his truck. I expected lines of security, an x-ray machine, some liquid restrictions—but none of the woes of travel, everything I’ve read about—occurs. We walk from his truck, through a small lobby, and are suddenly at the plane, everything in motion, us minutes from taking off.

  Something in my belly flips, and I feel a wave of panic, one strong enough to cut through the anti-anxiety pill I took before we left. His plane looks small, too flimsy to lift off the ground and barrel across the sky. I examine the vessel, a two-door aircraft with one giant fan stuck on the nose. I don’t know planes, but it seems that two propellers would be better than one, and that the larger the plane, the safer it will be. The wind whips around us and I clutch my jacket closed, the weight of my backpack reassuring, my laptop hard and flat against my spine. If we die, I’ll have the manuscript with me. I’ll die knowing I fit in as many words as I could, even if I don’t get into the root of the mess.

  “You look worried.” He pushes something into the underside of the wing, and then holds a small bottle up to the sunlight, examining the liquid level in it.

  “I haven’t flown before.” The confession darts from me, the words almost carried off by the wind.

  “You haven’t flown private? Or haven’t flown at all?”

  “At all.” It’s ridiculous, I know. I’m thirty-two, for God’s sake. This should have been knocked out in my twenties, my chubby bank account taking me to Paris, or Alaska, or some other glamorous locale. Instead, I stayed stubbornly in the New England area, any trips outside done by car or train. It isn’t so much that I have a fear of flying, it is more that I’ve always been a little too educated in its danger potential. I read Alive. If we crash on a mountain range, I’ll be the first to succumb. I’ll die, knowing that he will turn cannibal and eat my scrawny forearms. I swallow a gruesome smile at the thought and nod to the deathtrap. “It looks dangerous.”

  “It’s the safest plane you’ll ever step foot in,” he says, moving forward and peering at the front wheel. “It’s got a parachute on it. If something goes wrong—hell, if I keel over and die while flying—you can push a button and it’ll get you to a safe altitude and open the chute, and you’ll float down to the ground.” He straightens and makes a swaying motion with his hand, like that of a feather falling. “The impact might sting a little, but nothing that a few visits to the chiropractor can’t fix.”

  A parachute makes me feel enormously better, and I watch him circle the end of it, his hand sweeping over the metal in the way you might check a horse. “What are you doing?”

  “Pre-flight check. Why don’t you climb on up? This’ll take me a few more minutes.”

  “I’m good.” Truth be told, I have no idea how to climb on up. There are no stairs, or a ladder, and I can’t see a door handle. I stuff my hands into my pockets and wait.

  “Suit yourself.” He looks over at me and pauses. “I’m a good pilot, Helena. I’ll get you there safely.”

  The wind howls and I look up to the sky, not a cloud in sight. At least the weather is clear.

  I stare at the screen, at the red and yellow bands that flicker across it, and feel a wave of panic. The plane dips, and I grab at the door, cursing Mark Fortune with every word in my dictionary. All I can picture, as rain peppers the windshield, is that damn parachute. It won’t float gently down, not in this storm. Gusts of wind will grab ahold of its sail and whip us from side to side—like one of those carnival rides that only stupid teenagers enjoy. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, my hands sweating against the seatbelt straps.

  “Relax.” The word drawls out of him, and I turn my head, my peripheral vision catching the loose fit of his hands on the stick. “We’re going around the storm. We’re in no danger.”

  As if to defy him, the plane rocks, and I whimper despite my best attempts to control my hysteria.

  “Just turbulence.” He turns to me. “I’m taking us higher. It’ll calm down in a moment.”

  “How much longer before we arrive?” I wish I could reach my water. It’s in the side pouch of my backpack, which I tossed in the back seat without thinking. My mouth feels dry, my face clammy, and as the plane shudders, I feel nause
ous.

  “Two more hours. That seat reclines, if you’d like to take a nap.”

  The man is crazy. Anyone who would sleep, at a time like this, is crazy.

  By the time the small plane reaches Memphis, my heartbeats have slowed. He was right—the turbulence calms the higher we climb, and we skirt around the storm, the view almost magical from our place in the sky. By the time we descend, I am almost calm, Mark’s competence proven, the small cockpit roomy and comfortable. Mark reaches over and taps at my belt. “You can take that off now.” He cracks a window and cool air rushes in, the plane rolling forward, down a long runway and towards a set of buildings, WILSON AIR CENTER on a sign big enough to see from the sky. I unbuckle and stretch my legs, pushing my toes against the floor. Looking out of the window, a larger plane passes, the sun glinting off its back.

  We pass a stretch of buildings, and end up in front of a hangar. I crawl out the door and hop off the wing, my backpack in hand. Mark motions me to the side and I drop my backpack on the ground and untwist the top of my bottle, chugging the lukewarm water. It is an interesting production, the gassing up of the plane, the roll of it into the hangar, and fifteen minutes pass before Mark stands before me, keys in hand.

  “Ready?” he asks, and I nod, grabbing my backpack.

  His vehicle—a vintage Bronco—is parked in the hangar, the top of it down, and I open the door carefully, admiring the polished wood accents and the pristine leather seats. They are two-toned, dark green and white, and I slide inside, admiring the showroom-ready finish. I think of him eating the taco, bits of lettuce fluttering to the floor of his rental truck. The floors of this truck are wood strips inlaid with rubber, and I can guarantee that he’s never eaten here. “How old is this?” I ask.

  “1976.” He climbs into the truck and the frame of it shifts, his elbow bumping against me as he twists to get his belt. “I’ve had her six years now, did the restoration myself.” His voice flexes with pride, in a way I haven’t yet heard. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful.” I recognize the loving way he brushes his hand over the dash before reaching for the ignition. Simon loved cars in the way a rich woman loves shoes. He loved the purchasing of the item, being the first to drive it, a brief affair with a shiny new toy that he always grew tired of. I had married a conservative man, one who stressed over the price of a fancy cup of coffee. But I became the widow of a spoiled man, one who spent almost every dollar I made, our house and garage quickly filled with the best of everything. It’s another reason I threw it all away after he died. Every time I saw the jet skis in our garage, the line of expensive watches, or the framed sports memorabilia, I hated him a little more. I had enough things to hate Simon for. I didn’t need the extra negativity of his consumerism.

  Mark glances at his watch, his push of the pedal more aggressive as he reaches for his phone. I watch as we move through the airport gates, employee hands raised in parting, familiar smiles given as we pass through the parking lot. There is the faint sound of a voice, and Mark speaks into the phone. “I’m in the truck. I’ll be there in twenty. How is she doing?”

  I look out of the window, watching a large commercial plane take off, dust swirling behind it. From the one-sided conversation, I pick up that the cow is still in labor, and that there’s cause to be concerned. Mark hangs up, and I look over at him. “Will she be okay?”

  “I’m not sure.” He puts on his signal, and the truck rocks a little as we pass a minivan, a smiley face drawn in the dust of the back window. I had a minivan. In the winter, Simon drove it, putting a reindeer nose on the front of it, his festive side a lot more enthusiastic than mine. “She’s thirteen. It’s a little old, for a cow. This will be her last baby.”

  “How many has she had?” I turn away from the window.

  His mouth twists and he uses one hand to rub at the back of his head. “Oh… seven, I think. One died during birth, a few years back.”

  “What do you do with the babies?”

  “I keep the heifers, sell off the males. I don’t need more than one bull, he keeps us busy enough as it is.”

  “What’s wrong with her now? Is the baby going to make it?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, necessarily. She’s just uncomfortable. Taking a little longer than usual.”

  I hope his cow doesn’t die on me. My life story is chock full of sadness already. I don’t need to travel a thousand miles to get more of it. If I want grief, I can just open up a photo album, or visit the cemetery.

  “I was thinking of having Maggie drive up, Friday night, for dinner.”

  Maggie? It takes me a minute to remember. His daughter. The freshman. I picture her sunny smile, beaming out from that crinkled photo. I don’t say anything.

  “She’s curious… I think. Me staying in Connecticut—”

  “I didn’t ask you to stay.” A ghastly thought occurs to me, and I turn to look at him. “She doesn’t think we’re—” I can’t voice the words, and he grins in understanding.

  “Nah. She’s just been asking a lot of questions. She’s a little protective of me, has been ever since her mom died.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t tell her you’re sick. I’d prefer her not to know.”

  I make a face. “She’s an adult. She can handle—”

  “I don’t think she can. And I don’t want her thinking about it. I’d just rather, if you don’t mind, her not know.”

  Simon constantly wanted to protect Bethany; it was our most frequent fight. But how can a person trust someone that lies to them? And how can a person know what they can handle if they aren’t challenged by life? One day, probably soon, Maggie will find out about my diagnosis. She’ll know she was lied to. And everything else Mark tells her will be received with a seed of doubt. I voice my opinion, and am met with a stretch of silence.

  When Mark finally speaks, the words stab through the air. “Fine. I’ll tell her not to come.”

  I shrug, looking out the window, watching trees pass, their leaves a bright canvas of yellow and orange, the ditch between us filled with water. We are on a two lane road, the truck shuddering when a semi passes, and a small house moves by, twin rocking chairs on its porch, a limp orange Tennessee flag hanging off a pole normally reserved for an American one. When we drove up to Tremblant, we passed through country like this, homes like these, everything covered in a thick mat of snow. I remember thinking how peaceful it must be to live in such a place, one free of nosy neighbors and architectural review boards, one where you could sit on your porch and not be disturbed for days. I’d been deep in the fantasy, a small smile crossing my face, when Simon had sighed. “I don’t know how people live out here,” he’d said, turning to glare at a man walking along the road. “I’d think you’d just die of boredom.” It had been such a clear clashing of our mindsets that I had laughed. When I told him what I had been thinking, he’d looked over with a wry smile, and leaned over, kissing my cheek. “Crazy Helena,” he’d whispered, his breath warm against my jaw.

  Crazy Helena.

  For once, he’d actually been right.

  I don’t know what to expect, but after seeing Mark’s plane and his pristine Bronco—I built an image in my head of his Memphis home, one of spotless Southern grandeur. When we pull off the road and down a gravel drive, I lean against the seat belt, and wait for the entrance.

  I am disappointed, the trees clearing and revealing an open field, tall grasses and wildflowers on either side, no animals in sight, though a fence does run off in the distance, behind the ranch home that sits on the top of a hill. It is long and flat with a large porch, a chimney coming off one end. It looks so… normal. I frown.

  As we approach, I notice the small details. The rose bushes that grow wild before the front porch, their thorny stems swaying in the breeze. The pillows on the front rockers, faded blue ones that probably once matched the front shutters. The bike that leans against the sid
e of the house is almost buried in overgrowth, its basket rusted, handlebar grips dotted in bird droppings. It looks like a house that time forgot, one lived in but neglected, as if one day—maybe three years ago—someone stopped caring.

  We park before a detached garage and he opens his door. “You can leave your bag. We’ll go in the house later.”

  I unbuckle and ignore the directive, quickly pulling on the backpack and stepping out. “If you’re dealing with the cow, I can just wait on the porch for you. I’ve got my computer, I can work.”

  “You’re coming with me.” He steps to the garage and opens the side door, stepping into the dark interior, the door rumbling open a moment later. I follow him, my hands twisting on the straps of my backpack, my flats sticking to the concrete floor when I see what he is climbing onto.

  “You want me to ride on that?” It’s a four-wheeler, one with big muddy tires, the handlebars far apart, the headlights big—the entire thing menacing, as if it will buck underneath its rider and scale a rock front.

  “I’ve got two. You can either hop on behind me or ride Maggie’s.” He nods to the one next to him, one with a bright pink helmet, in every other way identical to his.

  “I’ll just wait here.” I step backward and my elbow collides with the edge of the door. I grab it and wince, the pain shooting through me.

  “Helena.” He reaches over and snags the helmet, holding it out toward me. “Just put this on. I’ll drive slow. The barn is a mile away. It’s too far to walk, and we’re short on time.”

  I hesitate, and he shakes it at me. “Carpe Diem, Helena.”