Ghostwriter (30 page)
He decided to give them a resting place. They were his parents. Whatever that meant, it meant something different. The regular
place he put bodies—the stalls in the barn—just didn’t seem to fit. This hole in the middle of nowhere fit. They came from
nowhere and ended up nowhere.
Lightning lights up the ground. Behind him are the small house and the big barn.
His back aches, but he piles the mud and dirt back into the hole.
His hands are blistered and raw.
But he knows their work is not done. Not yet.
As he digs he thinks of her, he thinks of them.
He will soon be heading back to town and to the life that awaits him there.
Dennis awoke with a deep ache. Even with pain meds he hadn’t been able to sleep well. His body burned one minute and shivered
the next. He sat up and looked at the bandages on his hands. The thought that ran through his mind had nothing to do with
his hands or the fact that he might be losing his mind. It wasn’t about the ghosts or the paranormal or the ache or his writer’s
block.
It was about Lucy.
She passed away a year ago.
That was why Audrey was home.
That was what October 30 would always mean.
And the pain that beat inside him was worse than any third-degree burn could be.
He looked at the photo of her smiling at the age of thirty-five, greeting him in the photo like she did every morning. He
delicately grabbed a T-shirt out of the dresser, walked into the bathroom, and examined himself in the mirror. The bags under
his eyes said enough, and if they could be unpacked they would say more. His eyes were beginning to look more withdrawn than
resilient.
He found some jeans, and his eye caught the plaque Lucy had put up many years ago, one of the many memories he passed by every
day of his life.
He looked at the plaque long and hard, then sat down by the big bathtub that had gone unused for a year. Dennis stared at
the plaque as if someone had just hung it there.
I hope you’re not up there, looking down at me, not like this, he thought. Because if you are, you’ve seen everything that’s
happened and you probably can’t help but be disappointed.
A deep throb made him wince. He stood up and found some more pills to swallow.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Good,” Dennis said, lying to Audrey.
He had called her from the hospital yesterday with assurances that he was okay. Even though he told her not to come, Audrey
had come to Delnor Hospital with her friend Natalie to make sure he was okay. The bandages on his hand convinced her it wasn’t
quite the tiny household mishap he’d said it was. And even after asking half a dozen times if he was telling her the truth,
Dennis never wavered.
“I was an idiot for grabbing the grates. I thought the burners were off.”
“But how would you think that?” Audrey kept asking.
She didn’t understand such a stupid thing because he hadn’t done something stupid. But what was he supposed to say?
“I was typing and my computer suddenly became glued to my fingers, then became hot as molten lava.”
She would think he was losing his mind, that too many horror stories were turning his brain into Jell-O, the kind they feed
you at hospitals.
So he stuck with the explanation and continued even this morning.
“Did you sleep okay?” Audrey asked.
“Well enough.”
He hated lying to her, but he didn’t want her to worry.
Audrey kicked him out of the kitchen. “I’m making the coffee because I like how I make it better than you. And I’m cooking
breakfast. You’ve lost all your privileges in the kitchen.”
He nodded, seeing if he could even lift the remote. The bandages didn’t allow him to pick things up. He had to scoop them
in his palms.
Audrey watched him as he tried.
“Dad?”
He looked at her, saw the same few freckles Lucy used to have, those dark eyes looking at him with concern.
“What happened to you? What’s really going on?”
Tell her. Just tell her.
“Audrey, look—it’s complicated.”
“Are you okay? I’m worried about you. Not just your hands but you.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine. I am.”
“But
what
happened? Did you try to do that to yourself?”
“No. Of course not. Audrey, look at me. I’d never do anything like that.”
“I just thought—with Mom’s anniversary—that maybe…”
He came over and put his arms around her. “No. I didn’t do this. I swear. I’d never do anything to hurt myself or hurt you.”
Audrey started crying, and Dennis knew it wasn’t just for him.
“One year,” was all she said.
It was all she had to.
Does it matter what one wears to a gravesite?
Do the dead watch, and if they do, why visit the cold, unmoving stone that rests above their decomposing human remains?
Does a lack of tears mean a lack of feeling?
“Dad?”
“I’m coming.”
But what Dennis was doing was sitting in the Volvo SUV they’d picked up earlier that morning. It was as if nothing had touched
it, the work on it was that good. He couldn’t help hoping his hands would turn out the same way.
Now he couldn’t get himself to get out of the car, even as Audrey stood outside the cracked window.
He managed to climb out and follow her.
Lucy had told him that she didn’t really care where she was buried. Both of her parents were buried in the hometown they grew
up in: Elgin, Illinois. She eventually decided to be buried in the small cemetery where her parents were, in the plot next
to theirs.
Burying her anywhere hadn’t seemed right, just like the dirt that went over her casket or the cries from people he’d never
seen or met. Nothing about the way they said good-bye or the way she died so soon or the way the color of the sun was slightly
different after she passed was
right,
nor would it ever be right.
The only reason Dennis was here today was because of Audrey.
But that’s not true, is it, Dennis?
He knew he needed to be here, that the teeny, tiny little glimmer of hope that Lucy still lived on mattered and meant something,
that it meant enough for him to come back and pay respect and remember the woman he fell in love with and would always love.
Even the words on her tombstone didn’t feel right.
Lucy Nessa Shore
March 18, 1957–October 30, 2008
Cherished Wife and Mother
It felt wrong. Four words to describe someone. It was like having to describe a book he’d spent three years working on in
just three sentences, yet it was a thousand times worse.
Standing there, his daughter in his arms, sunshine spilling through the trees, the grass still green around the stone, Dennis
thought of Lucy.
I could write books the rest of my life and never sum up the joy and goodness of your soul, Lucy.
Audrey wasn’t emotional, and neither was he. The cry earlier that morning had gotten it out for his daughter.
Where are your tears, Dennis? They’ve been strangely missing for a long time, haven’t they? Are your tear ducts broken, just
like your heart?
A distant memory floated by like a flower petal blowing in the wind.
It was when his first book got published.
The best feeling wasn’t holding the book in his hand or flipping through the pages or seeing his name in bold print.
It was seeing Lucy’s face when he gave her the first copy, signed.
Her eyes lit up, her face so strong and so proud, her expression saying more than words ever could even though she tried.
“I’m so happy for you. Just remember us little people when you make it big. And you will, Dennis. I know you will.”
Even though his first two books tanked, Lucy’s faith never wavered, not one bit.
She was so good, in a thousand different ways.
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you thinking?”
He sighed. “Just thinking about how she never stopped believing in me, even when I did. Even when I almost threw it all in.”
“Threw what in?”
“The writing.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“She encouraged me even after my first two books went nowhere. She got me to write
Breathe
when I was contemplating giving up the notion of being a writer.”
“She never doubted either of us.”
“I know. I think I have enough doubt for all of us.”
“Really? You don’t ever show it.”
Dennis nodded, staring at Audrey. “I mask it. I bury it in words and stories. All the angst in here,” he said, tapping his
heart, “goes into those stories.”
“Does that get rid of it?”
“No. I don’t know if anything ever does.”
“Mom would disagree.”
“Yes, she would. And you know, maybe—maybe she was right.”
“Well, if she was right, then she still is.”
Dennis smiled. Audrey took after him, but she was still both of them, still so much of Lucy that he felt fortunate to be part
of her life.
“You think she sees us right now?”
“Yeah,” Audrey said. “And she’s wondering why your hands look like they’re auditioning for a mummy movie.”
And then, out of the blue, like when a story took an unexpected turn and his fingers kept going and his mind had to try to
keep in stride with them, Dennis spoke out loud:
“I still love you, Lucy.”
Audrey smiled and seemed relieved to hear him say that. “Me too, Mom.”
The wind picked up as if in answer to their words.
Garbage strewn all over their lawn greeted them back home, ruining the moments shared earlier.
For a second Dennis flashed back to the night he and Maureen found pages of his books scattered everywhere. But this was different.
These scraps and pieces were actual garbage— plastic bags, crunched-up boxes, an old glove, paper of all sorts, a soup can.
“I can’t believe how much garbage that family has.” Dennis would have normally gripped the steering wheel in anger, but his
bandaged hands wouldn’t allow him to. The anger still burnt inside him.
This is ridiculous.
As he opened the SUV door, Dennis realized how much the wind had been picking up. Audrey’s hair blew around her face.
He had to do something about this.
But as he reached for the cell phone in his pocket, he realized he hadn’t carried it with him. He was unable to pick the thing
up.
He used the regular phone inside.
Somebody needed to talk to the neighbors, someone who would get their attention.
He called Ryan.
Do you see me, Lucy?
Dennis bolted the front door and proceeded to check the other doors in his house. It had been half an hour since he kissed
Audrey on the cheek and said good night. Knowing she was there in the house with him made some of the tension ease.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Lucy.
The day had evaporated since they came back from the cemetery. Audrey had spent the afternoon shopping. During that time Ryan
had tried to talk to the neighbors about the garbage. The deputy told him nobody was home, but he would check back with them
later.
Now, in the silence of the house, life almost seemed normal.
Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.
Is it you?
If ghosts existed, why couldn’t angels exist as well?
He wanted to believe. He wanted to tear down the walls and find peace, but he was afraid that after ripping them down he’d
find nothing but emptiness.
Can you see these thoughts swirling in my mind, Lucy?
He needed to know. He needed to see, to touch, to really, truly know she was there.
I’d give anything to see you again.
Turning off the light, he walked upstairs, wondering what lurked outside in the darkness.
Wondering if he could keep the ghosts out. For just one more night.
The glass is twisted, deformed, wavering. The rain creates ugly, scowling faces on it. In the dark room, Bob looks through
the window across the yard and driveway to the house next door.
He stands and stares, watching the lights from the white sports car shut off as it coasts into the driveway.
He is still dirty, his boots muddy, his jeans stained, his hands crusted over.
The sheet and the bed behind him remain covered in blood. His parents’ blood. He tells himself he needs to throw the sheets
away just like he threw his parents away.
Lightning exposes everything for a brief second. He sees the girl with long hair and long legs scampering down the driveway
and getting into the car. Then the car backs quietly down the driveway, its lights still off.
He eyes the sledgehammer in his hand.
He thinks about walking downstairs and through the door and across the lawn and pounding in the door and then pounding whatever
he finds next. The thought of lifting this heavy hammer over his head and wailing away gives him a searing, stretching sensation.
But he wants something else.
He wants her.
And nobody and no voice can stop him. Not now.
The bedroom door swung open and pounded against the wall as light blitzed the bedroom. Dennis jerked up and saw the shadowy
outline through foggy eyes.
It was Cillian. And he looked angry.
Dennis pointed the .38 at him.
“You fool,” Cillian told him.
“What?”
“You stupid, stupid fool.”
“Get out of my house.”
“Go ahead. Shoot me. Don’t you get it, Dennis? I’m dead.”
Dennis heard the steady rain outside. It was 2:30 a.m.
“What are you doing here?” Dennis said in a low voice, not wanting to awaken Audrey.
“Don’t worry, she’s not here.”
“What?”
