Page 4 of The Ghostwriter

I don’t remember what I’d responded, my mind still on that glance. At the lack of recognition, and I felt a complicated mixture of sadness and regret. I’d left the conference that afternoon, citing an emergency at home.

I knock softly on his office door.

“Enter.”

He’s seated at his enormous desk facing the windows that span one entire wall of the room. The rest is dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, filled with copies of his own books, printed in what must be more than forty languages. His hair is now completely white, looking slightly unkempt, as if he’s been running his hands through it, trying to noodle out a plot problem.

But the computer screen in front of him is dark. The stacks of papersand books littering the desk’s surface appear to be arranged rather than the result of a writer at work. He swivels in his chair to face me.

I stand there, unsure of what to say.Hi, Dadseems too easy when there is so much more I want to ask.What’s going on? Why am I here?Surely, he doesn’t really want me to write a book for him.

“Welcome home,” he says. He must notice the expression on my face because then he says, “You look like you have some questions.”

“What the hell is going on?” I finally ask.

He gives me a sharp look and says, “I hired you to do a job, Olivia.”

Echoes of the past fold over me, my father’s commanding tone sending me back to my childhood, and I press my lips together, reminding myself that I’m an adult and I can leave at any point.

“Let me rephrase,” I say. “Why have you brought me here? What is it you really want?”

“I thought the terms of the contract were clear.”

“I don’t write novels,” I tell him. “I sure as hell don’t write them for people like you.”

“And yet, here you are.” We stare at each other, a silent standoff. Then he says, “You really screwed the pooch on that John Calder thing.”

Of course, my father would have heard about my massive misstep. Publishing is a small industry and people love to gossip.

“Not even I was canceled like that,” he continues, “and they all thought I got away with murder.”

“Most people still believe you did,” I say, unable to help myself.

He ignores my jab. “I figured a job right now—even a lowly novel—would be appreciated.”

“I don’t need your help.” It’s offensive to think that after all these years, the many ways he failed me as a parent—as a human—he thinks he can show up now with a favor and expect all to be forgiven.

“Sit down, Olivia. Looking up at you hurts my neck.”

The hardwood creaks under my weight, a familiar sound despite thedecades since I heard it last. The quilted chair is still in the corner, the place where I once did my homework.

I sit, allowing myself a moment to really look at him. The first thing I notice is the way his shirt bags around his shoulders, no longer filling it out. His legs look like twigs beneath his usual dark jeans, bony ankles poking out with mismatched socks beneath the hems. It’s like looking at a bad portrait of a man I used to know. Familiar landmarks are there—the way his chin juts out, his slightly large ears pushing out from beneath the unruly mop of hair. The bridge of his nose still crooked. But he’s diminished. This was a man whose intensity could easily command an audience of hundreds. But now it’s as if he’s reverted back to the sullen teenager he once was, time circling in on itself.

Before I can say anything, Alma enters, bringing tea for my father and another one for me.

“I thought…” I start, but stop when I see the look she’s giving me.

“No alcohol in the house,” she says. To my father she asks, “Have you told her yet?”

“She’s been here two minutes.” He sounds annoyed, but his nerves are visible in the way his hands tremble, in the agitated way his gaze jumps from his tea to the window, to the books on the shelves.

Alma stares at him, waiting. They seem locked in some kind of silent argument, until finally my father capitulates and answers her question. “No.”

Alma turns to me. “Your father is sick.”

I look at him again, wondering what it might be. Cancer? His heart?

But Alma speaks for him. “It’s Lewy body dementia.” When she sees my confused expression she says, “It’s a cross between Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. It’s degenerative, though there are things we’re doing to slow it down.” She gives my father a pointed look and says, “And working on a book with his estranged daughter isn’t one of them.”

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