Page 80 of The Ghostwriter

After the ambulance leaves, I stand in my father’s office, surveying the mess. Books are scattered everywhere, and I start to pick them up, trying to figure out what was on that clip that upset him so much. Working and reworking in my mind what he’d said. Blaming my mother for going to the party. Angry with her that she didn’t stay behind with him.

When the books are shelved, I sweep up the glass and then return to the guesthouse and start packing my things. I’ll have to let Nicole and the team at Monarch know that we’ve had a setback. That I’m being asked to leave, and I wonder whether John Calder will win. Again.

When I’m done, I rewatch the clip, looking for anything that would have set him off. But I don’t see anything. I don’t recognize any of the kids in the frame. They’re strangers to me, on an endless loop of laughing and dancing. On the left is the man picking up cans. He’s definitely older than the rest of the kids, though I only catch a glimpse of the side of his face, and only for a second. I freeze the frame and stare at him. Letting his features layer over ones I’ve seen before.

Mr. Stewart. This was one of his parties, and I wonder what happened that night. Why my father was so angry about it.

Anxiety begins to bloom inside of me at what I know I need to do.

It’s time to talk to my mother.

Chapter 33

Highway 150 takes me out of the Ojai Valley and toward Bakersfield, my GPS giving me quiet commands in the early morning light. I’m glad to escape the house, the memory of my father’s anger still echoing through the rooms. Glad I don’t have to face Alma, who’s still sleeping when I leave. She came home late last night and told me my father had gotten nine stitches in his palm and that they were keeping him for observation. “I’ll call you in a few days and let you know where things stand,” she told me.

I’m grateful for the silence of the car and the empty road in front of me. I need to shift away from my father’s condition and start thinking through how to approach my mother, the questions I need to ask.

I have only one solid memory of her. It must have been right before she left, because I was in kindergarten. I’d been invited to a birthday party for a girl in my class. My mother wanted me to wear a purple dress with a sash that tied in the back and black shiny shoes, but I’d wanted to wear my rainbow T-shirt, jean skirt, and a pair of striped socks that I’d gotten for my birthday.

I know from pictures that my mother was tall, with long dark hair that framed her face. But I vividly remember the way it smelled when she’d lean over to kiss me goodnight, like coconut suntan lotion. That day, she sat on the bed next to me and waited for me to stop crying. Then she said, “Olivia, sometimes we all have to do things we don’t want to do.” Her voice had been heavy, as if she were admitting a sad and painful truth, and I remember being confused by her words. To my five-year-old mind, adults got to do whatever they wanted.

I don’t remember the party at all, whether I ended up wearing the purple dress or if I got my way and wore my rainbow outfit. I don’t remember whether my mother or father took me, whether they stayed or just dropped me off. It’s as if my memory ends with my mother’s words, the admission that everyone in life has to accept a certain amount of pain, and it wasn’t until I was nearly an adult that I circled back to that moment and began to wonder what things my mother had been forced to do. And how long she had to carry it, waiting until she could break free.

For years, I was chased by questions my father was either unable or unwilling to answer. What kind of mother leaves her child?A woman who ran out of options, a voice says in my mind now, and I realize I need more than just information about what happened in 1975. I need to know how it ties in with her departure, because I’m certain the reason I grew up without a mother is directly connected to the murders of Poppy and Danny.

***

I park in a modest neighborhood of apartment buildings on a quiet street within walking distance of a main thoroughfare where small businesses cluster between tire chains and fast-food restaurants. I found her by paying $25 to a website that gives you information most people think is private. Current and former addresses, phone numbers,pending lawsuits. My mother’s information showed our old apartment in Ojai and this apartment building that thankfully doesn’t have a security gate.

Inside the courtyard, there’s a fenced pool with metal patio chairs and a No Lifeguard on Duty sign. I find the stairwell and emerge on a balcony that wraps around the courtyard offering a view of the pool below. I find her apartment, my pulse pounding, and I try to concentrate on relaxing my shoulders. Keeping my greeting simple and then seeing what happens after that.

I knock and wait. It’s just past eight on a Saturday morning, late enough that she’s probably awake, although I don’t have anything on which to base that assumption.

When the door swings open, I recognize her immediately. Her hair is grayer, but the style is the same—long sheets of hair brushing past her shoulders, and I imagine a phantom whiff of coconut. Same wide eyes, so familiar it nearly steals my breath. She must recognize me too because she takes an involuntary step back, as if she might close the door. I speak before that can happen.

“Hi, Mom,” I say.

“Olivia,” she whispers. “Why are you here?”

I know her words are the result of being ambushed, but her question still punches into me. She must see the hurt on my face because she shakes her head and tries again. “Is everything okay?”

“Can we go inside and talk?”

She hesitates for just a second, then steps aside so I can enter. The living room is sparse, an old couch in front of a scarred coffee table, a couple celebrity magazines on top and a television remote to an older model tucked into a cabinet next to a bookshelf. Another chair faces the couch and I choose that and sit.

She finally finds her voice. “How did you know where to find me?”

I ignore her question, taking in her outfit—dark blue jeans and a whiteshirt, neither of them branded in any way. The clothing of a woman on a budget. The living room leads to a small dining room, where I notice a CVS apron tossed over the back of one of the chairs.

She sits on the couch across from me, perching on the edge as if she might need to exit quickly. I take in her face, the way she’s aged. Gone is the laughing girl from Poppy’s home movies, replaced by a woman in her mid-sixties, hollowed out by life. By tragedy.

“I need to ask you some questions,” I finally say.

“Okay,” she says, though her tone is wary.

“I’ve been in Ojai,” I begin. “Staying with Dad.”

“I didn’t realize the two of you were back in touch,” she says.

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