Page 81 of The Ghostwriter

Her words surprise me. “How did you know that we weren’t? Do you and Dad still talk?”

“Not for a long time,” she says. “But when you were younger, he’d keep me informed of things.”

I need a moment to absorb this fact, that all these years they’d been in contact while I’d been the one cut off. Cut out. I stand and walk toward the bookshelf and scan the titles. Some of Barbara Kingsolver’s earlier works, two or three by Danielle Steel. No books by my father. No books by me. On top is a framed photograph of my mother with three other women around her age. I pick it up and study it.

“Those are my friends from the community garden,” she explains. “I rent a plot there. Most people grow vegetables, but I like to grow flowers.” She’s chattering. Filling the silence, hoping to keep things light.

I set the picture down, taking a quick glance at the other frames, noting that there isn’t a single photo of the daughter she walked away from. “I’m glad you have friends.”

“We also have a book club,” she says. “Go to movies. Susan tries to get me to go to church, but I don’t have much use for God.” She stops talking, perhaps realizing she’s veering too close to topics she doesn’t want to discuss.

“I imagine not,” I say.

“Tell me about yourself,” she continues. “Are you married? Do you have kids?” Her voice is tentative, as if she doesn’t really want to know what she might have missed—a wedding. Grandchildren.

But her words stab me as well. The life I could have had—would have had—with Tom, if not for the dysfunction and trauma at the core of my family. And as my eyes sweep across the room again—generic prints on the walls, scattered photos of book club friends who most likely return home to an intact family after their night of wine and conversation—I see my own life layered over the top of this one. A life of isolation and loneliness. Of being the friend everyone tries to include out of pity.

“Not married, no kids,” I say, returning to my chair and forcing myself to focus. “I live in Los Angeles, but like I said, I’ve been staying with Dad.” I watch her expression, waiting to see if she’ll flinch. Look away. She waits for me to continue. “He’s been talking about what happened and I have some questions for you.”

My mother looks down at her hands, now clasped tight in her lap, and says, “I don’t remember much. It was a long time ago.”

“I don’t really think that’s true.”

She looks up at me and says, “It was a tragedy. Your father never really recovered from it, though I’m proud of who he’s become and the things he’s accomplished. I’m definitely appreciative of the money he sends for the apartment.”

“Dad pays your rent? For how long?”

“Since I moved out,” she says.

“Did he ask you to leave?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No, I needed to go.”

“What does that mean?” I’m losing control of my emotions, but I can’t help myself. “I came across an article where you said that you would never allow your daughter to be raised by a killer, but that’s exactly what you did.”

She looks stricken. “Why would you say that? Your father didn’t kill anyone.” She glances at the door, perhaps wondering if she should end our conversation.

I push on, not wanting to hear whatever weak excuse she might formulate. Anger that has been lying dormant inside of me bubbles over at this woman who walked away from her daughter and never looked back. “Dad told me the alibi was a lie. The only explanation for why a teacher might lie to the police is if you were sleeping with him.”

She stands, her face a blank slate. “I think you should leave.”

“Dad’s sick,” I tell her. “Lewy body dementia. It’s similar to Alzheimer’s.” I see a loosening in her expression, as if the fact that the disease affects the memory is good news. “His memory’s not gone yet,” I tell her. “But sometimes he slips and thinks I’m you. And he says things.”

She sinks back down again, her fingers trembling, and she quickly tucks them between her knees. “That must be hard for you.”

“Dad told me about your abortion. That the baby wasn’t his. Whose was it?”

My mother covers her face and bends over her knees. I wait, letting her gather herself. When she looks up again, her eyes are wet. It’s clear she’s devastated, but she also seems resigned. As if she knows what my father is trying to do. “Your father had no right telling you about that.”

I take my laptop out of my bag and pull up the bonfire clip. The one that sent my father over the edge. “I showed one of Poppy’s old movie clips to Dad last night, and he went crazy. Smashed his hand through a window and had to go to the hospital.”

My mother looks startled. “Your father has Poppy’s old movies?”

“I found them hidden in Poppy’s closet,” I tell her. “This one really upset him, and I can’t figure out why. Maybe you can tell me.”

I play the clip for her—the partying kids, the bonfire flames, a young Mr. Stewart picking up cans—but I’m watching my mother. The way she leans closer to the screen, the way her eyes seem to widen at one point, herhand lifting as if to point to something, but dropping into her lap before she can. When it’s over, I ask again, “Why did this upset Dad so much? What did he see that I can’t?”

She slides her finger across the track pad, rewinding the video to midway, and I expect her to say something about Mr. Stewart. That my father’s rage was because of what he’d done to my mother. But instead, she says, “Look in the background. The camera shifts and you can see us.”

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