“All of it.” She says the words with quiet finality, as if she’s tired of talking, her mind distracted by something else. “I’ve got to go.”
Helena can’t hang up. Not now, not when she just dumped a mountain of work on Kate. “Wait,” Kate says wildly, searching through all of the questions she still needs to ask. “Talk to you next Wednesday?” A huge waste of a question, their Wednesday phone date so regular she could set her ovulation schedule to it.
“Wednesday?” Helena says faintly. “Yeah. Maybe.”
There is the click of the receiver, and Kate’s worry blooms into full-fledged panic.
My rules for visitors are simple, printed clearly in size 16 font, laminated and nailed to the center of the door, in an impossible to miss spot. The first rule, as always, is the most important.
1. Do not ring the doorbell.
2. Do not park in the driveway.
3. If you are a solicitor, leave.
4. If you are a religious or political advocate, quietly place your collateral materials underneath the mat.
5. If you are here on a social call, go away.
6. If you are here for business or legal purposes, please contact my agent or attorney.
7. Package deliveries—you have my authorization to leave packages without a signature.
I check the peephole, then crack open my front door and glare at the doorbell ringer, a young woman foolish enough to ignore my sign. She’s probably the nanny of those kids, the ones who have shrieked in the street for almost two hours now. I had incorrectly assumed, three years ago, when I bought every other cul-de-sac lot, that I would be guaranteeing myself exclusive use of the giant round space. Apparently, that isn’t the case, my complaints to the homeowners association met with stubborn denials. “Yes?”
“Helena Parks?” I almost flinch at the use of my married name, one so rarely used. “My name is Charlotte Blanton. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
I’d like to ask you a few questions. The police officer, his eyes grim, the smell of October in the air. I have just a few questions. The mortician, his thin fingers, the tap of them against a display of coffins.
I stay hidden behind the door and watch the movement of her throat as she swallows, her hands flexing around a stack of papers.
“Are you Helena Parks?” She is less sure of herself, and I enjoy the unease. Maybe she’s a fan, a reader who hunted past publishing records and marriage licenses. It’s happened before. The last one required the police. This woman, her thin shoulders jutting through a cardigan, I can probably handle.
“I’m not interested in visitors.” My words are scratchy, and I clear my throat.
“It will only take a moment.”
“No.” I start to shut the door and she places her palm on it. I pause, and I really need to amend the rules and add Visitors will not touch the door. Then again, this girl obviously has no regard for authority, her eyes skipping right past my laminated list in her ring of the bell.
“Please,” she says. “It’s about your husband.”
My husband. I hate those words falling from another person’s lips. They are so bland, so weak for everything that he was. My fingers tighten on the knob. I made my statements to the police, answered hundreds of their questions. I had passed that test. To go through it again now, with this new woman, isn’t something I am interested in. Especially not today, the giggle of children still scraping on my nerves.
I say nothing, avoiding her eyes as I close the door and flip the deadbolt, the click satisfying as it locks her outside.
I turn away from the door, hurrying toward the stairs, intent on getting away, to my office where I can shut the door, turn up my music, and drown out the sound of her intrusion.
She knocks, a rap-rap-rap that stabs at my psyche, my breath coming hard as I attempt to jog up the stairs, my muscles resisting, my body’s weakness showing.
Over four years since that day. What loose thread could this woman have found?
My oncologist has prescribed me fourteen different medications, a mountain of orange pill bottles that cover every symptom my body could think of producing. Not one of them treats the pain in the ass which I currently battle. Marka Vantly: International Bestselling Author. She sucks, and in more than just the biblical sense. I inhale deeply, and stare at her latest email.
Helena,
I just had the displeasure of reading Drumbeat. It’s interesting what passes for successful literature in this day and age. I’m so sorry about your Publisher’s Weekly review, though I certainly understand their opinions on the novel. Congratulations on your release!
Marka
The bitch. This email has taken longer to come than the others, two months passing since my pub date. Marka had probably been too distracted by gangbangs and shopping sprees to bother with something like reading. In her last interview, she’d been stretched out naked on a pile of her paperbacks, her blonde hair tumbling over their covers. For an author, she doesn’t have a spare ounce of fat, no dark roots showing, her eyes lazy and seductive as they’d stared up into the camera. It had been disgusting. So disgusting that I’d called The New Yorker and cancelled my subscription. Writers aren’t supposed to be sex objects. We’re supposed to be valued for our words, our stories, and the impact that we leave on a reader’s heart. Then again, Marka’s books don’t quite have that effect, their target focused more on arousal and less on emotional resonations. I rip off the head of a banana and chew, my fingers a bit slimy as I fire back a response.
Ms. Vantly,
I’m not going to take criticism from someone whose last book was titled The Fireman’s Hose. Please return to your trashy smut and let the real authors work in peace.
Helena Ross
Ha. Short and deadly. I send the email and smile, returning to my inbox, my mouse quick as I scroll past the other emails. A collection of uselessness. I unsubscribe to several solicitors, then chide myself for wasting my time. Three months left, and I’m cleaning up my inbox now? Stupid.
I take a final bite of the banana and toss the peel in the direction of the trash, watching as it settles into the white plastic bag. My headache, one that began this morning, is getting increasingly worse, a vise grip tightening on my temples. I let the email fester for a moment and stand, heading for the Vicodin upstairs in my desk, the banana enough food to keep it from hitting an empty stomach. I climb the stairs, and when I reach the top, the landing spins. I grip the banister for a moment and wait for everything to refocus. Maybe I should sit.
Lightheadedness, as of late, has become common. As has vertigo and blurred vision, the combination a bitch to my productivity levels. Another wave of lightheadedness hits and my hand loosens, not listening to my brain. I try to re-grip the banister, stumble hurriedly up the final steps, but everything becomes a kaleidoscope of gray and white and slick polished stairs.
My knees buckle.
KATE
Kate opens the door to her Manhattan condo, pulling off her flats as she enters, the dark room filling her with a moment of fear before her hand hits the switch and the space flickers to light. Two years since her divorce, and she still hasn’t gotten used to the eeriness of living alone, the feeling that someone is there, hiding and waiting.
She opens a can of soup, dumping the thick mixture into a small pot and turning the burner on, her mind filled with thoughts of Helena. She put off calling the publishers, hoping that Helena will call her back, her sanity restored.