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She slaps her palm against the countertop, the motion sudden, unsettling.
I set down my glass. “Mrs. Manville?”
Greta closes her eyes as her face, already pale, turns ashen. Her whole body tilts. First slowly, then gaining steam until she’s leaning at a precarious angle. I rush to her side, keeping her upright while searching for a chair. I find one near the door to the dining room and gently guide her into it.
The movement jostles her back into consciousness. Her head snaps to attention, and life returns to her eyes. She clamps a hand around my wrist, the knuckles knobby with age, purple veins visible beneath tissue-paper skin.
“Dear me,” she says, slightly dazed. “Well, that was embarrassing.”
I hover over her, not sure what else to do. My body’s gained a tremor that runs from head to heel. “Do you need a doctor? I can fetch Dr. Nick.”
“I’m not in that dire of shape,” she says. “Really, it’s nothing. I sometimes get spells.”
“Fainting spells?”
“I call them sudden sleeps, because that’s what they feel like. An instant slipping away. But then I roar back to life and it’s like nothing’s happened. Never get old, Jules. It’s horrible. No one tells you that until it’s too fucking late.”
That’s when I know it’s okay to stop hovering. She’s back to her normal, ornery self. Still trembling, I return to the kitchen counter and my glass of wine. No sip this time. I gulp.
“If you’d like, you may ask me one question about that book,” Greta says. “You’ve earned it.”
Only one? I have a hundred. But I noticed the pronoun she used. Notmybook. Orthebook. It tells me she’d rather talk about anything other thanHeart of a Dreamer.
“Why did you stop writing?”
“The short answer is because I’m lazy. And unmotivated. Also, I have no financial need to write. My family was wealthy. The book made me wealthier. Even today, it generates enough income to allow me to live very comfortably.”
“In the Bartholomew, no less,” I say. “Have you lived here long?”
“Are you asking if I lived here when I wroteHeart of a Dreamer?”
That’s exactly what I’m asking. Being read so easily makes me take another gulp of wine.
“The answer to yourreal, unsolicited question is yes,” Greta says. “I was living at the Bartholomew when I wrote it.”
“In this apartment?”
Greta gives a quick shake of her head. “Elsewhere.”
“Is the book autobiographical?”
“More like wishful thinking,” Greta replies. “Unlike Ginny, it was my parents’ apartment. I grew up there, moved out after getting married, and moved back in following my divorce. I was aimless and bitter and suddenly had a lot of time on my hands. I decided to fill it by writing what I wished my life to be like. When the book was finished, I moved out again.”
“Why?” I ask, still unable to comprehend why anyone would choose to leave the Bartholomew.
“Why does anyone move, really?” Greta muses. “I needed a change of view. Besides, one gets tired of living with their parents. Isn’t that why everyone eventually leaves the nest?”
Most people, yes. But not me. I wasn’t given a choice.
“Because of how and when the book was written, is that why you hate it so much?”
Greta looks up, affronted. “Who says I hate it?”
“I just assumed you did.”
“No, yousurmised,” Greta says. “There’s a difference. As for the book, I don’t hate it as much as I find myself disappointed by it.”
“But it brought you so much success. And it’s touched so many people.”