Page 17 of How to Fake a Haunting

We came out onto the back veranda a half hour later. My mother and I sat on a carved stone bench while Bea frolicked through the grass, the sea backdropped behind her like an endless liquid mirror.

How many afternoons had Mrs. Vanderbilt sat in this same place?

Her children were older when they’d started coming to the Breakers, but that didn’t mean she didn’t face difficult parenting decisions.

She’d been forced to disinherit Cornelius Vanderbilt III, for goodness’ sake.

There was no way she hadn’t sat on this bench and wondered if she was doing right by her children.

I shifted against the unforgiving stone and sighed.

Beatrix’s talk of ghosts had made me contemplative.

What was a ghost, really? A dream? A wish? An illusion? A memory? Bea and I were living with myriad ghosts, layers upon layers of them, the past, present, and future folded in on each other like intricate origami, the shape of which I might glimpse but could never quite make out.

There was the ghost of who Callum used to be.

The ghost of whom I was before I’d been forced to become Cal’s petulant mother figure.

The ghost of whom I wanted Beatrix to embody in the future—though that one was tricky, because I didn’t want to impart a future vision of my daughter onto Bea.

I wanted her to build her own. Then, and perhaps most disappointingly, there were the ghosts of all the people I could have been had I not married Callum.

It was an unfair thought—and a useless one.

I was not a victim. And yet, feeling there was no way out without harming Beatrix, no way to stay without coloring my future, filled me with rage so potent I thought it might rip its way out of me and form an entirely new person.

I watched Beatrix hold something to her face, inspecting it closely.

An inchworm; she was forever enchanted by their slow-and-steady progress.

All I wanted was to do right by her. But was this the right path? Haunting her father into submission?

“You’re a good mother,” my mother said suddenly, as if she could hear my thoughts.

“Why do you say that?”

She lifted her sunglasses. “Because you are.” She smiled, her brown eyes darker than Beatrix’s gray-gold ones, or even my own. “She’s such a delight. So curious. So polite. Happy. Sensitive. All that’s a testament to you.”

“It’s nature and nurture, Mom. So, developmental psychologists would beg to differ.”

“Oh, please. You and I both know how much time you spend with her. The books you’ve read to her. The things you’ve exposed her to. The music, art, history, science, magic, the natural world.”

Her face clouded over, eyes flicking toward Beatrix, who was not only still engrossed with the insect crawling over her fingers but was talking to it, singing a little made-up song. “How are things with Callum?” she asked.

I froze. How to navigate a conversation with my mother about Callum, convince her I wasn’t sitting around doing nothing about our problems while obscuring the details of Adelaide’s and my plan?

“They’re . . . the same,” I said. “We’ve been fighting a lot.”

“Not in front of Beatrix I hope,” she said.

“Of course not.” I’m torturing him with dead animals and freezing-cold temperatures in front of her instead.

“He’s still drinking?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry, honey. I wish I could shake some sense into him.” She pulled her gaze from Beatrix and looked at me again. “Have you thought about talking to that attorney whose number I gave you?”

I winced. “Yes.”

“But you haven’t called.”

“I haven’t.”

Her gaze turned hard, but her tone was gentle. “What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. “No, that’s not true. I do know, but it’s—”

“I know what you’re going to say, but Lainey, this is life.

It’s messy, and shit happens. People get into this situation all the time: marriages that don’t work out.

Women—women with children—get divorced all the time.

I want you to be happy, and I know you aren’t.

I don’t understand why you’re so unwilling to do something about it. At least talk to a lawyer.”

“I’m not not doing anything about it,” I insisted. “And . . . Adelaide’s helping me with some things.”

Her mouth turned down ever so slightly. “Are you sure she’s the best person to be helping with your marriage problems?”

“You don’t like Adelaide, do you?”

“Of course I do. It’s just . . . well, she’s a little dramatic, that’s all. I don’t want you enlisting the help of someone who creates more problems instead of solving the ones you already have.”

If you only knew. What was I supposed to say, Adelaide is preparing the black soldier larvae for Flypocalypse as we speak? I settled for, “No matter what Adelaide suggests, I’ll keep my perspective.”

She took my hand and squeezed it. “I’m your mother, and while that will never change, I can’t tell you what to do anymore.

You’re an adult. But your beautiful, brilliant daughter was just asking you about ghosts.

And you, my dear, are haunted. Why not let go of the things that are no longer serving you?

Trust the system, the lawyers, the judges, to do the right thing so you have a chance to get out of this misery before it’s too late. ”

She paused, as if unsure whether to go on.

“Go ahead,” I urged. “Don’t stop now.” I wasn’t angry, merely defeated. “What do you want to say?”

“No one is prouder of you than me and your father”—she gestured at Bea—“with regards to your personal life. Your career. But we worry—and you know that’s not good for your father’s heart. We wonder if a big part of your success hinges on your ability to remain in control.”

“I’m not in control of anything,” I said, ignoring the twinge in my gut that came at the words, not to mention the reminder of my father’s poor health. “I know that. I can’t control other people, can’t control what happens.”

But haven’t I exerted control over the very thing many people argue no one should get to control, ever?

The image of myself in the bathroom mirror rubbing nonexistent blood from my hands came to my mind.

I pushed the thought away before it could take root.

“I’m not successful because I try to control things. ”

“I didn’t say that. Not exactly. I’m just saying it might be worth exploring. Are you still seeing a therapist?”

I winced again, but Beatrix chose that time to screech, waving frantically at the hanging bough of a willow tree.

“Goodbye, Inchy!” she called.

I stood, giving my mother an apologetic smile, and walked toward Bea. “Are you ready, my little inchworm?” I leaned toward her. “Did I tell you I have the key to the gift shop?”

She grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the winding path.

“Mommy, Mommy, I love the mansions. I love the little girl’s room and her fancy rocking horse.

Do they have horsie toys in the gift shop?

Or horsie books? Could we get something to take home with us?

To read at bedtime?” Beatrix spun around.

“Come on, Gram. Hurry up! We’re going to the gift shop! ”

Beatrix continued chattering. “When we get home, I’m going to pretend to be a ghost, and I’m going to scare Daddy!”

My mother laughed, but I couldn’t help but feel relief that Adelaide wasn’t around to hear Bea’s comment. The last thing I needed was her deciding Bea would be a welcome addition to the haunting.