Page 12 of The Ghostwriter
Monday morning at seven sharp, I find the Zoom link Nicole’s assistant sent over. I’ve been working on an outline of the scene my father described, of coming across Danny digging a hole for that cat. Capturing his voice isn’t hard; I know how my father likes to tell a story—slowly, rolling out the surprises one delicious twist at a time.
But I also have another scene drafted, in a separate document. Of my father’s night terror, every detail I can remember from the moment I heard him scream to the vibrant purple shade of Alma’s toenail polish. I don’t plan on showing that to anyone, but I needed to get it down. Needed to know it was there because I still don’t know if I’m writing a book with my father, or if I’m going to have to write one about him.
It’s not just the way my father seems to shift between reality and fantasy, like stepping through a veil. Last night I woke up to see the outline of him standing in his window, illuminated from behind so that he was just a silhouette. Staring across the courtyard and into the window of the guesthouse door. Unlike that first night, he was perfectly still, perfectly quiet. Almost as if his body was there but his mind was somewhere else. Tonight I plan to dig an old sheet out of the linen closet and tape it over the window so if he does it again, I won’t know.
Nicole’s face appears on the screen as she lets me into the meeting first. “This is going to be tricky,” she says. “We don’t want them to think you’re not up to the task of writing this book. We just need you to have more leeway in writing it.”
“I have to be able to interview other people about what happened from their perspective,” I tell her. “If I can’t, we won’t have much of a book.”
“Got it,” she says.
A new window opens, and I’m surprised to see an entire conference room full of people, an older man sitting at the head of a long table. He has salt-and-pepper hair and wears readers and a button-down shirt. As he starts to talk, it takes him a moment to realize he’s still on mute.
He presses a button on a remote and says, “Sorry about that. Nice to finally meet you, Olivia. I’m Neil Grayson, Vincent’s editor.” He gestures toward the others sitting around the table—three women and one man. “You’re on our big-screen TV in the conference room and I’ve gathered the sales and marketing teams here with me.” He quickly runs through their names, and they wave. “And I’ve got Sloane Valerian, the publisher of Monarch, on speakerphone.”
A disembodied voice says, “Hello, Olivia and Nicole. So glad we could all gather and regroup. I apologize for not zooming in, but I’m in the car on the way to the airport.”
I pick up my phone and text Nicole: Jesus.
She texts back: This is good.
Another face pops on the screen—a young man with a stylishly rumpled appearance that probably requires several hours of prep to achieve. He unmutes himself and says, “Sorry I’m late. I’m Lance Cameron, Mr. Taylor’s literary agent.”
Lance Cameron is the son of my father’s former literary agent, Arthur, who passed away several years ago, leaving his eponymous agency in his son’s hands. Since then, there have been rumors of lawsuits over financial discrepancies and established authors jumping to other agencies, but unfortunately, my father isn’t one of them.
Nicole takes charge. “Thank you, everyone, for taking time out of your busy schedules to meet this morning. The goal of this conversation is to let Olivia catch us up on Mr. Taylor’s project, as well as explain some of the unique challenges she’s facing. We thought it would be easier if we could talk instead of doing it over email. I’m going to turn it over to Olivia so she can walk us through what she’s got so far and what her ideal next steps would be.”
“Thanks, Nicole,” I say. “It’s nice to see you all. As Nicole mentioned, this project presents a unique set of challenges. I’ve spent the last couple days trying to sort through Mr. Taylor’s first draft and conducting some preliminary interviews with him. I’m sure you’re aware that he’s been diagnosed with Lewy body dementia.” Neil nods on the screen. Lance doesn’t look up from whatever it is he’s looking at, most likely his phone. “Due to this condition,” I continue, “we have only about two or three hours per day where he’s lucid enough to work. The remaining time has been spent trying to untangle what he’s written.”
Neil chimes in. “I know you’re a pro at this, Olivia. In fact, I loved the book you did on Magdalena Ruiz. You captured her voice perfectly.”
I offer a polite smile. “Thank you.” Magdalena Ruiz, senator from Arizona and a rising star in the Democratic Conference. I’d spent four months with her during her reelection campaign, learning everything there was to know about her. Interviewing her parents. Her campaign manager. Her best friend from high school. Shadowing her at town halls and donor events. Sitting with her late at night, eating pizza and drinking beer. Magdalena had the kind of energy that was magnetic. Easy to capture on the page. “Vincent Taylor is a different beast,” I continue. “We’re asking him to recount events from nearly fifty years ago. Under the best of circumstances, memory can be tricky.”
Nicole cuts in. “Olivia’s job was to come in and revise an existing manuscript. We think that objective needs to be revisited.”
“The chapter I sent was a straight revision of what he’s given me to work with,” I say. “I’ve scanned a few pages of the original, and I’d like to send it to you so you can see for yourselves.”
I click away from the Zoom meeting and over to my email where I’ve attached the PDF. “I’m sorry, Sloane. I don’t have your email, but I’m sure someone on your team can forward it to you.”
“Thanks,” Sloane says.
I jump back to the meeting and hear the ping of Neil’s email. “Give us a second to take a look,” he says.
I watch as Neil pulls up the email on his iPad, and a few people gather around him to read. I’m hoping they’ll see how far gone my father is, that they’ll realize I need more time to start the book over and begin again. I’m about to say that when the woman to the left of Neil speaks, unaware they’re still unmuted.
“I told you this was a mistake. It’s a vanity project. And honestly, no one cares anymore.”
“We should have gone with Calder,” her male counterpart says. The name rips through me and I try not to react. “Maybe we should send him a few pages of this and see what he can do with it.”
I search my mind for the name Neil gave during introductions. Tyler Blakewood.
Neil looks up at them. “Vincent insisted on Olivia. My hands were tied,” he says.
“It’s your call, Neil,” the disembodied voice of Sloane, the publisher, says. “If you want to pull the plug, I’ll back you up.”
“Sorry to interrupt, guys, but you’re not on mute,” Nicole finally informs them.
Neil scrambles to cover as everyone finds their seats again. “As you can hear, we have concerns. But I’m willing to let you run with this a bit longer. What do you need?”
I shove my hands beneath my legs to stop them from trembling. Nicole looks supportive on the screen, her expression urging me to push through. Publishing is a business, and their objective is to produce a book and make as much money from it if possible. If they can’t, I shouldn’t be offended if they decide to walk away. “His memories are there, but as you can see, I can’t use what he’s written. This is no longer a revision project, but a brand-new book that has to be written from the beginning. That’s going to take time and it’s going to require that I be allowed to speak to other people who have memories of Mr. Taylor as a child. Who can fill in the blanks he’s either unable, or unwilling, to share with me.”
“We might be able to give you more time,” Neil says. “But I’ll have to defer to Lance on the rest.”
Lance looks up. “Mr. Taylor was quite clear that he doesn’t want people in town to know about the book. He doesn’t feel they will give him fair representation and thus speaking to them would be more of a liability than a help.”
“If I may ask,” I start, trying to regain my equilibrium. “I’m still trying to figure out what he wants this memoir to be. Was there a proposal? A pitch? What did he give you that compelled you to buy it? Maybe if I could see that, I’d have a better sense of direction.”
“I pitched the book on Mr. Taylor’s behalf,” Lance says. “With the fiftieth anniversary of the murders approaching and with his own declining health, Mr. Taylor wanted to write a dark and atmospheric book that would explain exactly how both Danny and Poppy died. That he was ready to end his five decades of silence and tell the truth.”
Neil smiles. “How could we say no to that?”
Dark and atmospheric I can do. To the group I say, “That helps. Yesterday, he shared a story about coming across Danny in the woods, burying the neighbor’s cat.” I go on to describe the scene, delivering it with the same level of drama with which my father had told it to me. “It was as if the details were seared into his memory,” I tell them. “The fear and dread he so clearly felt at discovering his brother had done something so disturbing.”
“That’s exactly what we want,” Neil says. “Draft that chapter and let’s talk again.”
My phone buzzes with a text from Nicole: Stay on the zoom after everyone leaves.
To the group, Nicole says, “So to recap, Olivia will start the book over, and you will give her more time. Can we say September instead of June?”
Neil looks sideways at his colleagues and for a moment I’m certain he’ll insist on the original June deadline. That I’m going to have to produce an entire book on a timeline that’s next to impossible. “The best we can do is July,” he says, “and I’ll need to see the chapters as they’re being written, just to stay on top of the direction the book is taking.”
I’m caught off guard by the request, one he might make of a much younger, less experienced writer and not someone who has done this dozens of times, to great acclaim.
This is the consequence of speaking out as a woman. We are labeled hysterical , emotional , unreliable , and finally, incompetent . I consider refusing, telling him I won’t work that way. But I don’t think I have room to argue, since they’re just as inclined to cancel the whole thing. I should never have sent him that revised chapter. But if I hadn’t, I would have spent weeks revising a book they wouldn’t accept. “Sure,” I tell him, knowing I’ll regret it.
“Let’s let Olivia get back to work,” Nicole interjects. “We can regroup in a couple weeks. I’ll have my assistant reach out with potential dates.”
“Thank you, everyone,” Neil says.
Then they’re gone and it’s just me and Nicole. “Are you okay?” she asks.
I give a shuddering laugh. “I think so. Mostly I’m relieved they responded so positively to the new chapter. It’s a compelling scene,” I say, thinking again of my other chapter, of my father ranting about the missing knife. Believing I was my mother. I wonder what Nicole and the team at Monarch would think of that, but I shake the thought away and continue. “I’d like to figure out if it actually happened or if it’s just a figment of his declining memory. What do you think would happen if I spoke to people on background?” I ask.
She looks sympathetic. “As your agent, I’d have to advise against that. You know the rules as well as I do.”
“If they cancel the book, do I have to pay back the first chunk of the advance?”
Nicole looks uncomfortable. “That depends,” she says. “If you’re in breach of contract, or you are unable to perform to their standards, then yes. But if they pull the book themselves, then no. Try not to worry about that and just go out and do what you do best. We bought you a little more time, so hopefully you can work your magic.” She checks her watch. “I’ve got to jump to another meeting, but call me later if you want to talk more.”