Page 47 of The Ghostwriter
June 11, 1975
I’m watching television with Lydia, the two of us sitting side by side on the couch pretending everything is normal. But inside, I’m vibrating. I can’t eat. For the past two weeks, I haven’t been able to sleep. I want to stand in the middle of the room and scream, What the fuck did you do? But instead, I sit here, pretending to watch a stupid game show.
It feels like it’s been a year since Danny had whispered, It’s common knowledge that the guy who takes a girl to get an abortion is usually the father , and since then I’ve been at a low simmer. Lashing out at Poppy. My parents. I’m barely able to look at Lydia.
Suddenly, Poppy bursts through the front door, dumping her backpack on the floor and heading into the kitchen.
My mother is at the dining room table, playing solitaire and nursing a mug of what she says is tea but is really wine. “Backpack,” she calls, but Poppy ignores her. My mother sighs, flipping over a card, and takes a sip from her mug. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into that girl. Hitchhiking into Ventura? She could have gotten herself killed.”
“She’s mad she lost her camera,” I say. Even to my own ears, I sound like a robot. Like I’m playing the part in some big production of Guy Who’s Too Chickenshit to Confront His Cheating Girlfriend .
My mother looks up from her card game, shocked. “At that rally? Did someone take it from her?”
“No, I think it happened yesterday.”
My mother sniffs with disapproval. “I told your father she was too young for something so expensive, but he never listens to me.”
The front door opens again, and Margot enters, out of breath. “Is Poppy here?”
My mother gestures toward the kitchen wordlessly and Margot disappears, the two girls’ voices floating through the open doorway.
“I’m not going,” Poppy says.
“You have to,” Margot pleads. “Everyone will be there. It’s the last week of school and Mr. Stewart invited everyone.”
Lydia looks at me. “Are you going to Mr. Stewart’s end-of-year party tonight?” Her tone is cautious. As if one wrong word might launch me into a tirade. As if I’m a bomb that has to be handled carefully.
Mr. Stewart had invited all of us this afternoon while he washed his car in the driveway. “Burgers, sodas, a way to close out the school year. Everyone’s welcome.”
Without looking at Lydia, I say, “Can’t. I have to rewrite my term paper for world history, or I’ll fail the class.” I try to keep my tone casual and ask, “Are you going to go?”
She shrugs, looking unsure. As if my question might be a trap. “I might stop by,” she says. “I kind of feel like I have to. He’s been so nice training me these past few months.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” I tell her.
***
Lydia and I finish the show we’re watching, the sky growing dark and the sounds of the party next door growing louder. Music floats in through the open windows and Poppy and Margot have disappeared somewhere. Lydia stands. “I’d better get home. Let you get to that paper.”
My mother has abandoned her card game and is now in the kitchen making dinner, the bottle of chardonnay now nearly empty on the counter. The front door swings open and my father greets us, his suit looking limp from the heat of the day. He sets his briefcase down by the door and hangs his hat on the hat stand. “Nice to see you, Lydia.”
“Hi, Mr. Taylor.”
“Are you staying for dinner, or are you going to the party next door? Looks like every kid in town is over there.”
“I need to be getting home,” Lydia says. I can feel her glancing at me, though I keep my eyes trained on the floor in front of me. “My mother’s expecting me.”
“Give her my regards,” he says.
Lydia moves in for a hug, but I sidestep around her, opening the door and holding it for her.
“What’s the matter with you?” she whispers.
“You should get home,” I say.
Pain and confusion flicker across her face, but she tucks her hair behind her ear and descends the stairs slowly, as if hoping I’ll call her back. Fat chance. Not after what she’s done.
I’ve been picturing it on a loop in my mind. Lydia walking into the clinic, Mr. Stewart holding her purse while she went into the back. I’m not great at math, but I can add and subtract. And I know she got pregnant after we started dating because I also sat through that mandatory health class last year. The one where Nurse Monahan told us twelve weeks was the cutoff for a safe abortion, but abstinence was the safest choice. The only one Lydia’s abstained from is me.
The party next door is in full swing, kids spilling over to the front yard. A pile of skateboards have been abandoned next to the driveway, and two senior girls sit on Mr. Stewart’s front steps, smoking, while Clapton plays in the background. All the windows are open, and I can see a few kids in his living room, lounging on his couch.
Back inside, my father is saying, “Let’s go to Ventura on Friday night. Catch a movie and miss the first night madness of the carnival.”
I wander into my room and shut the door, sitting at my desk, thinking of the way Danny and Poppy came crashing into the house yesterday. The urgent whispers behind Danny’s closed door. The way Poppy could barely look at me afterward, as if she didn’t want me to see how pathetic she thought I was.
I stare at my notebook, willing myself to open it. Trying not to imagine Lydia circling the block and returning to Mr. Stewart’s party. Cracking open a beer and watching as Mr. Stewart flips burgers on the grill and pretends there isn’t something more between them.