Page 48 of The Ghostwriter

June 11, 1975

I’ve never been drunk before. Sure, I’ve stolen some sips of my father’s watered-down gin and tonic when it’s my turn to do the dishes. But I’ve never been spinning, lurching drunk. Until tonight.

Margot had finally convinced me to go to Mr. Stewart’s party, and I decided the only way I could get through it was to numb myself with beer. Mr. Stewart wasn’t even watching as I opened up the cooler and bypassed the sodas, grabbing a Coors instead. It was gross, but as soon as I finished one, I started another.

I can see now why Danny likes to drink. It gives you a floaty, buzzy feeling that makes all your worries seem far away and blurry. Like you can almost not see them anymore.

I stand in the backyard off to the side and watch, my hands missing the weight of my camera. The safety I had behind the lens. I can still feel it, twisting out of my fingers, my elbows bruised from where I hit the ground. I’d told Margot I’d lost it, which is technically true because when I went back to get it, it was gone.

There are about fifty kids scattered in groups talking and laughing. Some middle school boys are roughhousing with each other, and another one is dancing in a circle, holding his soda high over his head. Mr. Stewart stands at the grill flipping burgers, his hi-fi system blasting “Shining Star” by Earth, Wind & Fire through the open windows.

“The next batch of burgers will be done in five,” he calls out to the crowd.

I turn to say something to Margot, but she’s disappeared into the house somewhere. I glance again at Mr. Stewart before edging along the side of the yard and heading up the back steps into the kitchen. I stumble at the doorway and catch myself, dropping my nearly empty beer can into the grass before entering. A group of girls are gathered, talking to Mr. Stewart’s girlfriend, Amelia, who is arranging cut vegetables on a tray. “Hi there, ,” she says, smiling.

I ignore her, trying to walk a straight line through the kitchen and into the living room, where Margot is seated on the couch talking to a boy from my English class. Steve? Sam? I spot an open beer on the coffee table and grab it, slugging down the warm dregs before anyone can stop me. I need to maintain my distance.

Margot gives me a worried look and says, “Check out these photo albums, . Here’s one of Danny when he was in Mr. Stewart’s outdoor group.”

I step forward and look down, the photograph black and white behind the plastic. A group of boys, some without shirts, stand in front of a tent. Mr. Stewart is in the back, Danny on the end, a half smile on his face. I struggle to focus my eyes, the image wobbling, making me feel seasick.

One of the girls on the couch says, “I wish he’d do a girls’ trip into the woods. I wouldn’t mind being in a tent with Mr. Stewart.”

The others laugh. I look up at the group of them, lounging in Mr. Stewart’s living room, feet up on Mr. Stewart’s coffee table. One girl smokes a cigarette and blows her smoke out the open window. I give a sharp laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Why are you all here?” I ask, but when I turn to find Margot, I lose my balance. I sit down hard on a chair and close my eyes. But that makes the room spin even more so I open them again.

Margot has disappeared. I look around, peering down the dark hallway that must lead to Mr. Stewart’s bedroom. His bathroom. Two closed doors but no Margot.

I push myself to standing and walk over to a wall of photographs. Mr. Stewart in college, wearing a track jersey. Mr. Stewart and Amelia on a beach somewhere. Mr. Stewart and a man I don’t recognize, arms slung around each other at the Eiffel Tower.

Margot appears again next to me and says, “I think you should go home.”

“I didn’t even want to come to this party,” I say.

Vince appears on my other side, and I reach out to touch his cheek, but he pulls back. “This is a dark space, Vince. Did you hide a clue here?” I laugh at my joke, but he doesn’t laugh with me. “You shouldn’t be here,” I tell him.

My words slide into the silence between tracks as Mr. Stewart appears in the doorway “Burgers are ready,” he announces.

Then his gaze lands on me. “You okay, ?”

Anger and betrayal swirl around inside of me. I don’t want Vince here to see this. He can’t know the truth. “Not really,” I say, the alcohol making me feel brave. I sway a little bit and Margot steadies my elbow.

The sound of breaking glass and rising laughter floats through the open windows. From the kitchen Amelia calls, “Paul, you’d better get back out there!”

Mr. Stewart ignores her. “I’m worried, .” He gestures toward the closed-off portion of the house. “Do you want to go somewhere private to talk about what’s bothering you?”

One of the girls on the couch mutters, “You can take me somewhere private.”

The other girls explode into laughter, but Mr. Stewart ignores them, keeping his gaze on me.

“What is it you always say?” I challenge him. “‘Information is power.’” I watch him, to see if he hears me. To see if he knows what I know. “What about when you know a secret? Is that power too?”

Our eyes lock for a moment before my stomach heaves and I turn, vomiting into a potted plant.

The girls scatter and Vince says, “I’ll take her home.”

“I think that’s probably best,” Mr. Stewart says.

Vince and Margot gather on either side of me and usher me out the front door and down the steps. We walk along the side of our house and ease open the back door, avoiding the living room where my parents are watching TV. They’re in their usual spots—our father in his chair, a gin and tonic next to him, our mother on the couch, her stockinged feet curled under her, poking away at her needlepoint, somewhere into her second bottle of wine.

We sneak past the kitchen and into my room. I kick off my shoes and crawl under my covers, not caring about my clothes. Not caring about anything.

“I’ve got it from here,” Vince says to Margot.

She slips out the back door again, no doubt heading home. Vince goes into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water and some aspirin. “Take these,” he says.

I turn toward the wall, unable to look at him. Afraid of what I’ll say. The room spins and I worry I’ll throw up again, so I take deep breaths, trying to focus on one spot.

Vince hovers beside me. “What was that about?” he asks.

I need to sleep. I need to drop into a dark hole and not dream. Not think of anything. I can’t find the words to tell Vince the truth, but I can offer him a warning.

“Lydia needs to stay away from Mr. Stewart.” I roll over and look at my brother standing over me.

He takes a small step backward, as if my words have hit him and he says, “What do you mean?” He looks scared. Worried. And I wonder if he already knows.

I shake my head, but the motion makes me sick, so I close my eyes instead.