Page 52 of The Ghostwriter

Highway 150 takes me out of the Ojai Valley and toward Bakersfield, my GPS giving me quiet commands in the early morning light. I’m glad to escape the house, the memory of my father’s anger still echoing through the rooms. Glad I don’t have to face Alma, who’s still sleeping when I leave. She came home late last night and told me my father had gotten nine stitches in his palm and that they were keeping him for observation. “I’ll call you in a few days and let you know where things stand,” she told me.

I’m grateful for the silence of the car and the empty road in front of me. I need to shift away from my father’s condition and start thinking through how to approach my mother, the questions I need to ask.

I have only one solid memory of her. It must have been right before she left, because I was in kindergarten. I’d been invited to a birthday party for a girl in my class. My mother wanted me to wear a purple dress with a sash that tied in the back and black shiny shoes, but I’d wanted to wear my rainbow T-shirt, jean skirt, and a pair of striped socks that I’d gotten for my birthday.

I know from pictures that my mother was tall, with long dark hair that framed her face. But I vividly remember the way it smelled when she’d lean over to kiss me goodnight, like coconut suntan lotion. That day, she sat on the bed next to me and waited for me to stop crying. Then she said, “Olivia, sometimes we all have to do things we don’t want to do.” Her voice had been heavy, as if she were admitting a sad and painful truth, and I remember being confused by her words. To my five-year-old mind, adults got to do whatever they wanted.

I don’t remember the party at all, whether I ended up wearing the purple dress or if I got my way and wore my rainbow outfit. I don’t remember whether my mother or father took me, whether they stayed or just dropped me off. It’s as if my memory ends with my mother’s words, the admission that everyone in life has to accept a certain amount of pain, and it wasn’t until I was nearly an adult that I circled back to that moment and began to wonder what things my mother had been forced to do. And how long she had to carry it, waiting until she could break free.

For years, I was chased by questions my father was either unable or unwilling to answer. What kind of mother leaves her child? A woman who ran out of options , a voice says in my mind now, and I realize I need more than just information about what happened in 1975. I need to know how it ties in with her departure, because I’m certain the reason I grew up without a mother is directly connected to the murders of Poppy and Danny.

***

I park in a modest neighborhood of apartment buildings on a quiet street within walking distance of a main thoroughfare where small businesses cluster between tire chains and fast-food restaurants. I found her by paying $25 to a website that gives you information most people think is private. Current and former addresses, phone numbers, pending lawsuits. My mother’s information showed our old apartment in Ojai and this apartment building that thankfully doesn’t have a security gate.

Inside the courtyard, there’s a fenced pool with metal patio chairs and a No Lifeguard on Duty sign. I find the stairwell and emerge on a balcony that wraps around the courtyard offering a view of the pool below. I find her apartment, my pulse pounding, and I try to concentrate on relaxing my shoulders. Keeping my greeting simple and then seeing what happens after that.

I knock and wait. It’s just past eight on a Saturday morning, late enough that she’s probably awake, although I don’t have anything on which to base that assumption.

When the door swings open, I recognize her immediately. Her hair is grayer, but the style is the same—long sheets of hair brushing past her shoulders, and I imagine a phantom whiff of coconut. Same wide eyes, so familiar it nearly steals my breath. She must recognize me too because she takes an involuntary step back, as if she might close the door. I speak before that can happen.

“Hi, Mom,” I say.

“Olivia,” she whispers. “Why are you here?”

I know her words are the result of being ambushed, but her question still punches into me. She must see the hurt on my face because she shakes her head and tries again. “Is everything okay?”

“Can we go inside and talk?”

She hesitates for just a second, then steps aside so I can enter. The living room is sparse, an old couch in front of a scarred coffee table, a couple celebrity magazines on top and a television remote to an older model tucked into a cabinet next to a bookshelf. Another chair faces the couch and I choose that and sit.

She finally finds her voice. “How did you know where to find me?”

I ignore her question, taking in her outfit—dark blue jeans and a white shirt, neither of them branded in any way. The clothing of a woman on a budget. The living room leads to a small dining room, where I notice a CVS apron tossed over the back of one of the chairs.

She sits on the couch across from me, perching on the edge as if she might need to exit quickly. I take in her face, the way she’s aged. Gone is the laughing girl from Poppy’s home movies, replaced by a woman in her mid-sixties, hollowed out by life. By tragedy.

“I need to ask you some questions,” I finally say.

“Okay,” she says, though her tone is wary.

“I’ve been in Ojai,” I begin. “Staying with Dad.”

“I didn’t realize the two of you were back in touch,” she says.

Her words surprise me. “How did you know that we weren’t? Do you and Dad still talk?”

“Not for a long time,” she says. “But when you were younger, he’d keep me informed of things.”

I need a moment to absorb this fact, that all these years they’d been in contact while I’d been the one cut off. Cut out. I stand and walk toward the bookshelf and scan the titles. Some of Barbara Kingsolver’s earlier works, two or three by Danielle Steel. No books by my father. No books by me. On top is a framed photograph of my mother with three other women around her age. I pick it up and study it.

“Those are my friends from the community garden,” she explains. “I rent a plot there. Most people grow vegetables, but I like to grow flowers.” She’s chattering. Filling the silence, hoping to keep things light.

I set the picture down, taking a quick glance at the other frames, noting that there isn’t a single photo of the daughter she walked away from. “I’m glad you have friends.”

“We also have a book club,” she says. “Go to movies. Susan tries to get me to go to church, but I don’t have much use for God.” She stops talking, perhaps realizing she’s veering too close to topics she doesn’t want to discuss.

“I imagine not,” I say.

“Tell me about yourself,” she continues. “Are you married? Do you have kids?” Her voice is tentative, as if she doesn’t really want to know what she might have missed—a wedding. Grandchildren.

But her words stab me as well. The life I could have had—would have had—with Tom, if not for the dysfunction and trauma at the core of my family. And as my eyes sweep across the room again—generic prints on the walls, scattered photos of book club friends who most likely return home to an intact family after their night of wine and conversation—I see my own life layered over the top of this one. A life of isolation and loneliness. Of being the friend everyone tries to include out of pity.

“Not married, no kids,” I say, returning to my chair and forcing myself to focus. “I live in Los Angeles, but like I said, I’ve been staying with Dad.” I watch her expression, waiting to see if she’ll flinch. Look away. She waits for me to continue. “He’s been talking about what happened and I have some questions for you.”

My mother looks down at her hands, now clasped tight in her lap, and says, “I don’t remember much. It was a long time ago.”

“I don’t really think that’s true.”

She looks up at me and says, “It was a tragedy. Your father never really recovered from it, though I’m proud of who he’s become and the things he’s accomplished. I’m definitely appreciative of the money he sends for the apartment.”

“Dad pays your rent? For how long?”

“Since I moved out,” she says.

“Did he ask you to leave?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No, I needed to go.”

“What does that mean?” I’m losing control of my emotions, but I can’t help myself. “I came across an article where you said that you would never allow your daughter to be raised by a killer, but that’s exactly what you did.”

She looks stricken. “Why would you say that? Your father didn’t kill anyone.” She glances at the door, perhaps wondering if she should end our conversation.

I push on, not wanting to hear whatever weak excuse she might formulate. Anger that has been lying dormant inside of me bubbles over at this woman who walked away from her daughter and never looked back. “Dad told me the alibi was a lie. The only explanation for why a teacher might lie to the police is if you were sleeping with him.”

She stands, her face a blank slate. “I think you should leave.”

“Dad’s sick,” I tell her. “Lewy body dementia. It’s similar to Alzheimer’s.” I see a loosening in her expression, as if the fact that the disease affects the memory is good news. “His memory’s not gone yet,” I tell her. “But sometimes he slips and thinks I’m you. And he says things.”

She sinks back down again, her fingers trembling, and she quickly tucks them between her knees. “That must be hard for you.”

“Dad told me about your abortion. That the baby wasn’t his. Whose was it?”

My mother covers her face and bends over her knees. I wait, letting her gather herself. When she looks up again, her eyes are wet. It’s clear she’s devastated, but she also seems resigned. As if she knows what my father is trying to do. “Your father had no right telling you about that.”

I take my laptop out of my bag and pull up the bonfire clip. The one that sent my father over the edge. “I showed one of Poppy’s old movie clips to Dad last night, and he went crazy. Smashed his hand through a window and had to go to the hospital.”

My mother looks startled. “Your father has Poppy’s old movies?”

“I found them hidden in Poppy’s closet,” I tell her. “This one really upset him, and I can’t figure out why. Maybe you can tell me.”

I play the clip for her—the partying kids, the bonfire flames, a young Mr. Stewart picking up cans—but I’m watching my mother. The way she leans closer to the screen, the way her eyes seem to widen at one point, her hand lifting as if to point to something, but dropping into her lap before she can. When it’s over, I ask again, “Why did this upset Dad so much? What did he see that I can’t?”

She slides her finger across the track pad, rewinding the video to midway, and I expect her to say something about Mr. Stewart. That my father’s rage was because of what he’d done to my mother. But instead, she says, “Look in the background. The camera shifts and you can see us.”

The video shows a group of kids sitting cross-legged in the dirt, the flames highlighting their features, making them seem otherworldly and immortal. But instead of looking at them, I’m looking beyond them. At first, it’s her legs I recognize—long and lean in a pair of jeans. My mother, sitting on a log in the top right corner of the screen. Leaning toward someone, laughing. Passing a can of beer back and forth. Someone nudges Poppy, or bumps into her, because the camera shifts, and I can see who it is next to my mother. His arm curving around her waist, his head tilted toward hers, the two of them oblivious.

Danny.

I pause the clip and look at my mother. “What happened?”

Her voice is robotic, as if the only way to get through it is to take all of the emotion out of it. “That night, Danny was so nice to me. I started to wonder if Vince had been exaggerating about how awful his brother was. Because to me, he was charming. Funny. I was sixteen…” Her voice trails off. “He was so popular. So handsome. He brought me drinks and talked to me all night long. Ignoring his friends, ignoring the other girls who were much prettier and much cooler than I was. After a while, he suggested we find a quiet place to talk more.” She looks away, ashamed. “I shouldn’t have gone with him. It was my fault.”

Her words echo the page my father wrote, the words scrawled again and again. She shouldn’t have gone. “Did he rape you?” I finally ask, my heart breaking for the young girl that lives, so fresh, in my mind. I think back to all the movies I’ve studied, now wondering if I’d missed something. Some silent shift, signifying what had been done to her.

She gives a tiny shrug. “When he kissed me, I liked it. It was exciting. But then I remembered about your father. About how much it would destroy him, and I pulled away. Danny didn’t like that. Said I was a tease.” She’s lost in the memory, reliving it somewhere in her mind. Then she seems to realize I’m still there, still listening. “You don’t need to hear the rest.”

“Why didn’t you tell someone?” I ask.

She gives me a shrewd look. “That’s not how things worked back then. I thought I could forget about it. Danny behaved as if nothing had happened. He barely acknowledged me, and I started to wonder if I’d imagined it. But then, I found out I was pregnant. I couldn’t tell your father. It would have devastated him.” She pauses, then adds, “It did.”

“Did Danny ever know it was him who had gotten you pregnant?”

My mother gives a tiny shrug. “No one knows what Danny knew or didn’t know. He let your father believe it was Mr. Stewart’s baby, which was ridiculous.”

“Mr. Stewart took you to get the abortion,” I say. “It’s not a big leap to assume he was the father. Was there anything going on between the two of you?”

My mother shakes her head, unable to look at me. “No.”

I’m struggling to make sense of this. Even in the 1970s, even despite Mr. Stewart’s righteous claim that he would do it again, it seems like an outrageous risk for a teacher to take. “Help me understand why a teacher would take a student to get an abortion. He could have gotten into a lot of trouble.”

My mother looks at me and says, “My mother wasn’t the best parent. She liked to say we were more like sisters than mother and daughter. But the truth was, she wasn’t even that to me. A sister is someone you can talk to. Confide your problems to. But my mother was only interested in finding a man to take care of her.” She pauses here, as if remembering that time. The horrible realization that she was pregnant and the helpless feeling it must have given her. Abortion had been recently legalized, but it would have been unlikely a sixteen-year-old girl could have figured out how to access it on her own. “I didn’t tell Mr. Stewart I was pregnant. He figured it out. When he offered to help me, I accepted. I was eight weeks pregnant and running out of time. He drove me to the clinic, pretended to be my older brother, and even filled out the paperwork when I couldn’t.”

“It’s one thing to drive a girl to get an abortion,” I say. “Quite another to lie to the police in a murder investigation.”

“Asking him for the alibi was your father’s idea. He used the abortion as leverage to get him to say he was with us.”

My voice lowers, though there isn’t anyone around who can hear me. “Do you know who killed them?” I ask. “Was it Dad?”

“Poppy had something she needed to tell your father,” my mother says. “She was really upset about it. We were both worried that she knew the truth about the baby and what Danny had done to me. She and Danny had been arguing about it, and your father wanted to get her to promise she wouldn’t tell anyone about the rape or the abortion.” She takes a shaking breath and says, “But your father didn’t kill Poppy. She was already dead when he got there.”

A part of me had been hoping it wasn’t true. That my father hadn’t been there, that his memory had been false. But now it’s confirmed. “So Danny killed Poppy to keep her from revealing the rape,” I say. “But who killed Danny? Dad?”

But my mother doesn’t answer the question. “Poppy was tenacious. She’d been following your father for months, filming him with her camera.”

“Until she lost it,” I say.

My mother doesn’t respond, seemingly trapped in a memory. Finally she says, “She didn’t lose it. I took it.”

“What? Why?”

“I was heading home when I saw Poppy and Danny come tearing out of the grove of trees in the field behind their house, fighting over the camera. I hid behind a tree and watched him tackle her. Wrestle the camera out of her hands, throwing it as far as he could. Then he grabbed her and dragged her into the house before she was able to go get it.” Her voice is low, remembering that day. “I was frozen to the spot, terrified Danny would see me and come after me next,” she says, swiping a strand of hair off her forehead. “I figured the least I could do was to get Poppy’s camera for her. Hold on to it until things calmed down. But shortly after that…” She shrugs. “Well, you know what happened.”

“What did you end up doing with it?”

She gives me a long, steady look. Then she stands and disappears into her room, returning with a shoebox. She hands it to me, and I lift the lid. Inside is an old Super 8 camera, dented on one side, the lens completely gone.

I lift it out and turn it over in my hands, hardly believing she kept it all these years. The compartment where the film is stored is badly damaged, and I look up at my mother. “Is there still film in it?”

“I assume so.”

The idea of sitting on that film is unfathomable to me. “Why didn’t you turn it over to the police?”

“You think answers will fix everything, but they don’t. Mr. Stewart used to always say that information is power. But it’s also a burden because once you know something, you can’t pretend you don’t.” She shakes her head. “I kept the camera out of respect for Poppy. But I’ve never been like her. I don’t need to see what’s on the film to know why Danny killed her. I thought it was better for everyone to just leave it behind.” She looks at me and says, “I’m sure there are things in your past you’d rather not speak of.”

Her words yank me out of my own narrow perspective, and everything shifts. I’ve been dropped somewhere new, forced to acknowledge the flaws in my own thinking. That you can make up whatever you want to be the truth and you can live your life as if you’ve sealed it off forever. But, like a heartbeat behind a wall, the truth is always there, holding you hostage. I’m no different from my parents—refusing to acknowledge or speak about difficult things. And yet, I’m this way because I was raised to be this way. Their weaknesses are my own.

I think of the mother I could have had if she’d been a different kind of person. A stronger person. One who had figured out how to get the help she needed without abandoning her daughter. Who’d be able to teach her daughter how to handle hard conversations instead of avoiding them. “Well, that tracks,” I say.

Her expression softens, just a fraction, and then she says, “I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you.”

I let her statement hang there, unable to accept or even acknowledge her apology, a handful of words that mean nothing. That won’t amount to anything once I say goodbye and walk out the door.

I return to the task at hand. “So Danny killed Poppy to keep her from revealing that he had raped you and gotten you pregnant. And then Dad walked in on it and killed Danny?”

“I’m sure that’s the story your father wants to tell. But he walked into something he had no business being in the middle of.” She presses her lips together, her hands beginning to shake. “Whatever is on that film is why Danny killed Poppy and why Danny almost killed your father.”