Page 59 of The Ghostwriter

March 3, 1975

I sit on the back step drawing with a stick in the dirt, the sky turning from pink to purple as the sun sets behind our house, and watch Poppy in the middle of the yard, spinning. She wears a long skirt, one I haven’t seen her wear for a while, and she’s pinned one of our mother’s old scarves to the back of her head—a wispy blue and green piece of fabric so light it nearly floats through the air, tucking it under the paper birthday hat our mother insisted we all wear. As she spins, flashes of her smile blink at me. She holds her new camera in her hands, the Super 8 our father bought for her birthday, despite our mother’s protests.

Our parents lean into each other on the bench of the picnic table, the remnants of Poppy’s birthday gifts a scattered mess of empty boxes and crumpled wrapping paper. Danny sits in the chair next to the firepit, feeding wood into it, keeping the flames strong and warm.

I glance at the house next door, the For Sale sign in front sporting a brand-new Sold sticker on top, and wonder who bought it. Perhaps a family with a kid my age, someone who doesn’t already have preconceived ideas about who I am. Someone who hasn’t heard all the rumors, listened to all the mistakes I’ve made over the years, trying and failing to fit in.

Poppy pauses to catch her breath. In the dirt at my feet, I sketch a house, a square with a triangle on top. On the radio, the song turns to “You Are So Beautiful,” by Joe Cocker, and my father stands, pulling my mother up to dance. I imagine dancing to that song with Lydia. My arms around her waist, pulling her close and never letting go. A flare of disbelief, that she’d picked me, explodes inside of me.

Poppy resumes her spinning, the scarf under her hat swelling out like a wedding veil caught in the wind, and I wonder what she’ll be like when she gets older, who she might grow into as the years pass. My father’s birthday toast echoes through my mind: When Poppy was born, she was beauty and grace and light. And she continues to be that, all her beautiful days.

Then I think of the story still tucked in my backpack, to what my English teacher had written at the top. I might see a budding author in these pages. Keep up the great work. The first compliment a teacher has ever given me. The idea burns bright inside of me, and I imagine a future where things aren’t so hard. For the first time, I can see possibility in myself. Trying harder in school. Writing more stories. Maybe even getting paid to do it.

Above us, the first stars are just beginning to appear. The windows behind me cast a warm glow on the ground, patches of light illuminating the rosebushes not yet in bloom. My father gives a bark of laughter, and my mother soon follows. I wish I could freeze time. To live inside this moment forever. My family, its best version of itself.

“Vince, come and spin with me,” Poppy calls, finally setting down her camera. “You know you want to.”

I hesitate, but only for a second. Our parents smile at me, and Danny laughs, rolling his eyes as he pokes the fire, sending bright sparks into the air. I drop my stick and go out to join her, grabbing her wrists and leaning back, knowing my sister will always be there to hold me up.