I did it. I sent the first two chapters of my manuscript titled False Prophets to an agent who requested the material.
Hopefully I hear back soon.
In the meantime, here’s a short story called the “Ghostwriter”. I wrote this while at the Surrey Writer’s Conference.
I hope you enjoy it;
The Ghostwriter
I will never forget…ever. This was the scariest day of my life, yet the most beautiful.
I never thought I’d be completely taken by anyone. I’m a writer of autobiographies. I meet with men and women in old age homes and write their stories as they narrate them to me. I’m quite successful at what I do; not many people are in this line of work.
I’m being directed to room 213 where my client is resting. His name is Markus John. He’s supposedly ninety six years old and ready for a lift to the sky. I’m excited because I pre-empt my clients and as far as I know, this guy has a fantastical story about the Second World War, some kind of elite group he was a part of and how it affected his family.
Usually I get dribble. Half my clients have difficulty remembering a lot of things. I’ve even had a few who were so lost with Alzheimer’s that we couldn’t go on. Sad, I know, but I try. I always try.
The blonde attendant stops in front of room 213 and waves me in with a flourish of her arm. As I enter the room, my eyes glance at her nametag; Rebecca.
“Thank you, Rebecca.”
When I turn back to smile at her, she’s gone. The doorway is empty. She’s no doubt off to perform other duties that involve the frail, the old, the sick.
A large man lay in the bed, covers neatly wrapped around him, stopping just short of his neck. His eyes are closed. I hesitate. Maybe this isn’t a good time. It was set up yesterday by phone. We agreed I’d come for 1:00pm. I’d leave by 4:00pm. He needs his rest. We’d just try to get as much done as possible in that time.
A table and chair are set up by the bed. I place my laptop down, boot it up and sit at the chair. When he wakes I want to be ready.
“I’m ready.”
I jump. He startled me. I didn’t expect him to talk, or read my mind. At least that’s how it felt. His voice is raspy, distinct. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were awake.”
“My eyes aren’t open, but I’m awake. My time is short. Are you ready?”
“Yes, of course. Do you feel up to starting now?”
“I don’t have much choice. I will be brief. Please pick up what you can. Then piece it together later. You’ll understand.”
His voice had an octave I couldn’t place. Not that I’m a music teacher, it’s just I’ve never heard a voice sound this way; like it was coming out of a flute with a reed like a voice box. Yeah, as if a flute was talking to me, but deeper.
His clipped sentences, his resonate voice, the way he talked with his eyes closed only made his story one I’ll never forget.
This man had seen war, death, loss, bravery. He’d been shot a couple times and even stabbed once. He’d seen more than most. More than I would ever dream of seeing or want to.
I realize, sitting in this room today, what motivates me. This man, Markus John, humbled me. I want to hug him, tell him it would be okay. I only wished I had a father half the man Markus was. Actually, I wished I had a father.
My father left us when I was eight years old. I never heard from him, nor saw him again. My mother forbid the use of the name father in our house. There could be something to why I do this job after all. Maybe a part of me is searching for the story of a decent old man, one I can hold on to and not let go.
Markus surprised me an hour in to his tale. He opened his eyes. He had one glass eye, and a soft blue tinge surrounding a green outline for the other. His eye pierced me. It felt like he could look right through me with that one eye. What surprised me was my dad had a glass eye too.
After a time he started talking about his daughter. He said this story was for her only. He would explain at the end how I was to get this story to his daughter and she would understand everything when reading it.
His goal today; forgiveness. He displayed compassion like I’d never seen. It was an honour to ghostwrite his life.
I took notes, scrolled every bit of pertinent information and while I listened I was taken aback by this man, hour by hour. As he talked about his connections with an underground organization, I almost got lost. I listened, I typed, but I wasn’t there. His presence, the things he had done in his life, took my breath away. I have been doing this for over four years professionally and no one ever brought humanity level with vigour and humility as this man did.
I think what I related to the most was how he had to leave his family years ago to fight in the war. But after the war he could never return.
“I was part of an elite group. We infiltrated levels of government in more than one country.” His eyes were closed again. He paused, coughed, then continued. “My name has been changed, my face altered. I’ve been on the move, going from one country to another since the war. There’s always someone after me. But that’s over now. They’re all dead.”
It was past 4:00pm. I could see him tiring as he tried to finish. Around 4:30pm he said he was too tired to continue.
He closed his magnificent eye and talked a little more. The last thing he said stopped me as I closed my laptop.
“What was that Mr. John?”
“I said…I died years ago.”
A single tear descended his cheek. And then his breathing was louder than his voice. I could tell he’d fallen asleep.
I gathered my things and left the room with an understanding of what he meant by his last comment. He’d died years ago by the loss of his family, the war, the loss of people he knew and loved. He’d died years ago by the inequity of life.
Sometimes the pain we bear seems insurmountable, unfair even. I understood this man more than I wanted to. I only wished I had a daddy like Markus John.
When I left the building it hit me that I didn’t get to figure it out. He’d said this project was for his daughter and that after we were done I would be able to get it to her. I’d have to come back tomorrow for more details.
When I got home I couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. John. It inspired me to open up the old photo albums my mother had left me after she died fifteen years ago. Cancer took her, bless her soul.
The photo albums were in the attic right where I left them after my mother’s funeral. I brushed off the dust and started through them. It was only 8:00pm; I had a glass of wine and all night to reminisce.
I got through one book and opened the second one. On the third sleeve I could see a couple pictures were slid in behind others. I pulled a few out. A faded picture with a man sitting and a woman standing caught my eye. I set my wine glass down and stared.
Even though the picture was faded I could tell it was my mother, but the man was hard to discern. I pulled and yanked picture after picture until I came up with one that was better.
This time I was shocked.
There were three people in this picture; my mother, me at around seven years old and my father who looked remarkably like Markus John. Or rather Joseph Hardy as we knew him then. He had a patch over the eye that would receive glass as a replacement.
I was up and out of the house in less than five minutes. I drove like a maniac and got to the retirement home in twenty minutes flat.
Rebecca wasn’t at the front counter. I approached the woman and asked to see Mr. Markus John.
“Hold a minute, ma’am. I don’t recognize that name.”
I checked her name tag; Samantha. “I was here this afternoon. Mr. John dictated his autobiography to me. We agreed to meet now, at 9:00pm,” I lied. My heart was racing. I found it hard to breathe. I had to get in. I needed answers.
A binder was open in front of Samantha. Her slow and nonchalant way of turning the pages was driving me crazy. Come on, I shouted in my head.
“It appears that there is no one here by that name.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She had no idea how to do her job.
“I was here earlier. Markus John related his life story to me. I’m an auto biographer. He was in room 213. Rebecca was the woman behind the counter. She showed me down the hall.”
Samantha cracked a smile. I was incensed by how rude she was being.
“I’m one of the staff supervisors. We don’t have a Rebecca on staff. And this entire complex is one level. There is no room numbered 213. I’m afraid you must have the wrong building ma’am.”
Absolutely absurd. No way. I wouldn’t believe it. I could see the room I was escorted to earlier. It was down the hall on the left.
I turned from Samantha and strode to the door. I could hear her protestations behind me. I got to the room and looked in.
My hand went to the doorframe to steady myself. The room was a small cafeteria for the employees. No Markus John. No old man sleeping.
I looked around, ignoring Samantha. I know I’m right on this. I was only here four hours ago.
“The woman earlier, her nametag said Rebecca. Can you re-check your staff names?”
“It’s not necessary. I do all the hiring. We do not have a Rebecca on staff. Now, if you please, leave the building. I don’t want you upsetting other live-ins.”
I walked away in a daze. This wasn’t happening. I don’t take drugs, I don’t hallucinate.
I stood by my car trying to put it together.
I remember one thing; he said he’d died years ago. I thought he meant emotionally. Could he have been speaking literally?
Movement caught my eye. A man was standing by a tree about a hundred yards from me. A woman stood to his right. I squinted in the light of dusk. The man waved and turned away. The woman followed.
When he turned from me, one last ray of sunlight caressed his back. It was Markus John and Rebecca. There was no doubt.
Then they were gone.
I have no idea where. They were just gone.
It took me a few weeks to get over it. I cried. I grieved. I couldn’t write for a month. Not many people get the chance to meet their parents after they’re gone.
But I did. I got to, because my dad was amazing. According to the life he lived, the story he recited, he’d done it all for us.
My daddy was my hero.
It took me another month to know who Rebecca was. A search online, a family tree, and hours of labour revealed the answer.
I found an old picture of my mother before I was born from her high school days.
Rebecca was my mother’s middle name. She was just as beautiful as the day I met her at the retirement home.
I can’t seem to stop crying.
Goodbye mom and dad…