Ghostwriter

Part One

My mother loved keeping diaries. For as long as I could remember she had a written account for most things. Over the years her obsession for keeping a notebook in her bag or in the drawer of the end table in our front room, or even the medicine cupboard in the bathroom so she could write whilst in the bath, slowly grew and grew over the years. I loved her for it though. On my birthdays from the age of about 15, she would find an account she had written about me, rip it out of the notebook and place it in my birthday card. Now at twenty-one and motherless these accounts are the one thing that help me still feel close to her.

It’s been a year since she passed. Still crippled with sorrow, I try my best to be productive during the day as much as I can. Wake up, have breakfast, read mother’s notebooks, have dinner, shower and then sleep. I mean for a recluse, I felt I was doing pretty good. My mother was never the physically affectionate kind, however her notebooks made me feel as though I was inside her brain and knew how she was feeling, how she was as a person and not just as my mother. Now the sole owner of all her seven of her dear diaries, I felt as though I held my mother’s life in my hands. Each time I picked the books up, my excitement to delve in and read an account rose. Each account gave a different feeling, a different aura came with it. Some were just one sentence long, on a random bad day due to her PMS, or a full-blown page describing a day where she was elated on how brightly the sun shone through the slit in her curtain and warmly woke her up. She loved a drink, but for some reason I didn’t think she was alcoholic. I mean it’s all I knew, I guess. So for me everything she did was normal. She used to say red wine got her creativity flowing. As a teen I would believe her as well and at times sneak a cheeky glass before I decided to write a story or two myself. All I wanted was to be a good a writer as my mother. Until I understood my mother was a ghostwriter, I used to believe she wrote stories for ghosts. “How cool is my mother,” I would tell my peers at school. “Ghosts contact her to write them stories!” How proud was I! But now I sit here in our study holding the beautiful little black notebook she bought me exactly a month before she passed. Just the right size, small, cute and convenient. I hadn’t dared open the first page in the fear she left me a message. She was good at hiding when things weren’t okay and was always one to be prepared for the worse. She never mentioned her liver ever having problems but eventually it came to a stage where it couldn’t be a secret anymore. She knew she was dying. She tried so hard to hide it from me until she reached the crossroad of “do I tell my daughter I have two months to live?” or die unexpectedly on her. Thankfully for my fragile heart it wasn’t the latter. She was never one to allow others to feel sorry for her and most definitely not one to allow her only child to suffer emotionally.

I kiss the little black notebook. When she handed the book to me, she made it clear that her only requirement from me was to write an account every day. Every day I felt sad about her not being there. I should write until it never hurt anymore and write only about the good times. "Fill the book Gill," she said, promising that once I had filled the book, I’d feel better and that a weight would suddenly lift. It had been a whole year and I still hadn’t opened the book. I wasn’t ready to open that part of my brain. I wasn’t ready to revel in pain. I wasn’t ready to write about the past and uproot that deep feeling of loss that I tried so hard to supress. (Failing miserably at suppressing however).

Just before she died things were uncomfortable. She didn’t have a job, neither did I. Her motivation to ghostwrite had diminished so her only motivation was to keep her diary accounts. I was looking for bar work but failing so we were more or less living out of savings. I wanted so badly to go to college in LA. AVA college LA was where the top writers in america attended, my dream was to be taught and mentored by the experts that guided the greats, but we just never had the funds as her medical bills took so much and rightfully so. Mother wasn’t getting that many writing gigs and it’s not like I knew my father or any family for a whirlwind pay-out or even better backdated child support. $20,000 was the cost for the internship at AVA Grammar college. I sigh and breathe deeply. I was given the house and her car, but as for money or inheritance rather, we spent so much on her medical bills, all that was left was enough for me to keep up with the bills each month, food and the car etc for the time being. Distant family all tried to chime in with fake generosity. Faces I hadn’t seen before. Names I’d never heard. Bringing food and envelopes with a tie-me-over-till-next-month hand out in them. Everything was doused with pity and endless excuses on why I didn’t know who the hell they were. “Your mother was an outsider and after your dad left when you were a baby, she didn’t want anything to do with anyone,” or “your mother cut us all out,” Stop. Enough. Thank you for the food and money, goodbye. I look at the little black notebook.

I mean what’s the worst that could happen, it’s been a year. I open it. It’s blank, what a relief. So, I write. My first account.

You’re gone. And after a year I finally accept that. Mother if there is any chance you read this know that I love you with all my heart and can’t wait to see you again. Reading through your diaries has given me so much comfort, I feel as though I now know you on a new level. I feel as though you are my best friend. I have read about your dark times and your light times, so for you, as promised I will keep accounts of the new journey in life I am taking, the journey with you in spirit rather than in flesh. Until next time. Love you, your baby girl Gill x

Closing the book slowly I blink hard and sit with the silence that now consumed the house. I burst into tears. What an emotional release. I cry, cry and cry. The pain in my heart now in liquid form and streaming down my cheeks. I clutch the little black notebook to my chest and make my way to bed. My mother new why she told me to write she knew the healing that was about to take place.

Part Two

It’s my 11th month at this retail job. I mean it’s not horrible but it’s not where I want to be. Folding clothes and beeping items aren’t exactly my calling at all, but I need to save money. Without mother my independence has become something like a medallion I wear proudly. Every day I write an account in my little black book. There’s now the larger chunk of the pages to the left and the completion of the book literally nye. I need to get a new one however a feeling in my gut dips my mood. Secretly I didn’t want this book to end. The fact that mother gave it to me meant I wasn’t ready to get one manufactured and picked off a shelf. It wouldn’t have the same vibe. I knew in my soul she wanted me to continue on just as she did, buying and filling books with my life’s occurrences however, this little black notebook has done so much in drawing out that poisonous pain called grief that gripped my heart. This book has been there through my ups and downs, my tears and laughter. Catching those tears as well as crumbs from many lonely meals. I felt as though I had my mother right by my side or write by my side rather. With a flick of a page, I was able to read to relive a fond memory and evoke an old but comforting emotion.

I return home from work and allow the sofa to catch the weight of the working day. Shuffling around my bag I grab my trusty pen. I sigh. Well, here we are the last page. I start to wite.

Thank you for knowing what I would need without you being here. This book has made the last few months liveable and sparked the light I needed to see at the end of the tunnel. In no way am I saying being without you is easier, however I can say that I have my whole life ahead of me to make you proud and continue your legacy. I’ve decided I’m going to save and apply for AVA something I know you would have been in full support of. I love and miss you dearly. Although I’ve come to the end of the book, I start a new chapter in life. Until next time, love your dearest, Gill x

As I sign off the account I feel and unlevelled crease on the ballpoint of my pen. Seems something is on the other page. My heart sinks into my stomach while my anxiety begins to build within my gut. There’s definitely something on the back page. I take a deep breath close my eyes and turn the page.

I open my eyes. It reads,

Follow your dream my love. I’m an account away. Love Mother x

A crisp white folded piece of paper stares up at me. I put my little black notebook on the sofa beside me, I pick the paper up and unfold it. A cheque with my name written on it for $20,000. No date. I gasp and pause my breath for a few seconds, staring at the cheque between my fingers I slowly drop to my knees from the sofa. All this time! All this time. My mother knew how to make me feel special. She made a way when there was no other way. She knew how much the AVA internship meant to me and somehow, even when terminally ill, made it possible for me. She knew this would change my life. I love you mom. I can hear my heart thudding in shock. Tears roll down my cheeks, down my neck and soak softly into my t-shirt collar. Silently I sit, taking in everything that’s just happened.

From beyond the grave, a ghostwriter she truly was…

The End.