Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis [134]
I walked Marta to the foyer of the suite and feebly whispered, “Thank you” as I let her out.
Leaning against the door I had just closed, I was hit by the thought: Writing will cost you a son and a wife, and this is why Lunar Park will be your last novel.
I immediately opened the minibar and drank a bottle of red wine.
During the next four hours something happened that I don’t remember.
The writer filled in the blanks.
I plugged in my laptop and logged on to the Internet.
This is where I typed in the following words: “ghost,” “haunting,” “exorcist.”
Surprise and dread: there were thousands of Web sites related to these matters.
Apparently I specified by typing in “Midland County.”
This narrowed the list considerably.
Supposedly I checked out a few Web sites, but I don’t remember doing so.
Supposedly I “decided” on Robert Miller’s Northeastern Paranormal Society.
I sent a drunken e-mail. I left my cell number as well as the number at the Four Seasons.
According to the writer: Jayne called from Toronto at 5:45 after speaking to Marta, who told her what happened at the house. I have no recollection of this.
Also according to the writer: Jayne was sipping coffee while having her makeup done.
My wife thought I was overreacting and she appreciated it.
Your wife is a fool, the writer murmured.
You said, trying to control your slurring, “We’ll be here until you get back—I just want to make sure the kids are safe.”
You did not have an answer for Jayne when she asked you, “Safe from what?”
Hadn’t you once wanted to “see the worst”? the writer asked me. Didn’t you once write that somewhere?
I might have. But I don’t want to anymore.
It’s too late, the writer said.
26. the meeting
Robert Miller called the cell phone I held in my hand as I slept. The ringing was so muffled that it was the vibration that woke me. I automatically flipped the phone open and said “Yes” without checking to see who it was. The conversation was brief. I was barely paying attention because I was lying in a bed in a strange hotel room and it was nine o’clock in the morning and from where I was squinting through my open door I could see Marta dressing Sarah for school while Robby sat in front of a TV with his uniform already on, both of them seemingly unfazed—an image that had the gauzy quality of a clichéd dream. Someone was telling me over the phone that he had received an e-mail and had typed in my name on Google (the writer reminded me that this suggestion was his idea, and I had sent it along in order to legitimize myself) and that he believed I was, in fact, the man I claimed to be. He told me my “case” was intriguing to him. The voice suggested we meet at the Dorseah Diner in Pearce. The voice gave me an address that I scribbled down. And then last night came back. This happened when Robert Miller asked me to bring a diagram of 307 Elsinore Lane so I could point out where the “major haunting sites” were located within the house. We agreed to meet at ten o’clock.
I had grabbed about three hours of dreamless sleep, and as I hobbled into the sitting room wearing only boxer shorts and a white T-shirt stained with droplets of red wine I tried smiling for the kids but the smile and the concerned, subsequent “Hey, how’s everything this morning?” were nonsense: Robby seemed relaxed and Sarah was blank-faced—until they both saw my bruise. Marta noticed the questions the bruise was raising—the memories of last night began trembling around the children—and immediately Marta made small talk about how she had called a cab from the lobby of the hotel last night that took her back to Elsinore Lane so she could pick up her car (and I panicked and had to restrain myself from asking if she went into the house and what color was it now?) so I could use the Range Rover today, and I thanked her. (She had also contacted Rosa to explain that her services would not be needed until Ms. Dennis got back from Toronto.) I asked the kids how they