The Unwritten Rules of Magic

My father kept his good-luck charm locked in the antique curio cabinet in his office. We never saw him use the old typewriter, but sometimes its carriage return bell rang out after midnight. Whenever asked about that, he blustered. Claimed I’d been dreaming. I didn’t dare argue, so whatever he was hiding is now buried with him.

The glossy black 1935 Underwood portable still sits smugly against the cabinet’s red velvet back panel. His most treasured possession. Its round-as-a-­button glass keys gleam under the lights, tempting me as usual. A siren perched on the shelf, within reach yet frustratingly inaccessible. If you ever touch this, you’ll be banned from my office. Am I clear, Em?

I cower as if he’s shouting from the doorway. He isn’t, of course, and never will again. My breathing rises and falls unevenly with my vacillating memories.

Our life together ended before the invisible bruises his quicksilver moods inflicted on me could fade. Unlike the heroine in the novels I ghostwrite, I haven’t figured out how to heal and feel normal.

If I could’ve scripted this day, I would have written myself as sobbing this morning on the way to church. And at the service, where I delivered a eulogy to hundreds of friends, acquaintances, and his fans. My cheeks would’ve been tear-streaked when the urn with half his ashes was buried.

Instead, while others dropped long-stemmed white roses into his grave, I thought about how he would’ve preferred we plant a noble fir there—­or anything solid and lofty that would outlast us all.

Readers would label a main character like me cold and unlikable, populating Goodreads and Amazon with hundreds of Two stars! reviews. Rachel Moon, my bestselling boss, would care only if it adversely affected her income, which—­let’s face it—­is all anyone paying a ghostwriter to draft her novels truly cares about.

Yet equating stoicism with a lack of feeling is like believing a portrait reflects the whole of a person.

Despite my dry eyes, our final goodbye had pricked my heart. Not a fatal puncture, but the vital organ will never again beat quite the same. For while Jefferson William Clarke may have been an internationally beloved fantasy author, to me he’d always been Dad.

Once upon a time, he’d even been my hero.

The floor-­to-­ceiling bookcases in his office enclose me in a time capsule crammed with books, knickknacks, and reader awards. Familiar stacks of articles, research notes, and drawings of his story worlds remain strewn across his desk. Messy, like my father’s mind.

“You touched so many,” I say as if he were here, trapped in another plane. The image wrings a grin from me, because he’d probably enjoy that fate.

I finger the edges of the pink-marble ashtray in which he snuffed a celebratory cigar whenever he finished a manuscript. Cold and hard, like he could be. Yet even on his bad days, fragments of an exuberant spirit glimmered like stars behind clouds. Nothing about him was simple.

When I raise the ashtray to my nose, a whiff of sweet-­and-­spicy residue brings childhood memories of our random character dress-­up days rushing forward like the tide, coating my eyes in warm salty tears. I set the ashtray down, then caress the massive desk’s worn edges as if they were his papery skin.

How often I splayed myself on the floor with a Judy Blume novel while my dad’s slender fingers pecked at his keyboard. Sometimes he would seat me in the leather chair by the window while he read draft pages aloud.

His imagination enthralled me. His certitude beguiled. The man was invincible until he wasn’t.

“Of course you’re in here.” My mother, Dorothy, teeters into the office, crystal lowball tumbler in hand. Legs as thin as arms poke out from beneath a vintage Chanel black sheath dress as she steadies herself against the curio cabinet.

If it was anyone else, I’d worry. But Dorothy being drunk in the afternoon had stopped warranting alarmist reactions by the time I graduated from high school. For now, a single cleansing breath helps me recall the younger mother who invented bookstore treasure hunts.

“Has everyone gone home?” I ask, channeling the family-peacekeeper tone adopted ages ago.

“Finally. I thought the Andersons would never leave.” Her vacant gaze traverses the room without a trace of grief. “Look at this clutter.”

I kick off my heels, freeing my feet from their three-day sentence.

My daughter, Sadie, appears in the doorway, auburn hair neatly twisted in a tortoiseshell hair clip, showcasing the peekaboo purple streaks normally hidden in the underlayers of her hair. Long and lean like my father was, she’s lost all traces of girlishness as she barrels into womanhood entirely too soon. Only her face has retained a cherubic quality. With one fluid glance, she sizes up her grandmother and pats her shoulder while mouthing “drunk” to me. Her overexposure to Dorothy’s behavior is a parenting fail, but she handles the situation with more sympathy than I do.

“Why are you guys hiding in here?” Sadie moves to one of the bookcases and fingers an action figure from my father’s Elysian Chronicles series. She played with those as a child, always peppering my dad with new questions about that story world.

“Catching my breath.” Three consecutive days of endless polite conversation have depleted me.

“Did you see all the leftovers—­all that meat? What a waste. Bad for the environment, too.” My burgeoning eco-warrior wrinkles her nose.

“We should go vegan.”

“Vegan?” Dorothy grimaces.

“The meat industry is a huge contributor to climate change. So are cow farts,” Sadie says, making my mother guffaw.

“It’s true, Gran.” Sadie shrugs. “Look it up.”

“Maybe we try pescatarian first and see how that goes,” I offer. Although I do love a good burger.

“Count me out,” Dorothy mumbles.

“For now, but not forever.” Sadie’s tender reprimand forgives her grandmother things she’d never let fly with me. My daughter seems to admire Dorothy’s snark, a trait she’s more recently been testing out herself. “Anyway, can we leave soon?”

“Wait!” Dorothy straightens her spine as if trying to match Sadie’s height. “I have an announcement.”

Oh boy. I plant my hands on the desk and steel myself. “Go on and shoot.”

“I’m selling the house.” Dorothy’s grin resembles that of a teenager who just spilled the tea on her nemesis.

Agape, I’m replaying her statement while Sadie issues a disappointed groan.

Her attachment to the estate goes back to infancy, when I—­then an unwed twenty-two-year-old new mother—­moved us home for help while learning to juggle parenthood with my first job. “Why, Gran?”

“Because I don’t need all this.” Dorothy gestures erratically, ice clinking against the sides of the glass. “Never did.”   I prefer something cozier, she’d said before Dad bought this house the summer after I finished fourth grade. He, however, always had some justification for why his decisions were for the best. In that instance, I’d been thrilled by the prospect of life on the Connecticut shore.

“But I love it here,” Sadie pleads. “Especially in the summer, with the dock and kayaks. Mom said I could have my graduation party here next summer, too.”

Dorothy shuffles toward Sadie, reaching up to pat her cheek. “Sorry, baby.”

My dad took such pride in this home. She might as well toss his ashes in a dumpster as sell it so fast. Honestly, if she hated life here so much, she should’ve left him years ago.

Sadie pouts at her, then at me, as if I’ve ever been able to control the woman.

“Take a breath,” I begin, reading my daughter’s frown. “Nothing’s going to happen overnight.”

“Easy for you to say. Meanwhile, you haven’t cried once today.” Sadie’s brittle dig pierces my skin. Normally she’s a sunny girl, but these past few days she’s been drifting through rooms like a storm cloud about to burst. I’d chalk it up to my father’s death, but the edge to her mood suggests something more. With the funeral events finally behind us, I’ll be able to get to the bottom of it. Sadie’s nostrils flare before she adds, “It’s like you couldn’t care less that Papa is gone.”

The accusation spreads a bloom of heat across my cheeks. She’s wrong, and the fact that my dad never once hurt my daughter leaves me envious of her uncomplicated grief and leaves her unable to fathom my tangled feelings. “Honey, that’s not—”

“I’m sorry he got so sick, but he’s out of his misery now,” Dorothy in- terrupts. A half beat later, she makes the sign of the cross. “And so are we.” Sadie’s posture slumps.

I choke back a bitter laugh, nearing my breaking point. “Don’t do this.”

“Sell?” The crow’s-­feet around Dorothy’s eyes deepen.

“Bash Dad.” Not everyone is meant to be a spouse or a parent. Not everyone’s best is even good enough, but whose fault is that? You don’t ask to be born with shortcomings. You don’t even know you have them until you butt up against them, and in most cases, that’s too late.   My parents’ demons had permeated everything, but they had been here for me, if moody and unpredictable. In their way, they had loved

1. And despite the imperfect circumstances, they had welcomed Sadie’s

arrival as if she were the queen of England.

“None of us are perfect.” My gaze drops pointedly to the tumbler in Dorothy’s hand. “Let’s remember the good and let the rest go.”

That small mercy is something we’ll all pray for on our deathbeds.

Dorothy reaches up to grasp Sadie’s chin. “I’ll try not to criticize him in front of you.”

Sadie’s face crumples; her fists hang at her sides.

When I move to comfort my daughter, she backs away. The rejection strikes like a karate chop. God forbid our relationship follows the path mine took with my parents at her age.

“I have homework.” She blots her damp face with her palms. “Can we please go home now?”

Dorothy’s brows rise comically. Rather than subjecting Sadie to more zingers, I nod. It’s been a grueling day. I should’ve asked my best friend, Mel, to take Sadie home when she left thirty minutes ago.

“Take the car. I’ll Uber soon.” I smile at Sadie, hoping for one in return.

“Thanks.” She turns on her heel and takes off toward the mudroom without another word.

Poof. My not-­so-­little girl is gone.

“Well, thanks a lot,” I say to Dorothy.

She looks at me as if I’m speaking in tongues. “What did I do?”

“You couldn’t have waited to make that announcement?”

Dorothy’s expression fills with childlike sincerity. “I’ve been waiting for ages.”

“We’re still at Dad’s repast.” My throat feels as dry as sun-­scorched earth. “Maybe take a minute to process the end of an era before you sell my childhood home.”   Oh. Rookie mistake. I suck in my lips to prevent another betrayal of emotion.

“I’d rather not dwell on regrets.” Dorothy crosses to his desk and raises their framed wedding photograph for closer inspection.

The picture was taken at their reception on her parents’ farm in Vermont. She’s leaning against him in the image—­both are staring at each other with adoration—­her posy bouquet wrapped in powder-­blue satin ribbons that fall gracefully against her wedding gown.

“Things between Jefferson and me were faltering for so long. Then we’d have a good day or week and I’d think, Oh, there’s the man I loved.” She sets the photograph face down on the desk. “But those moments dwindled until he became a black hole, sucking the soul from everything in his orbit—­too powerful to escape.”

She holds up one hand apologetically.

By the end of his life, Dad had become as inaccessible as his good-luck charm. I glance again at the Underwood, my decision cresting like a sunrise.

Dorothy clearly doesn’t want reminders of him, anyway. I may never understand why he coveted it, but as the only other writer in our family, I should have it.

“I’d like a few minutes to myself in here.” I stare, unblinking, until she bows her head and backs out of the room.

My equilibrium resets. Then I eye the curio cabinet, feeling along its underbelly for the brass skeleton key. No luck. That would’ve been too easy.

Hands on my hips, I turn toward the disordered desk.

After rifling through several piles, I check inside the leather-­bound humidor before moving to the drawers. The center one contains rulers, pens, Post-­it notepads, drawing compasses, paper clips, tape, scissors, a letter opener, and loose change. Everything except the key. The side drawers are similarly jam-­packed except for the top left drawer, which contains two pieces of paper. One is an undated typed page that reads:

I give up. Outsmarted myself, it seems.

I trace the words, noting how the v sits slightly higher than other letters on the line.

After trying and failing to find the right words to undo all I’ve done, I wish now only for a little peace at the end of this life.

The allusion to remorse is out of character. He hadn’t offered apologies or attempted amends in decades. Had he tried, we all might’ve enjoyed a little peace.

Did he intend for us to find this or was it a private confession? A sort of diary? That could explain the secretiveness around his typing. Beneath that page lies a random undated to-do list written in my father’s chicken scratch. – ­ Call Henry about P No. 8 – ­ Track down Welles heir – ­ Rectify DES – ­ Destroy evidence

I scratch my head. “Henry” is probably a reference to his agent, and “P No. 8” the unfinished final Pandemonium book, but who are the Welleses and what is DES, and evidence of what, exactly?

Dorothy and I already knew of his casual betrayals. Who could forget the roof-shaking arguments that rattled the windows after Dad’s book and movie junkets or after he got off the train from those Manhattan lunches smelling like perfume? That history suggests evidence of something worse than another dalliance. God, I hope not.

Seconds tick by before I fold the pages and slip them into my skirt pocket. Now isn’t the time to tear this room apart looking for those answers, but I do want to find the curio cabinet key.

Drumming my fingers on the desktop, I go back to the cabinet and jiggle its door handle. The ornate lock holds fast. Palms now pressed against the cool glass, a sudden irrational itch to smash it pulses through me. The need is urgent. Personal. Necessary.

Pushing away, I close my eyes to conjure old research for the book in which a heroine used hairpins to pick an old lock.

A letter opener is too wide. Paper clips? I fashion two into the shapes needed to jimmy the lock.

Sinking to my knees to become eye level with the keyhole, I slide the mangled clips inside the lock. Working the wires in unison is a clumsy business. On each attempt, the clips fumble in my fingers, crossing each other. “Oh, come on!”

Sitting back on my heels, I peer inside the dark hole. A useless effort. Two deep breaths later, I make another attempt.

The mechanism clicks! A bolt of energy races through my limbs before I toss the clips in the wastepaper basket. The echo of my dad’s reprimand grows more distant as my heart skips ahead.

The entire room feels like it’s throbbing with anticipation. I open the glass door, flexing my fingers before pulling the equipment out of the cabinet. It’s lighter than anticipated and vibrates as if resting on the hood of a running car.

Pursing my lips, I glance at the undercarriage, seeking some explanation. Nothing there. My father’s spirit haunting the old girl?

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll take good care of her.” My curiosity about his nefarious to-do list is eclipsed by excitement. Thankfully, Sadie isn’t here to witness my habit of talking to myself. She thinks it odd. My father always said it was a sign of a vivid imagination.

I set the typewriter gently on his desk and then scale the rolling bookcase ladder to reach the carrying case. Outside, peach-colored light dances across the water. A sign of permission?

After loading my bounty into its case, I carry it and my shoes to the mudroom cubbies to set beside my purse. A quick patter through the kitchen confirms that the caterers already put up the stemware. The envelope I left with their check and tip is gone. Leftovers are stacked neatly in containers in the refrigerator.

An eerie silence is broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator. Although my dad spent the past six months gazing blankly from his wheelchair, his aura had still permeated the house. Its absence is ­ tangible—­a frost settling over the surfaces—­making the place feel tomb-like.

Rubbing my arms against the sensation, I cross through the dining room and spacious entry hall to reach the grand salon that spans the width of the stately colonial.

Dorothy lies curled on the gray velvet chaise like a kitten. One arm is flung haplessly aside, and her head has rolled backward, bending her neck at an angle that will surely cause a crick.

How freeing it must be to let go so entirely, safe in the knowledge that someone else will take care of everything.

A burn rises in my esophagus, but I snatch a velvet lumbar pillow from a nearby chair and the cashmere throw from the ottoman.

“Psst,” I whisper, angling the pillow behind her head.

She swats at me as if I’m a mosquito, mumbling something unintelligible before shifting her body. Her seasoned dance partner, I follow her movement in perfect sync, wedging the pillow to support her head and draping her with the throw.

The empty crystal tumbler rests on the floor beside the chaise. A quick sniff has me recoiling from the gin’s potent pine notes. I figured as much, but hope is a foolish squatter I’ve never learned to evict.

I glance out the windows framing a shamrock-green lawn that slopes down to the coast of Long Island Sound. My father’s remaining ashes rest on the table in front of them in an onyx marble urn too small to contain someone whose life was so large. I cross to it, tracing its plaque with my fingertips.

We moved to Darien from the rural town of Easton after my father signed his first major motion picture deal. Our first day here, my dad had held my hand while we strolled past the cheerful yellow daffodils that border the flagstone patio, across the meticulous harlequin pattern created by the lawn service, and down to the narrow dock that stretches over the water.

“Are you proud of me?” he asked.

His blue eyes always sparkled with a peculiar combination of intelligence, mischief, and ennui, exactly like Robin Williams. That evening, the sun set them ablaze as if the fire in his belly sought release.

I nodded, skipping to keep pace with his long stride. “Yes!”

He grinned before capturing me in a bear hug, always happiest on the receiving end of praise. “This is just the beginning. I’m going to give you everything you could ever want. Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

“That’s my girl.” He swiped my nose with his finger and kissed my head, his approval the only motivation I ever needed.

Now I turn away from the window with a sigh. Heaviness settles in my chest when I imagine how strange it will be—­sad, even—­after this place is no longer ours.

Where will Dorothy go? She belongs in rehab, but I never win that debate.

I can’t think about it all right now. These last years of losing Dad in chunks—­from his not recognizing me to not remembering what a toothbrush was for—­have sapped my fight.

When Dorothy called to say he’d passed in his sleep, my first reaction was relief for the end of his suffering. Since then, each surfacing memory makes my head feel like it might split open.

The long day weighs on me, tugging at my eyelids. I open the Uber app to summon a ride home. A ten-­minute wait—­just enough time to deal with my mother.

I return to the sofa to stroke her shoulder. “Hey.”

She shrugs me off.

Crouching, I whisper, “Let’s get you into bed.”

She turns her head, her gaze unfocused. “I’m fine here.”

If we were a normal family, I’d insist she come home with me so she wouldn’t be alone. But we aren’t normal, and every time I try to pretend that we are, it only reopens the empty pockets of need I’ve worked so hard to stitch shut.

“All right. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

Dorothy offers no thank-­yous. No kiss. And certainly no questions about my grief. Just a wobbly nod and a return to slumber, blissfully unaware of the unsettling notes I discovered.

Lucky her.

I pad through the house to the mudroom to gather my things, including the typewriter. My new possession is the rainbow at the end of a stormy day.

After decades of wonder and yearning, I finally get to play with it. Perhaps it will become my good-­luck charm, too.