Deadline time is different. Some trifling detail takes a whole day’s labor. And yet it must be attended to with particular care—a single sensitive scene within the whole writhing story that has to be rewritten again and again. Plus, it’s hard for clients to remember which Christmas was which, and how old they were in the years between big events. They often get their timelines wrong, and fact-checking dates can take hours. That’s why endurance is crucial, and yet, whenever you are with your client, it must be made to look effortless, so as not to scare them off.
The weeks inched by, the days and nights becoming indistinguishable, because of the necessity of sitting for all those hours, choosing and placing and polishing each of the 75,000 words that went into constructing a book. Even with frequent bribes of caffeine, sugar, and masturbation—anything to bear the monotony—many long dull spells were endured. Of course there were dazzles of inspiration, connecting two important moments in the story or finding the perfect turn of phrase. She could become enamored of a passage and read it aloud again and again, like the intoxication of the first days in bed with a new lover, until she forced herself to move onto the next section, which was rough, unwieldy, and held no pleasure.
Ody checked in daily by text. One night he was in Paris. The next, Milan. He had his own tedious spells to fill—the downtime between sound check and the show, the early-morning bus calls for runs of dates when it made more sense to drive than fly. But there were also many diversions—strolling through the Uffizi during a morning off, racing the Autobahn on a rented motorcycle. Having no news of her own to report, Mari replied with pictures of the desert sky at dawn when she was riding an all-nighter. Or the cluster of glasses near her laptop, containing mineral water, coffee, red wine, and kombucha, fronted by a plate of fresh figs and dusty roasted almonds. Sometimes, in a burst of confidence, she sent him an excerpt, a bit of dialogue that made either of his parents dance to life on the page, or a funny story he maybe hadn’t heard before. If he had a reaction to seeing the familiar china and linens, if he’d noticed them at all, or to being introduced to his family as the world was about to know them, he didn’t say. But he kept writing to her, day after day, even just a quick hello, and she always wrote back. Their correspondence was its own insight into the question of how loyal, to her and her cause, he would be, and also a way for them both to process all they were missing and anxious about.
It often felt like the clocks had stopped, like she was running in place and would never get anywhere. Although she was lonely and would not have wanted anyone to witness her long, intimate conversations with Rimbaud. Although she was sometimes shattered by deep grief and self-doubt, desperate for anyone she could talk to about it all, to ask if she had done the right thing. She was still good at forcing herself to sit, maybe better than ever, because of all that was at stake now. And so, time did equal pages. She finished Dante’s book three days before their deadline so he could read it and give his approval before she sent it in to their editor.
Sitting at her computer, drinking a small glass of mezcal, she thought of how far she had come. Izzy had been promoted to fill Sigrid’s position. During the emails they exchanged, Mari did not have to look deeper for subtext, as she always had with Sigrid. She could just do her job. It was a relief. And yet she was proud of what she had learned about herself from her time near Sigrid. She had hoped Anke’s book would be a ladder, and yes, she had climbed it after all.
There were edits of Anke’s book as well. Mari pretended to confer with Anke, regarding specific scenes and moments when something might be written differently. Occasionally, she asked Ody. But she mostly answered the questions herself from her own existing notes, or the map of Anke’s life and psyche that was now imprinted within Mari, as surely as her own.
Ody extended his dates on the road, agreeing to sit in for all of their tour, as if he did not want to come home. They played Los Angeles, but no one thought to invite Mari. Or maybe they thought against it. Ody made no effort to see her. She wasn’t surprised. Being a ghost could be like being that lover you did the crazy sex stuff with, or fought the nastiest—once you split up, you couldn’t stand to be in the same room together. It was too intimate. At first, she followed the band’s social media and press coverage, marveling at her closeness with Dante, how well she knew these legends in ways that few others did. She told herself it was “research,” and since she was thinking about the band twelve hours a day, it felt like part of the overall Ramblers blur.
Several times, she picked up her phone to text Vivienne, but Mari was scared, unsure whether to tell her that she knew the full story of Vegas, and who she really was. It made her sad that V had been forced to pick up the wreckage once again and stuff it deep inside. So she could go on with the business of surviving. Mari was even more afraid to maybe learn she wasn’t, that time was operating in a different way for V. And that, maybe, the months spent placating and titillating an unkind man in Chicago were much longer than the months spent stretching sore muscles and eating too many vegan chocolate chip cookies while on deadline for two high-paying, high-profile books. So, she put down her phone and told herself that she and V had made an agreement. She still had a few months.
In early March, both books went to the printer—first Dante’s, and then Anke’s. Several days passed, without a single email pinging her in-box with a last-minute question or proof. Mari endured inevitable moments of doubt—while shampooing her hair, she recalled Dante’s hilarious run-in with a kangaroo from a 1975 tour stop in Sydney. As she walked Rimbaud, she parsed her descriptions of Mal for anywhere she had been histrionic or unfair.
It wasn’t long before she didn’t think about either book so much. She even began to regard them with fondness. It was as if an experiential amnesia had set in, like the kind she had read about that allowed women to forget childbirth’s agony in order to go through it again. She was as proud as any new mother who had endured a gruesome and extended labor. She had been stuck in a situation where there was no choice but to keep moving forward, even when she had thought it would break her, maybe kill her. Through her determination and, yes, her unconditional love, she had found depths she hadn’t been aware of, and she had come through.
August 7, 2019. The fiftieth anniversary of Mal’s death. Onstage at the Hollywood Bowl, the band paused, six songs into their set. Jack retreated to the drum riser, sipped from a glass bottle of water, toweled off his tousled hair in a sexy, relaxed way. Dante pushed pedals with his designer work boot, tuning his guitar, squinting against the smoke from his cigarette. Ody bounced on his brown suede moccasins, drank an Amstel Light with restraint.
As if on cue, they circled up, the drummer leaning down from behind his kit, and bowed their heads together. At the group’s center, Jack spoke into his mic:
“We could not go a moment further without acknowledging it was fifty years ago, today, that we stood on this very stage and mourned a man without whom this band would not exist—the brilliant, maddening, maddeningly brilliant Mal. In his honor, we’re going to play a song we don’t normally do. Of the many bang-up tunes he wrote, it’s always been our favorite, and we’d like to dedicate it to his memory, with all our love.”
Ody leaned back to strum a few simple folksy chords on his acoustic guitar. Dante smiled at him, appearing blissed out by the music, and the feeling that never grew old, of playing with his boy, his son. Dante threw out a few thunderbolts of slide guitar, as if from on high. The drummer set the tempo with floor tom, then added a shimmer of snare. The music was taking shape, but it was still subdued enough for Jack to talk over it.
“Although Mal was twenty-four when he passed out of this world, he was an old soul. He did a lot of living in his short time here. We will always be grateful for the passion, the frisson, he brought to the group, without which we would not be quite the same as we are.”
Mari rolled her eyes. She was sipping iced tea with fresh mint, watching the live feed of the show on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV.
“Half-truths are like chili peppers, Jack,” she said. “A little goes a long way.”
Standing to refill her glass, she turned up the volume. The TV was wired into the house speakers, and the song thrummed through the rooms. It was as if the band were there with her, inside her life, even though only Rimbaud was present.
She danced a little, in front of the couch, the new pale pink kaftan she’d ordered for herself silky on her bare skin, the makeup she’d put on that morning—because it felt like a special occasion—making her look like she was attending a party.
The song stuttered through three false outros, hit a fast stop. Dante stepped up to the mic.
“For this next number, I’d like to introduce our special guest, whom we’ve been lucky enough to have out with us for this tour: my son Ody.”
As fans cheered, Ody sauntered up, leaned toward his dad, and echoed his moves.
Mari smiled. Seeing them together would never not make her happy and proud. The ding of an email sounded from her laptop, which was open on the coffee table. She turned down the volume, grabbed her computer. Rimbaud hopped up next to her, settling in, as he did now.
The email, addressed to Anke Berben, was from their publisher. Not their editor, but their editor’s boss’s boss, and the subject line read “CONGRATULATIONS!!”
Dear Anke,
Please accept heartfelt congratulations and best wishes, from your entire team, in recognition of the remarkable feat of your second week at the top of the NYT Bestseller list. We appreciate your great courage and sincerity in the writing of your wonderful book, and we value all you have done and continue to do to promote it. We are with you!
As when doing press for Anke, Mari had found it best not to overthink her tone or the substance of her correspondence. There was a certain in-between state she could reach where she was channeling what was needed. She replied quickly. Hit send.
Trailing her eyes down her in-box, she sighed. A half dozen email interviews were waiting for Anke, and since she had managed to push for all the promotion to be done electronically, she couldn’t be stingy with her attention to this portion of Anke’s plan.
It had never occurred to her that having a better, more beautiful life, in which she was able to indulge herself, would make it harder to do the things she didn’t feel like doing. But her many years of deadlines, always met because there had been no safety net, had been like time in the army. The old discipline was coiled within her, and Mari could unleash it at will.
Her iced tea kicked in, and she banged out replies. Each was as warm and aloof and funny and oddly syntaxed as Anke on her best day. The concert played in the background. When Mari had responded to everything that needed immediate attention, she put her bare feet up on the coffee table. Leaning back into the throw pillows, breathing the room’s cedar scent, she watched the band finish its second encore. They stood at the lip of the stage, arms around each other, and bowed as one. The crowd went mad with appreciation, and she thought about how it felt for these men to belong a little bit to her, in a way even their most ardent fans would never know. There was an art to access, to really getting to know someone, and only certain people had mastered it like she had. Because of this, she had been rewarded with these gifts.
She had pulled off both books, received her payments, paid off her debt, and taken Ezra’s advice not to rush into her next ghosting job, waiting to see what these bestsellers did for her demand. And now she allowed herself to relax into the rhythms of the house. In the morning, she woke without an alarm for her meditation, sun salutations, and a swim. She drank tea with a light breakfast in the garden. When being away from her computer made her feel adrift, she went into Anke’s lounge, closed her eyes, and grabbed a book. She was learning about mythology, poetry, design, fine art. In the evening, when it was cooler, she worked in the garden, walked Rimbaud, took a final swim as the sun set. When she stretched out in the water now, she wasn’t lonely. She had the feeling of peace that came with belonging inside her own life. She felt like Anke was there with her, showing her how it was done.
Now it was time for her to share. It had been five months—she didn’t have everything in place yet, but she wasn’t going to break her promise. She scrolled through her contacts. Feeling generous, she launched a FaceTime connection, even though she hated live video. To her surprise, V picked up on the second ring. If she was still in Chicago, it was late there. Vivienne was beautiful, as always, but she had become so skinny it was draining her looks. Dark fabric hung behind her, pressed against the top of her hair from all sides. “Hi,” Vivienne whispered.
“Where are you?” Mari asked.
“Somewhere I can talk. Where are you?”
“Palm Springs. Why can’t you talk somewhere normal? Are you okay?”
“Okay-ish.”
Mari was already longing backward, for the languid peace and quiet of the paradise she had occupied for the past months. But she knew she needed something new, even if it wasn’t exactly what she wanted. Trading one isolation for another wasn’t good.
“I have a place,” Mari said. “It doesn’t really belong to me, but we can always stay here, for as long as we need, while I make arrangements for the place that will.”
“Thank you,” V said.
Mari didn’t allow any snarky comments inside her head, just smiled with real warmth.
They made quick and efficient plans for V to get out. When they’d finished, she hung up. The band was playing its final encore. Mari walked through the house, with seventeen thousand people cheering in her ears. She luxuriated in the pleasures of the space, running her hands over antique tables and cashmere throws, pausing at the window to ponder the exquisite view.
Rimbaud click-clacked behind her on the Spanish tile floor. She had been pent up in the air-conditioning, working all day, just like in her old life, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. Only now she had a better choice, and she would enjoy it. Already stripping, she strode into the baking heat, her feet light on the hot concrete, before diving naked into the water.
As she flew through the cool blue liquid, gliding the length of the pool, she heard Anke’s voice, in their final moments together, after Anke had sent Ody out of the room.
“There is one truth we still need to discuss,” Anke had said, petting Rimbaud. “I think you should know what is in my secret heart, in order to become me on the page. I would never take Dante and Ody away from each other. I am happy they are together. Mal was Ody’s father. But I didn’t kill him, even though Ody could only benefit if he died. For years, I punished myself because I felt responsible for Sigrid, like I had created the monster she was. I let the guilt eat me whole. But as I have told my story, I have made peace with my intentions. I brought Sigrid to LA to try to help her. I did not know what Sigrid would go on to do. The question of her guilt is between her and Mal and the universe. All I ever try to do is protect my son. Mal’s estate continues to go through me, to Ody, for as long as it can—do you understand?”
“Of course,” Mari said. “Anke, if I may—”
“Ja, Magdalena,” Anke said. Her eyes were still bright.
“There are many ways to be a father,” Mari said. “And Dante, he’s really good. So maybe he has too many kids by too many women, and he spent a little too much, and he can’t take care of Ody in that way. But when Dante looks at all of his kids, he makes them the center of the world. It’s the kind of gaze that makes a person feel seen. It’s the best gift you could have given your son.”
These were people who loved deeply, and with loyalty that could endure all the tests of fame, money, and time. They had allowed Mari inside, made her feel like one of them. Even Sigrid had left a space for her. This was why she had risked everything to be here, to protect Anke and Ody, to seal away the past in her book, and in Dante’s book, forever. She lifted Anke’s hand into her lap. “Don’t think about it anymore,” Mari said. “You have earned your peace.”
“Thank you, Magdalena. You are a better version of myself.”
“Thank you, Anke. It has been my honor.”
Closing her eyes, and smiling like a little girl, Anke tilted her head up for Mari to kiss her cheeks. As Mari’s lips touched the papery skin and felt the warmth of Anke’s blood close to the surface, she was filled with a mother’s fierce loyalty, the deep and complete acceptance of unconditional love. Mari stroked Anke’s hair on her pillow. Anke’s smile lingered as she nodded. She had chosen all the words she needed to say, and now she was silent.
Anke’s eyes fluttered closed, her breathing slowed.
“I’m here,” Mari said. “I will always be here.”
Mari had spent hundreds of hours with the young Jack and Dante, writing about the summer of ’69. When she watched them onstage together, late in the summer of ’19, she saw them as their former selves, lithe and beautiful, crackling with fresh notoriety, opulence, and power.
Backstage, in the greenroom, Mari sipped champagne as she waited for Dante to emerge from his post-show massage. Izzy was chatting up the select music journalists who warranted VIP access. It was a relief to no longer need Sigrid’s blessing, to have earned an undeniable place here, and to feel the confidence of not just knowing how to fit in but also how to enjoy herself.
Mari edged over to the bar to refresh her champagne just as Dante entered. “Little Marie, it’s grand to see you,” he said. “You really did it after all. A number one New York Times bestseller is no small thing. Not to mention the many stars you have lassoed for our dear Anke. You must come to JT. Stay for the whole weekend. You’re invited anytime.”
He put his hand on Mari’s shoulder with goodwill.
“Dante, you’re looking fierce,” Mari said, accepting his lips on each cheek.
“Don’t blow smoke. I look like a skeleton in a Punch-and-Judy bit, but I’m still dancing.”
He bent his knees and did a little move she recognized from the show. She laughed. But he wasn’t smiling. He had summoned her from her new house in Mérida to their concert at a legacy rock festival at the Hard Rock Cafe in Cancun. She had been surprised at first, and then uneasy. But she had been careful, every step. She had never lost her courage. She had bested Sigrid. Now she had to face whatever this was.
Dante gave her a long, hard look, something he was exceedingly good at. She felt like she was being reprimanded by her dad—well, a real dad. She doubled down, stood taller.
“I meant what I said during our drive to Palm Springs, Marie,” Dante said. “It’s time to think about you. Even ghosts deserve a little happiness. Don’t be a stranger. It’s too lonely.”
At first, she felt uncomfortable, like she was in trouble, but then she forced herself to reassess—being a part of any kind of clan meant accountability. It was nice.
As much as Anke had given her, her absence had been required to unlock her gifts, leaving Mari as alone as she’d ever been. In a few hours in the desert, Dante had shown her how to be a family, and he had allowed her to feel like she belonged to his. Lying to him had been the hardest part of the whole charade. Maybe a deep secret part of her had known this moment was approaching, because tucked inside her purse was Anke’s favorite pink silk scarf. Inside were the four empty morphine vials.
When he first received the fabric in his hand, Dante recognized it as Anke’s, and his face defaulted to its boyish grin, thinking a game was afoot. As he was opening the folds, now it was Mari who pulled them back into a private corner. When he saw the parcel’s contents, his face crumpled. He turned to the wall, shuddered.
“I never left her,” Mari said.
“If that’s true, she was lucky until the end. I don’t know if I could have stood it.”
“You would have. For Anke.”
“Yes, for Anke.” He leaned down, kissed each of Mari’s cheeks, his eyes wet.
Ody appeared beside them, in his silent way.
“Are you all right, Pop?” he asked.
“You knew?” Dante replied.
Ody looked away, nodding his head.
“I’m afraid I need time to metabolize this information,” Dante said. “Little Marie, be well. Visit us soon. Ody, I think I’d like to take dinner in my room. I will see you then.”
Ody nodded again, now turning to smile at his father. The two men hugged. Mari and Ody both watched Dante as he disappeared into his private dressing room, waving off those who tried to grab him on the way. Once he was gone, they stood awkwardly, a little too close together, not making eye contact. Unsure what to say or how to be. It was easier by text.
“Are you holding up?” She broke the silence.
“No? Yes? For now, I suppose. I don’t know about when tour ends, which it has to, eventually. How about you?”
“I don’t know—the same? It varies, day to day. But mostly, I feel okay.”
“You don’t have to do this forever,” Ody said. “It was too much for Anke to ask of you.”
“It was what Anke wanted, and she took care of almost everything ahead of time, even left a forged death certificate, dated 2021. I’m happy to keep it up until then. It wouldn’t really make sense after that anyhow. Press for a new book lasts a few months. Then the paperback will stir up a bit of new attention. After that, there won’t be much for me to do.”
“Thank you, Mari,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”
“You will continue to receive the publishing from Mal’s estate for that time, and also all the royalties from the book. After that, you will have her estate.”
“And I’ll be free to tour with my band. She never liked me to be away. But how will we do it when the time comes?”
“I’ll write up a press release,” Mari said. “It will say Dante, you, and myself, we had a private ceremony. The body was cremated.”
He winced at the last word but nodded.
“But for now, Anke lives on,” she said.
“Just so you know, I consider the Palm Springs house yours, too. You should feel free to use it as much as you like, anytime. I can’t imagine setting foot there again.”
“When you’re ready, let me know,” Mari said. “I’ll fly up and meet you. It’s all waiting for you, just the way she arranged it, as if she’s in the next room. She feels very close.”
“It’s different for you, she was my mother.”
“Yes. But also, it’s different for me. I have been her.”
“Let’s not talk about that here. We did what she asked us. For now, that’s enough.”
“Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Well, we did it,” he said, dodging her kindness, or maybe the guilt by association. But he didn’t seem angry. Or if he was, it was just one feeling of many, like the complex web of family, of love—the ways we are bound to each other, by blood, by affinity, by need. He stepped closer, seemed about to reach for her hand. Mari inhaled jaggedly, feeling potential blossom.
Izzy zipped up. “Ody, the journalist from Telemundo has some questions for the band. Come with me now, please.”
Mari was surprised by how sorry she was to see him walk away, but she had no doubt that Ody would be in her life forever—there would be time for whatever was meant to be. That was the best part of what she had gained through osmosis from Anke—a belief in herself that fed a deep belief in the universe and, in turn, made her feel safe in her life, even during the in-betweens.
Grateful for everything she had been allowed to keep, Mari walked out of the room, still finishing her glass of champagne. It was possible—and fun—to live like a rock star. For starters, just decide not to give a fuck about the small stuff. As Mari closed the greenroom door behind her, her phone buzzed in her purse. Ody had texted: “Thank you.”
Mari left as she had come in, through the hotel’s private celebrity entrance, projecting that she belonged and feeling more like she did than ever before. But, also like Anke, she was sure there were more interesting adventures for her out there in the world—beyond the velvet rope was freedom and the surprising opportunities of a life that had yet to be written.
As Mari waited for the valet to pull up her car, she turned and surveyed the scene. It felt vulgar and overbright: sunburned tourists wearing tequila-brand sombreros, drinking foot-long margaritas. But that was okay. She had done what she had come to do—the rest of the day, the month, her life belonged to her now, and she was no longer alone. Vivienne stood up from a nearby table, where she’d been having a drink while Mari wrapped up her business inside.
Vivienne joined Mari under the hotel’s awning. “Are we happy?”
“We’re happy,” Mari said. The valet pulled up Mari’s vintage Land Cruiser. She tipped him well as he exited the vehicle. Between the seats was the copy of Anke’s book she had brought along, and then not given to Dante, feeling too much like she was showing him her report card. It was always hard to reconcile the finished book, an inert object, with all the passion and endurance and leaps of faith that had gone into creating it—not to mention the love. She tossed it over her shoulder, and it landed in the backseat.
Vivienne climbed into the car. Mari put her foot on the accelerator and drove away, toward their new home in the jungle, toward their new take on family, toward messy, joyous life.