August 29, Thursday

MY PHONE rang and my mother's picture came up on the phone. I didn't want to answer, but I did.

"Hi, Mom. Where are you?"

"In Paris for a few appearances. What's this fucking shit about Curtis writing your books?"

I sighed. "It's a lie."

"I thought so, but then I also thought that might explain a lot."

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. "I'm sorry to confirm, Mother, that I write my own books."

She sighed. "Okay. Well, I can't fucking sleep, so why don't you read me one of your books?"

My eyes popped open. "Really?"

"To put me to sleep."

I frowned. "Can't you take something?"

"I can't get fucking Ambien in Europe, and I forgot to stock up when I was in New York."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. Not sorry. "Hey, I have some good news."

"Let's fucking hear it."

"I'm making good progress on the book. I'm really finding my groove here. I write in a cemetery, if you can believe that. Oh, and Bruce says the buyer at Clifton's is going to triple their order of this title, and Book Bin is going to follow suit. He says with this kind of retail support, it could even hit the Times list. Wouldn't that be great?"

Silence.

"Mom?"

A snoring sound came over the phone. I sighed, then ended the call.