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my mother’s publisher. Nothing good came from Heartstrings these days. They’d sent a series of letters and e-mails asking my mother when she’d finish her next manuscript. Because my mother wasn’t around to answer, I’d pretended to be her and had replied, “I’m working on it.” But she wasn’t working on it.
    Belinda Amorous was an inpatient at Harmony Hospital, an exclusive mental health facility.
    When I was thirteen, after she’d emerged from a long depression, she sat me down at the kitchen table. “I went to the lawyer and had my will changed,” she told me. “Mrs. Bobot is listed as your legal guardian if anything happens to me.”
    “Like what?” I asked.
    “In case I ever get so sick that I can’t take care of you. Do you understand?”
    I didn’t want to understand. “But that will never happen,” I said.
    But it did happen. Just over four months ago, I came home for a weekend visit and found her sitting in the corner of the bathroom, staring at the wall. She wouldn’t move, not even to use the toilet. She sat there all day. Her doctor said she was in a sort of stupor and that she needed to go to Harmony Hospital, where her identity would be protected. “She can’t go in an ambulance,” Mrs. Bobot insisted. “It will cause too much of a scene.” So Mrs. Bobot agreed to drive her. Just before they left, my mother managed to say a few words to me.
    “No one can know. Don’t tell anyone. Promise.”
    “I promise.”
    “She’ll only be gone a few days,” Mrs. Bobot assured me. “They’ll give her some medicine and then she’ll be fine.”
    A few days turned into weeks. I left Welmer Academy and finished my sophomore year online. She was still there.
    No one at Heartstrings Publishers knew. Not my mother’s editor, not her publicist, not anyone involved in the production of her books. At first I didn’t answer the phone, but the message machine quickly filled. At first I just stacked the mail on the counter, but when I got a call from the power company that the bill hadn’t been paid, I realized I couldn’t avoid the entire world. I became my mother’s voice and signature when the need arose. “Everything’s fine,” I’d say. “Mom’s busy,” or “on vacation,” or “overseas.” I kept up the facade as best I could.
    And so I knew that the letter from Heartstrings Publishers would be another request for a finished manuscript. I wanted to toss it, unopened, into the recycle bin. I’d have to keep stalling, keep telling them that progress was being made. I opened the envelope.
    Dear Ms. Amorous,
    I am your new editor here at Heartstrings Publishers. Your previous editor, my aunt, has retired from the company.
    Despite our numerous attempts to speak with you, and despite our numerous extensions on your deadline, you have still not turned in the manuscript for your next novel.
    We appreciate your long and successful relationship with our company and we were looking forward to another book. But we understand that sometimes authors aren’t able to fulfill their obligations.
    I’ve passed your contract to our attorney, who will be in touch with you about collecting the $100,000 advance money that was paid to you. All future royalty payments will be withheld until the $100,000 debt is settled.
    Of course, we would like to remedy this situation. I am willing to grant you one final deadline. If I receive the manuscript by the last day in August, then we will happily pay you the rest of your advance and royalty payments will resume.
    Sincerely,
Prudence Heartstrings,
Editor in Chief
    One hundred thousand dollars? I read the letter a dozen times. I frantically searched through the stacks of papers that surrounded my mother’s desk until I found a copy of the contract for an untitled work in progress. One hundred thousand dollars had been paid upon signing the contract, another one hundred thousand would be paid when the book was written.
    I searched the computer files for a