by Cat Patrick
“Being without you would never be better for me,” Luke says, facing me. His tone is serious. “Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” I say, because I do. Maybe I’m selfish, but I give in a little too easily. I don’t really want to let him go. Maybe deep down I have more faith in my ability to change things than I’m willing to admit.
“Then let’s forget all about it,” Luke says as he grabs my hand.
“Agreed,” I whisper, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
“So did you remember this night already?” he asks.
“Probably, but I guess I didn’t want to spoil it,” I say truthfully. “I didn’t include it in my notes.”
“And you remember the summer?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
“That’s not fair,” he teases.
“Poor baby!” I say. “But you have things that I don’t. You remember when we met; I’ll never know what that felt like.”
Luke turns and kisses me gently and then a little more forcefully before we settle back to look at the stars. I snuggle close to the boy I don’t ever want to lose, hoping that somehow I’ll save him.
The memory of his death is still there, but so is hope. Right now, in Luke’s arms, I feel confident and capable. I will save this boy. I will know the man.
Luke and I stay nestled together until he nudges me.
“We’d better get going,” he says gently. I guess I dozed off. “I’m not letting you fall asleep without a note again.”
“Why not?” I ask, stretching. I kiss him on the cheek and add, with a sly smile, “You don’t have to worry, Luke. I’ll remember you in the morning.”
48
6/15 (Wed.)
Outfit:
—Navy shorts and spotty tank
—Red two-piece
—White flip-flops (lost one at the lake)
IMPORTANT:
Police found Jonas’s kidnappers (they are “cooperating,” whatever that means). Mom already told Dad. She’s emotional but that’s understandable. So am I. I stared at an age-progressed picture of Jonas for an hour, trying to remember him. Didn’t work, but there’s something there… not sure what it is.
Other stuff:
—Spent all day with Luke… floated on inner tubes at the lake. Made out a little in the water… and in the van… and in my room until Mom came home.
—Jamie’s in L.A. until next week
—Call Dad
Nerves rage through me as I slowly, carefully dial.
This is our third phone call—the third of what I know will be many more. I woke up this morning remembering bits of him, but I know from notes those memories are new.
I hit the last number, and feel like I might throw up at the sound of the first tinny ring. Another sound, and I check the door to make sure it’s shut. A third, and I wonder if he forgot.
Then he’s there.
“Hello?” says a deep, gravelly voice that makes me both happy and sad at the same time. We’re rebuilding our relationship, both in real time and in my memories, but I can’t help but feel his underlying heartache.
“Hi, Dad. How are you?”
“I’m just fine, Pumpkin. What’s new with you?”
He does that, I’ve noticed: diverts the conversation to me. He doesn’t talk about himself; not yet, at least.
But he will.
I rub my fingers over the delicate beetle brooch that was my grandmother’s. A note from last week said that it arrived in the mail shortly after our last phone call. Apparently he wanted me to have something of hers.
He could have just saved it and brought it with him when he visits at the end of the summer. It will be brief, but he’ll come.
He doesn’t know that yet, but I do.
“Not a lot is new on my end,” I say breezily. “Just hanging out. Enjoying the summer.”
“That’s good,” he says.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, Pumpkin?”
“Are you okay?”
“Of course I am,” he says quickly, as if fathers can’t be upset. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that my note today said Mom called you… about Jonas’s kidnappers.” I feel funny talking about Mom; I know by the way Dad will look at her at my graduation that he still loves her deeply.
“Your note said that, huh?” Dad asks with a strange tone to his voice. My condition is still weird for him. He hasn’t lived with it for all these years.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “Anyway, I was just wondering how you’re feeling about that.”
“Well, I guess I’m feeling a mixture of things, London,” he begins. “Probably like you and your mom are.”
I’m silent, so he continues.
“Your mother said that the kidnappers are giving out names and addresses of the people who bought the babies, so that’s encouraging.”
“But they haven’t heard anything about Jonas specifically?” I ask.
“No,” Dad answers, adding, “your note didn’t tell you that part?”
“No.”
“I guess I’d say that the way I’m feeling is both heavy and hopeful,” my dad says, which is exactly how I’d describe my own emotions right now. “I don’t know, London. Most bad things in life take a while to sort out, but eventually they get sorted. Believing that there will be resolution to all of this has helped get me through some pretty rough years.”
I’m not sure what to say; we’re both quiet for a few moments. Then I switch it up.
“Tell me something about him,” I say softly.
“About Jonas?” Dad asks, as if he doesn’t know who I’m talking about.
“Yes,” I say patiently. “Just something nice. Something I might not know.”
“Hmm,” Dad says as he pages through his functional memory. “He loved sweet potatoes?”
I laugh and Dad laughs and it feels almost normal for a moment.
“Okay…” I say through giggles. “What else?”
“He always chewed on your mother’s cell phone…. No wait, I’ve got a good one! Jonas loved bouncy balls. He’d waddle through the house, collecting any ball he could find, whether it was a real one or just something like an orange that looked like a ball. He’d say, ‘ba, ba,’ and point to whatever round object he wanted until someone gave it to him.
“At Christmas your mom decorated the tree a few weeks before the big day. It was when he was about a year and a half. He was so good; he didn’t touch the ornaments, despite the fact that most of them were round.
“Finally comes Christmas morning, we’re handing out gifts from under the tree, and I think Jonas thought, ‘Oh, so this is the day we get to touch them!’ He toddled on over and grabbed as many ornaments as he could, then proceeded to try to bounce them on the hardwood floor.”
“They broke?” I ask.
“Of course,” Dad says with a chuckle. “They were your mother’s vintage ornaments. They shattered into little pieces all over the floor. Jonas loved the noise but was a bit more careful around bouncy balls after that.
“Anyway…” Dad says, his voice trailing off.
“Good story, Dad.”
“Yeah,” he replies, sounding nostalgic. “Maybe we’d better cut this short today. I’ve got some work to do outside and I don’t want to keep you from that boyfriend of yours. What’s his name again?”
“Luke,” I say, knowing that he’ll start remembering Luke’s name soon.
“That’s right,” Dad replies. I have a feeling that the story about Jonas made him sad, and that he doesn’t much feel like talking anymore. And that’s okay.
I understand, because more than he could know, I understand him. It’s all there, in this delightfully warped brain of mine. It’s all there before he says it. It’s all there before he does it.
I adore my father, and that adoration is based mostly on the relationship I know we’ll have eventually. Because of that, cutting one call short doesn’t bother me.
“Okay, Dad, we can pick this u
p next time,” I say.
“Sounds good. Same day next week?”
The corners of my mouth turn up; we’re on our way to better.
“Yes, Dad,” I say. “Same day next week.”
There is silence for a few seconds, and then:
“I love you, Pumpkin.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
In the middle of the night, the memory rips me from a dead sleep. I switch on the lamp and wait for my eyes to adjust, then throw off the covers and run.
“Mom,” I whisper loudly. She doesn’t stir.
“Mom?” I say in a quiet speaking voice. Nothing.
I move closer and put my hands on her shoulders. I shake her lightly. When that doesn’t work, I shake her harder and raise my voice. “Mom!”
She gasps, shoots upright, and blinks wildly.
“What’s wrong?” she shouts. Her gaze moves from me to the door to the far wall to the window and back again.
“Sorry,” I say, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Nothing’s wrong.”
She checks the digital clock on her nightstand. “Then why are you waking me up at two in the morning?” she asks.
I hold up the photo of Jonas.
“This isn’t exactly what he looks like,” I say as my eyes well up with tears.
She’s confused for a blink, and then it’s clear.
“How do you know?” she whispers, asking to be sure.
“I know because we’ll meet him, Mom,” I say, and as I do, I let myself remember him coming to our house at Christmas. I remember my parents joking about keeping the ornaments away from him, and his warm and wonderful laughter.
“He’s all right?” my mom asks, in an even lower tone, as if she’s afraid to speak it.
I nod my head. “Yes,” I say.
“How do you know?” Mom asks again. I move toward her and wrap my arms around her. I speak into her shoulder as we hug.
“I know because I remember.”
EPILOGUE
Written Sun., 7/10; add to notes every night.
Luke gave me a look tonight, one that made my insides twist. We were squeezed in with hundreds of other kids at the Weezer show (awesome, btw), and without saying a word or touching me or anything, Luke told me that he wanted us to be alone.
Suddenly, I got emotional thinking about how important the little moments with Luke are. Sure, I can remember many more from the future. But right now, it’s new. Who knows, maybe that was the first time he’s ever looked at me in exactly that way. And in less than two hours, it will be gone forever.
I was dwelling on that when I got home. I reread all my notes from high school so far, trying to soak up the stuff I forgot. But instead of reminiscing, I realized something major: I’m a lot stronger than I used to be.
Before this year, my past memory and parts of my forward memory were blocked, probably because of my brother’s death— at least what we thought was his death— and Luke’s future death. Not to mention my dad’s part in everything. Then Luke’s presence somehow helped me start to remember. He started a chain reaction that ultimately gave me back my brother and my father, which made my relationship with my mom better, too. In some ways you could say he gave me back myself.
I’m sure I’ve had some of these thoughts before, but as far as I can tell, I’ve never written them down quite like this. Even though it’s late, I’m doing it now, because I have so much to be thankful for: a mother who loves me; a father who’s in my life again; an amazing best friend; a brother I’ll meet again soon.
And a gorgeous, supportive boyfriend who helped me realize that being normal is overrated.
This note is to remind me of all of my gifts, from the people in my life to the ability that I and I alone seem to have. Because, yes, maybe I’ll always forget the past. But what I need to remember most is this:
I can also change the future.
Everyone’s talking about Forgotten….
“Forgotten is a mind-bending experience that I devoured in one sitting. Cat Patrick’s exciting and impressive debut still haunts me.”
—Jay Asher, New York Times bestselling author of Thirteen Reasons Why
“Cat Patrick’s debut won’t be forgotten by readers. It’s a page-turning mystery and a heartrending story of love, loss, and… memories of the future. Don’t miss this one.”
—Gail Giles, award-winning author of Dark Song and What Happened to Cass McBride?
“A captivating psychological drama, a toe-tingling romance, and a completely original premise, Forgotten is full of twists and turns you won’t see coming.”
—Daisy Whitney, author of The Mockingbirds, a 2011 ALA Best Fiction for Young Adults book
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Facebook.com/ForgottenBook
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Don’t forget to thank…
Resident comedian, chef, chief critic, and daddy extraordinaire: my husband. Loyal and loving, willing to read the same novel countless times, always with constructive things to say, you are my best friend in the world. Thank you. Thank you.
My gorgeous daughters. You have no idea how much you have inspired me. You are the reason this book happened; when I had you, anything became possible.
The clan. My mother, who said, “Of course you did” when I sold my first book; my father, who lovingly dubbed this story “weird” and suggested calling it Scrambled Brains and Ham; my sister, who is forever my cheerleader; my twin brother, eight years too late; and my middle brother, a writer, too. I am honored and blessed to have each of you (and your husband/wife/kids/dog) in my life.
Don’t forget to thank…
Grandpa. You told me to hurry up and get the book published so you’d be alive to read it. I hope you’re chuckling at these words from your easy chair right now.
The rest of my family, blood or otherwise, who have supported me through my life in countless ways. You know who you are. I love you all.
The Forgotten Book Club: Amy, Kristin, Judith, and Deborah, four genius women who raised their hands to suffer through early drafts of the novel. Your insights helped shape London’s world. Thank you.
Friends who endured questions about everything from nursing home hours to high school class periods to digging up dead bodies. Especially Bill, who was my biggest high school connection.
Kings of Leon, for writing “Use Somebody,” and my local radio station, for overplaying the crap out of it when I was working on Forgotten. It will always remind me of Luke and London.
Don’t forget to thank…
The man who shocked me by writing back in seven minutes: Superagent Dan Lazar. You’ve expertly fielded more questions than a Magic Eight Ball, aren’t ashamed to love Project Runway as much as I do, and might just never sleep. I wouldn’t be here without you.
The rest of the Writers House gang: “Fave” Stephen Barr; foreign rights champions Cecilia de la Campa and Jennifer Kelaher; and my early advocates, Bethany Strout, Beth Miller, and Genevieve Gagne Hawes.
Don’t forget…
My editors at Little, Brown, Nancy Conescu and Elizabeth Bewley. Thanks, Nancy, for fighting for me in the beginning and for keeping me on track. Thank you, Elizabeth, for holding my hand across the finish line. And thank you both for loving London and Luke almost as much as I do.
Ali Dougal and the rest of the gang at Egmont UK, and other editors around the world who have embraced Forgotten. Thank you for your support.
And, finally, my readers. Thank you for spending time in London’s world. Thank you for taking the extra few minutes to read these acknowledgments. Thank you for making me want to write more books.
Thank you.
Contents
Front Cover Image
Welcome
Dedication
Epigraph
Friday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Monday
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
Everyone’s talking about Forgotten….
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Cat Patrick
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
