Forget Me Not (The Ceruleans: Book 2)

by Megan Tayte

  ‘Okay,’ he said at last. I waited for him to ask me why Jude’s words had been on my lips as I lost consciousness, but instead he said, ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too! So much.’

  I wanted so badly to touch him, hold him, but he stood up.

  ‘I’m staying tonight,’ he told me. ‘I’m not leaving you alone.’

  I should send him home, I knew. But I could no more bear to push him away after today than I could bear to climb the stairs to a cold, empty bed and lie awake for the long, dark night alone with my thoughts. I nodded.

  ‘You rest here. I’ll go and turn the heater on in your bedroom, take the edge off.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I watched him go, the only guy I’d ever loved and, I was sure, would ever love; this guy who deserved only good in his life, only honesty and love and light. I waited until I could hear his footfalls in the room above, then I slipped quickly off the sofa and crossed the room to the armchair under the window, where he’d left my handbag. I felt inside for the paper bag and drew out four boxes of pills that the doctor had given me and, from the very bottom, a vial and a syringe that the doctor had not given me, exactly.

  It was when I was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed and impatiently awaiting the nurse to bring my discharge papers, that Dr Morris had come for his final visit. He drew the curtains around my bay and sat down beside me. After a half-hearted attempt to get me to come back for an outpatient consultation with him, he’d handed over the boxes of pills and instructed me on when to take them and how, and where to go with the repeat prescriptions he’d written for me. Then he’d said:

  ‘You don’t want a hospice, you say. So you’ve thought about it, then. The end. Scarlett, what your sister did – I understand that. She wanted the choice, the control. She didn’t want to suffer. And yet drowning, suffocation: I’m sorry to say it to you, but I worry that she did suffer. I don’t want you to suffer like that.’

  I opened my mouth to tell him that he had it wrong – I wasn’t like Sienna; I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, kill myself. But the words got stuck in my throat, because Dr Morris had reached into his pocket and drawn out a syringe and a vial.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘there is nothing I can do for you, other than admit you, when the time comes, and offer palliative care. Nothing at all.’

  He twisted the vial so that its label was facing me. MORPHINE, it read. Caution: For dilution only. Not for direct injection. Laying the syringe and vial on the bed beside me, he said, ‘Do you understand?’

  I nodded.

  He stood up. ‘Goodbye, Scarlett,’ he said. ‘And God bless.’ And then he left me alone in the curtained-off area – alone with the means to secure as peaceful and pain-free a passing as was possible.

  I stared at the little vial. So innocuous looking, and yet within it lay all the power of the ocean to steal the breath from the body. I should have thrown it away. I’d told Jude I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, take my life. I’d believed that, on the beach in Newquay. I’d believed it with an unswerving faith. But then, I’d always imagined suicide as so violent, so wrenching. Not this. Not a quiet surrender.

  The creak of footsteps moving across the room overhead reminded me of the urgency of time. Quickly, I reached down and lifted the seat cushion of the armchair and slid the syringe and vial underneath. Then I returned the pill boxes to the bag.

  Luke found me sitting on the sofa, finishing my tea.

  ‘You ready?’ he said from the doorway.

  ‘Yes.’

  I stood up but then hovered awkwardly by the sofa. He looked so grave still, and the last time I’d tried to touch him he hadn’t let me. From my pocket I drew out the little plastic bag the nurse had given me, and slid out the necklace. ‘Will you put this back on me?’ I whispered.

  For a moment he didn’t move, and my heart thudded painfully in my chest. But then he walked over to me and took the necklace and came behind me to fasten it. His fingers on the nape of my neck were warm and gentle, but they made me shiver. Hands on my arms, he turned me to face him. He didn’t smile; he just searched my eyes. When they began to tear up, he leaned in and pressed his lips to my eyelids, to close them.

  ‘I love you, Scarlett,’ he whispered.

  Then he kissed me, deeply, reverently. Like it was our first kiss all over again, or our last.

  PART 3: EVENTIDE

  35: WHAT IS RIGHT

  I went to the zoo a girl of substance – standing tall, fighting, living. I came home a shadow.

  In the week that followed, the black crept in from the beyond, into me. Gone was that part of me with the energy to create moments, to see a world in a grain of sand. She had ceased to exist on that cold, wet path. In her place was a girl who said no to an invitation out, who joined in laughter just a beat too late, who made excuses not to surf, who jumped at loud noises, who awoke screaming at night when the tiger’s claws reached through the fence and slashed her open.

  As usual, I did my best to hide it all from Cara and Luke. When my head pounded, I discreetly popped tablets. When the edges of the world blurred, I held tight to the nearest object and chatted on. When my heart ached, when my tear ducts burned, when the grief threatened to drown me, I smiled, smiled, smiled. I saw in their eyes, though, that they weren’t entirely fooled, and that my silence, my act, hurt them.

  There was only one person I could turn to. Those last words I’d uttered at the zoo had proved to be prophetic: I needed Jude. He came to the cottage often, in the early afternoon, usually, when Cara was at school and Luke at work, and we talked. Well, mainly he talked and I listened silently, because I didn’t know how to respond to his truths – ‘You have to stop lying; you’re hurting people’ – and the impossible choices he laid down – ‘Either tell Luke that you’re dying now and share with him your last days, or leave the cove and let him get on with his life’. He was compassionate, he was a good friend, but as the days wore on Jude grew increasingly frustrated by my inertia, and I, in turn, grew increasingly more incapable of pulling myself out of the quagmire into which I’d sunk. Until, a week to the day after my collapse, a little old lady, a beast and a talking clock threw me a rope.

  I was visiting Grannie Cavendish – alone; something I’d taken to doing. I liked the simplicity and beauty of her fantasy world. I liked the escapism to be found within the four walls of her room. And I liked that with her I could be myself. I could be quiet, I could be sombre, I could cry, even, and there was no judgement there. In turn, she seemed to enjoy my visits, and though she regularly forgot my name, she readily recognised me as the Blue Fairy – a character, I now realised, from the original Pinocchio book.

  This afternoon, we were watching Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, side by side, in matching wingbacked chairs. Grannie (she insisted I call her that) was having a particularly good day. She’d done a stirring rendition of ‘Be Our Guest’ and the movie’s theme song, and now we were at the part where the Beast lets Belle go so that she can save her dying father. Grannie gave an almighty sniff, and I turned to see tears on her cheeks.

  ‘The talking clock doesn’t understand,’ she said, engrossed in the action. ‘Cogsworth says everything is just peachy. But it’s not.’

  I opened my mouth to utter reassurances – but she’ll be back; the ending will be happy – then found myself agreeing: ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Belle has gone.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Beast has to let her go, you see. Because he loves her – really-true-love-loves her. And you know what they say, dear.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That if you really-true-love-love someone, then you have to set them free. Because holding on is just selfish. It’s not right. Like hogging all the gravy at dinner. Harold down the corridor, he does that.’

  The words were delivered so lightly, with the same gravitas as when she offered me a biscuit. But she may as well have shouted them at me for the impact they had.

  ‘Oh dear,
is your teacup faulty?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your teacup. It’s gone all wobbly.’

  I set my cup on its saucer with a clatter. On the screen a mournful candelabra was declaring that it may have been better if the Beast had never met Belle at all, so tragic was their parting.

  ‘Silly Lumiere,’ scolded Grannie. ‘Of course it’s better that they met. Better to have lost and loved... and... oh dear, how does it go?’

  ‘Better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Do you believe that, Grannie? I mean, the loss bit is hard.’

  ‘Only if you cling on.’

  An echo in my mind – Grandad, in the garden of the cottage:

  ‘I don’t want to lose him.’

  ‘You can only lose what you cling to.’

  ‘What do you mean, Grannie?’

  She turned back to the television. ‘I don’t know, dear. Cogsworth might, though. He’s pretty smart. For a clock.’

  We sat quietly and watched the end of the film. By the final scene, where the Beast lay dead, tears were pouring down my cheeks.

  ‘She’ll save him,’ said Grannie, patting my hand in comfort. ‘Just you watch. She’ll kiss him, and he’ll come back to life. And he’ll be a prince again. And everything will be just peachy.’

  ‘But what if he’d let her go and she’d never come back?’

  She tilted her head and thought about it. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘then he’d always know he did what was right. He did the right thing. That’s important, you know.’

  I nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘Mind you...’

  ‘Yes?’

  Grannie Cavendish looked about the room and then whispered conspiratorially, ‘I think, if Belle had never come back, the end of the story might’ve been quite different. Have you seen the way the Beast looks at Mrs Potts the teapot?’

  *

  I made the decision that afternoon, sitting in the living room, over three consecutive cups of coffee. I made the decision to leave Twycombe. I didn’t want to leave; I wanted to be here, home, at the end. But leaving was the right thing to do for Luke and for Cara, who’d already lost so much, been so hurt by death.

  Thanks to Jude, thanks to Grannie, I saw now what I had been doing. These past weeks I’d put myself first: my wishes, my needs. I’d been unutterably selfish, like a child at a playground – just one more go on the slide, just one more swing to the skies. Already Luke had paid a price. No more.

  I set a deadline: one week. One week to fill with good memories to wash away the bad. One week to say goodbye.

  I would take him somewhere beautiful, I decided, to tell him. Land’s End – the very tip of the country, where the land and the sky collided. I would say it casually, that I was going to visit my mother for a few days. He’d be happy to hear I’d mended that fence, would wish me well for the trip.

  Next Sunday, I would kiss him goodnight, and then I would drive to Hollythwaite to spend some time with my mother. Until… until it was time to call Jude, and he would take me someplace quiet, someplace peaceful, just him and me.

  Luke and Cara and Mother, they’d wonder where I was. Travelling – I would tell them I’d gone travelling; some time to myself, to find my way. I’d email them until the end. Beyond, even – you could schedule messages for future delivery, couldn’t you? Over time, I’d distance myself more and more. Until, one day, the messages would just stop.

  I knew how my distance and eventual disappearance would hurt them. I’d been through it with Sienna, and I’d hated her for doing that. I hadn’t understood then that she wasn’t doing it to me, to hurt me, but for me, to protect me. At least with my plan there was no grieving, no knowledge of the death. Mother would wonder at some point perhaps, but Luke and Cara would move on, I told myself. Luke. It tore me apart to think it, but I knew in time I’d be little more than a memory for him. He’d meet someone new, and then he’d stop waiting for the green-eyed girl he’d loved once.

  By the fourth coffee, I had it all planned out. I’d even developed an elaborate subterfuge that had me sneaking back to the cove right at the end and covertly healing Cara in the dead of night. Jude would take some convincing on that part of the plan. But he’d be pleased, I thought, about the rest, glad I’d finally made a decision. The right one. I’d explain it all to him when he came over later.

  My head was pounding, my stomach was churning and I was tired, so tired, but I felt calmer than I had in weeks. Even a painful decision sits more peacefully than no decision at all. I leaned back in the chair and gave in to the heaviness pressing down on me. Sleep, I needed to sleep.

  But apparently a nap was off the agenda, because just moments after closing my eyes, or so it felt, a hand was shaking me roughly.

  ‘Scarlett! Wake up!’

  ‘Jude,’ I groaned grumpily and prised open an eyelid. He wasn’t beside me; he was at the fire, fiddling with the dial, and then striding to the window and throwing it open.

  ‘Get up!’ he shouted. ‘Now!’

  Groggily, I sat up. ‘What?’

  He came to me and hauled me up none-too-gently. ‘Come on – out of here.’

  Before I could form a response he was propelling me out of the room, through the kitchen and into the frigid air of the garden.

  ‘What are you doing!’ I spluttered as he pushed me down onto a patio chair.

  ‘Stopping you making the biggest mistake of your life!’

  ‘What?’

  He hunched down and inspected my face. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘My head hurts.’

  ‘Good. Serves you right. What were you thinking?’ I cringed and he backed away, but carried right on yelling. ‘I know you’ve been down, lost. But this, Scarlett, this? And behind my back – no, in my face. You knew I would find you. You were shoving your broken promise right in my face.’

  I gaped at him as he paced up and down, throwing words at me that made no sense at all.

  ‘What about your sister – WHAT ABOUT SIENNA? What on earth did you think you were doing, Scarlett?’

  ‘Napping!’

  He froze mid-stride. ‘Napping?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a bloody tiring business dying, you know.’

  ‘The gas – you didn’t turn it on?’

  I stared blankly at him.

  ‘The room – it reeked of gas. The fire was on, but not ignited. It was gassing you. Killing you.’

  ‘But I didn’t turn it on at all. Jude, I don’t remember doing that!’

  And then I was shaking, and it wasn’t from the pain in my head or the cold air all around. Quickly, Jude quit standing over me and crouched in front of me, his hands on my shoulders.

  ‘It’s okay now,’ he said. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘It’s not,’ I told him. ‘I’m a disaster zone. This kind of stuff keeps happening. It’s Death, I’m telling you – coming for me.’

  ‘What do you mean, this keeps happening?’

  ‘First the brick from the church tower and the cliff dive before Newquay. And then, since I’ve been back, all sorts of scares.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like when the toaster exploded. And when the kettle gave me a shock. And when Chester left a ball at the top of the stairs and I nearly slipped on it. And when I fell asleep in the bath and woke up underwater. And when that bees nest exploded in the roof of the shed. And the other day, when I forgot to put the handbrake on in the Mini and it nearly ran me down – flattened a wall in the garden instead…’

  I let myself trail off – though there were plenty more examples I could have shared – because he looked so alarmed.

  ‘Why didn’t I know about any of this?’ he demanded.

  ‘Because I thought I could look after myself.’

  ‘Evidently not. You might have died in there today. Alone, Scarlett – do you realise what that means? I wouldn’t have been there to Claim you. You’d have gone into the white light, and your
death would have been meaningless!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said miserably. ‘It was just an accident.’

  ‘A very dangerous one. Your head, Scarlett – you’re a danger to yourself. You can’t carry on like this. It’s not right.’

  ‘I know.’

  I opened my mouth to tell him my master plan, but the pain was stalking through my mind, now, obliterating memories, thoughts, reason, and all that came out was, ‘Luke.’

  ‘Is it him?’ said Jude. ‘Is he the only thing holding you back?’

  I sank forwards until my forehead was resting on my knees. It didn’t help the pain at all, but at least there was less distance to fall.

  But I didn’t fall. I floated. Across the garden, into the cottage, up the stairs and into my room. Jude put me down on the bed and coaxed tablets into me, several of them. Then he pulled back the bedclothes and helped me to lie down. The last thing I heard before I sank into sleep was his voice, murmuring an apology.

  36: FRIEND, FOE

  Orange and black and white where all should be green. The tiger. In the cottage garden.

  A voice behind me, high and desperate: ‘Run, Scarlett, run!’

  But the tiger isn’t moving. It lies in the grass, watching me with eyes that aren’t hungry, but inviting.

  I take a step. The grass is wet. I look down. My feet are bare. My legs are bare. I’m naked. I wait for the rush of shame, but it doesn’t come.

  The tiger is waiting. I take another step...

  ‘Scarlett, no!’

  ... and another, and another, until the fur of his stomach is tickling my toes.

  Ignoring my sister’s cries, I sink down on my knees in the grass, reach out a hand, stroke it along the velvety fur of his great belly. The tiger lets out a low, satisfied growl. I stare into his eyes. They are the yellow of the sun.

  I turn from him, away, and lie down in the grass. It’s cold and smells of autumn. The tiger curls in behind me, his stomach to my back. He’s warm.

  At an upstairs window of the cottage stands my sister. She is waving furiously and shouting my name. I don’t listen to her. I am safe here.