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For my Nana,
who always believed I could
And for Lilly
(no more excuses)
“Don’t forget me,” you said,
and I laughed softly—
because that
(more than anything in this entire, endless universe)
would be impossible.
—J. E. STARLING, “REMEMBERING YOU”
PROLOGUE
At night, the screams were worse.
Maybe it was the way they echoed around the apartment, bouncing off the walls; maybe it was because they startled Hazel awake and she was still bleary with sleep as she made her way down the hall to her mother’s bedside.
She knew her way through the darkness, one hand trailing along the faded walls to guide her. Past the kitchenette, past the living room. Past the bathroom. Her mother’s door was always propped open, just in case she needed Hazel. The nightmares often left her mother’s forehead damp with sweat, hair sticking to her skin in dark strands. Hazel knew how to calm her, how to place her hands gently on her mother’s cheeks until she stopped writhing, until she stilled.
“It’s okay,” Hazel would promise, voice even and calm, a lie that came too easily. “It’s all right. You’re going to be all right.”
Her mother would turn to her with wild eyes, gripping Hazel’s arms with cold fingers as if her daughter were the only solid thing left she could still hold on to. “Don’t go,” she would beg. “Please don’t leave me.”
Her mother never seemed to realize that it wasn’t her being left behind.
* * *
At some point in the last few hours that Hazel and Graham had been driving, the sky outside the window had faded from dusky blue to starry black, sinking them into complete darkness. Only the faint moonlight allowed Hazel glimpses of her surroundings, submerged almost entirely in shadows.
Her legs were stiff from so many hours of traveling, the side of her face cool from being pressed against the window. The soft music from the radio and the gentle hum of the car were making it hard to keep her eyes open. The dashboard read 12:06.
She stole a glance at the man in the driver’s seat, who she’d first met just forty-eight hours ago in the lawyer’s office back in London. Graham Anthony Bell.
Her father. The man who’d waited seventeen years before making contact with his only daughter. The man whose name she’d had to find out from Social Services when he was already on the plane over.
His focus was on the road, eyebrows knitted together as his fingers tapped out a soundless rhythm on the steering wheel. He had two days’ worth of stubble dusting his jawline, and even in the half-light of the car he looked weary. His dark hair was flecked with gray, and he had fine lines around his green eyes—Hazel hoped they were from laughter and not just from time in the Australian sun.
“We’re almost there,” he said without taking his eyes off the road. It was the first time he’d spoken since they left the airport and started driving toward Port Sheridan.
Hazel nodded, fixing her attention back out the window, and a few minutes later Graham pulled into the driveway of a huge white country farmhouse with a wide wraparound porch.
He killed the engine, and they sat there for a moment, the quiet stretching out between them.
“Well,” he said eventually, “this is it. This is home.”
Your home. Not mine. Hazel looked up at the house with a tightness in her chest that wouldn’t shift and said nothing. Graham ran a hand through his hair as if this was as difficult for him as it was for her.
“Shall we go in?” he said, and she nodded like she had a choice.
Hazel wondered as she stood in the oversize entrance hall if the house always felt this empty. This unwelcoming. Graham led her wordlessly up the stairs to a room at the far end of the hallway, placing each of her suitcases beside the bed.
He cleared his throat. “You must be exhausted, so I’ll let you get some rest. I can give you the tour in the morning.”
Hazel turned to look at him. He was watching her with the pity she’d grown used to.
“Thank you,” she managed to say.
“It’s no problem, Hazel,” he said softly, and shut the door behind him.
* * *
Hazel dropped her purse on the floor by the desk and sat on the end of the double bed. She drew her phone from her pocket, dialing the usual number.
You’ve reached Isabella Clarke. I can’t take your call right now, but leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
Hazel waited until she heard the beep, and then she hung up. She curled up on top of the bed and redialed, lying perfectly still as she listened to the sound of her mother’s voice.
You’ve reached Isabella Clarke. I can’t take your call right now, but leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
This time when the beep sounded, Hazel didn’t hang up right away. Instead, she curled into herself even tighter and listened to the silence as it stretched out endlessly.
part one
1
Hazel woke at noon to the sun streaming through cotton curtains, flooding the room with bright light. She stared at the unfamiliar ceiling as memory settled heavily in. She wasn’t in her apartment anymore; she was in Australia, more than sixteen thousand kilometers from London.
From home.
She buried her head in the pillow. You have ten seconds to wallow in your self-pity, she told herself firmly, and then you’re going to act like everything is totally fine. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Nine and a half. Nine and three-quarters …
She took a deep, steadying breath and kicked back the covers.
… Ten.
Hazel climbed out of bed and surveyed her surroundings. The room was tastefully—albeit minimally—decorated, and everything from ceiling to carpet was a crisp, spotless white. The walls were bare, with no photos or anything else to show they were part of someone’s home and not a hotel.
She crossed the room to draw back the curtains. Behind them was a sliding glass door that opened onto a balcony, and down below was a well-kept garden ending in a row of palm trees. Beyond that, on the horizon, lay the vast open sea; it was close enough that she could count the waves as they crawled up the empty stretch of sand. A rush of longing for the busy, familiar streets of London hit her and she yanked the curtains shut again.
Hazel showered and changed quickly and let herself out of the bedroom and into the hallway. She could hear music from a radio downstairs. She followed the sound and found Graham sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by piles of paperwork, a mug of coffee in his hand.
At the sound of her footsteps, he looked up and said, “Good morning! Did you sleep well? Are you hungry? If you’d like to go out for brunch, I own this place in town…”
“You own a restaurant?”
“Yep, the Anc
hor—they’re not expecting me back until Monday, but I can call and get us a table. If you want.”
Graham seemed so much more relaxed and comfortable here in his own domain, yesterday’s guarded awkwardness all but gone. She envied him.
“That sounds great.”
“How are you holding up?” he asked then, studying her closely.
I’m surviving. That was the only word for what she was doing, wasn’t it? Getting up each day, putting one foot in front of the other? But she said nothing, not trusting herself not to cry.
“Well,” Graham said, clearing his throat, “I’m ready to leave when you are.”
“I’ll get my things,” Hazel said, turning on her heels and leaving the room.
* * *
Graham hardly paused for breath the entire ten-minute journey into town, his low voice filling the silences with trivial chatter. As Hazel listened to him talk, she took in her surroundings through the open window. The sky was a bright, clear blue and the sides of the road were lined with the occasional yellow-leafed poplar or wisp of shrubbery. On her left, running alongside the highway, was the glittering sea. Port Sheridan was so different from what she was used to and she knew it was going to take some time to adjust to everything—like this balmy weather, which was typical here despite the fact that it was the middle of August and Australia’s winter.
When they arrived at the Anchor, they were greeted enthusiastically by the staff and led to a table with an amazing view of the sea. When a waitress came over, Hazel ordered grilled barramundi and Graham ordered a steak. While they waited for their food she listened to him talk about the area and the local hangouts and her new school; she was to start at Finchwood High on Monday, where Graham had been a student himself some thirty years ago.
After brunch, they left the Anchor and walked along the beach toward a bustling promenade of shops. Graham pointed out each one as they passed, telling Hazel all about who worked there and what they sold and if it was overpriced. She tried to keep up, but he spoke so fast that most of it went completely over her head—not that he seemed to mind. They stopped to pick up her uniform and some other bits and pieces for school, and then for a midafternoon snack of ice cream and coffee, after which Graham finally suggested they go home so she could settle in and unpack. It wasn’t until they were in the car that he quieted. Hazel, completely exhausted, was grateful for the silence.
Back at the house, Graham left her to organize the contents of her oversize suitcases, which was easier said than done—hanging her clothes in the closet and arranging her things on the desk felt far too real and not nearly temporary enough. In the end, she just collapsed onto the bed, falling immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.
2
It was close to midnight when Hazel woke, and moonlight was streaming into the room through the glass doors; she’d been asleep for hours.
Wondering if Graham had been in to check on her, she eased open the bedroom door to see if he was still awake. The hallway was dark, but on the carpet in front of her was a tray with a chocolate muffin and some orange juice. Taped to the glass was a handwritten note, which Hazel crouched down to read:
Thought the jet lag might have caught up with you. Didn’t want to wake you.
Sleep well, Hazel.
Hazel read the note twice and then folded it in quarters and tucked it into her pocket, ignoring the sudden lump in her throat. She carried the tray into the room and shut the door quietly behind her, setting the food down on her desk.
She thought about going back to bed, but she felt too awake, too wired. The room was stuffy, as if someone had sucked out all the air. She went over to the balcony door, and though the cold glass felt good beneath her palms, it wasn’t enough. She needed to be outside where it was cool.
She let herself out the back door in the kitchen and into the garden, edging her way through a gap in the undergrowth at the end and onto the beach beyond.
Oh my God. The moonlight, the sea, the endless curve of the beach—it was so beautiful. Hazel walked right up to the water’s edge, where the waves moved smoothly toward the shore and then crept back again in an even, calming rhythm.
It was a few minutes before she realized that she wasn’t alone. There was a figure standing a little way down the beach, half-hidden in the shadows and facing her direction. As she watched, it began to make its way across the sand toward her. Hazel froze.
“Hello?” the person called when he was close enough. It was a boy, with a deep, lilting voice.
Hazel licked her lips nervously before answering. “Hello?”
He came to a stop in front of her. He was tall, a good foot taller than her, and around her age. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and pale skin. A camera hung from a strap around his neck. “Who are you, then?”
“Who’s asking?” she said, and the boy let out a bark of surprised laughter.
“You’re a Pom, huh?”
“Pom?”
He smiled. “English.”
“Oh. Half.”
“Sweet,” he said. “I’m Red. Red Cawley.”
“Like the color?”
“Yep. Short for Redleigh. Yourself, Pom?”
“Hazel.”
“No kidding,” he said. “Like a color too—guess we match!”
“Guess we do.”
“We should sit,” he decided suddenly, dropping down to the ground and stretching his legs out across the sand. He patted the spot next to him. “Come on. I don’t bite.”
Hazel sank down beside him, crickets chirping in the undergrowth behind them. She fixed her eyes on the horizon, at the faint line where the black of the sky met the indigo of the sea. Above them, the sky was full of stars. There were no clouds or any of London’s orange nighttime glow obscuring them, so she could make out entire constellations.
“It’s pretty, huh?” Red said.
She murmured her agreement.
“Okay, Hazel-from-England,” he said then. “I have to ask because it’s driving me crazy—what are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Hazel admitted.
“Jet lag?”
“How did you know?”
“You’ve got that look about you,” he said. “When did you land?”
“Last night.”
“Nice! Welcome to Australia! How do you like it so far?”
“Well, it’s—”
“Amazing?” he offered. “Beautiful?”
“Different,” she said.
“I’ll bet! Don’t worry; you’ll fall in love with it soon enough. Everyone does.”
Hazel nodded—because that was easier than explaining how much she’d lost by coming to Australia, or how she’d only come because she’d lost so much. This stranger didn’t need to know that.
“It was nice to meet you,” she said instead. “But I should be getting back…”
“Sure, yeah!” Red jumped to his feet, offering her a hand. She grabbed it and straightened up, meeting his eyes. He was smiling warmly at her. “I guess I’ll see you around then, huh?”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Hopefully,” he corrected. “Good night, Hazel-from-England.”
She stood on the sand and watched him walk away, keeping her eyes on him until the shadows swallowed him whole and she was alone again.
When Hazel got back to her room, she found a sheet of paper and a pen, and sat down at her desk to write.
Dear Mum,
I remember the time we went to the zoo for my birthday. We saw every animal there, and then when my feet started to hurt, you put me on your shoulders so we could walk around again. I got my picture taken with a parrot, and you bought a copy for my bedroom wall. I wonder where that photo is now.
I miss you, Mum, but I remember.
Love,
Hazel
She read the letter over twice and then sealed it in an envelope and put it away in her desk drawer.
3
In the car on the
way to school Monday morning, Hazel couldn’t decide whether she was more scared or nervous. At least nobody here knew what she’d gone through; she was so tired of people looking at her differently because of what had happened with her mum.
Graham parked the car and turned in his seat to face her. “You sure you want to do this so soon?”
She glanced out the window. The school was a collection of modern, single-story buildings surrounded by palm trees and open space. Students were arriving, milling around the parking lot, sitting on walls and benches, grouped in small huddles. Was one of them Red? She hoped so.
“Yes,” she said, tugging at the hem of her uniform.
Graham studied her face for a moment and then reached across the car to give her shoulder a squeeze. “All right,” he said cheerfully, opening his door. “Let’s get you enrolled, then.”
* * *
Finchwood High was a coed school for students between the ages of eleven and eighteen. It was home to over seven hundred pupils and had a staff dedicated to providing an enriching and unique experience for each student—or at least that’s what the principal, a balding man named Mr. Lynch, told them proudly as he ushered them into his office.
He was completely different from the sharp, suited principal at her school back in London; Mr. Lynch wore tan trousers and a polo shirt, and his eyes were kind as he chatted to Hazel.
“So, welcome to Finchwood!” he said.
“It’s just temporary,” Hazel said immediately, and looked over at Graham, who had his lips pressed tightly together. She swallowed and turned to Mr. Lynch. “I’m hoping to be back in England by Christmas.”
“Well,” Mr. Lynch said with a broad smile, “rest assured we’ll do everything we can to make this transition smooth for you, even though the school year is well under way. Shall we get you to your homeroom, then?”
Hazel looked at Graham again, and he raised an eyebrow as if to say, It’s not too late to change your mind. She just nodded.
Don't Forget Me Page 1
