Forget Me Now

by Alana Terry

  The detective leans forward. Stares right at me. “So. What can you tell me about the night of May 24?”

  He repeats the question once more before I’m crying again. I feel like a baby, but I can’t help it. “I don’t remember anything. Why do you keep asking me?”

  The detective’s only been here a few minutes, but long enough that I feel even more confused and terrified than before. In a childish fit, I want to yell at Dad and tell him to kick this guy out of our home. My memory’s broken. That’s what Dad told me. Something happened at the cabin. Something that stole so much of what I took for granted. The detective wants me to remember, but Dad hasn’t told me anything. I just want to know where Mom is. That’s the only thing that could even begin to fix this. Seeing Mom, falling into her arms, hearing her promise me that everything’s going to be all right.

  “The night of May 24,” Drisklay repeats, only increasing my hatred toward him. “What can you tell me?”

  “Nothing. I don’t remember anything.”

  Dad’s sitting next to me on the couch, and I cling to him. My breath comes in short, choppy bursts. How can I tell these two men that the only thing I want in the world is my mother?

  Finally, Drisklay lets out a long sigh. “I want to help you, Miss Blanca.” I wish he’d stop calling me that. I want to scream every time he says it. “But I can’t help you until you tell me the truth. The doctors said your memory should have recovered by now ...”

  “Well, obviously it didn’t,” Dad interrupts, taking a step toward the detective.

  Drisklay finally takes the hint and stands up. “Well, call me when that changes,” he says. “Our investigation depends on it.”

  Dad gives him another one of those sarcastic sneers. “Trust me, when Mia recovers, you’ll be the first to know.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Dad doesn’t listen when I insist that I’m not hungry. Finally, I’m so exhausted from arguing with him that I give in, and he pours me a bowl of cereal.

  I don’t bother to ask where Mom is. There are so many things I need to figure out.

  “I have some work to do,” Dad says. “I’ll be in the office if you need anything.”

  It’s the first time he’s mentioned that all-precious job of his, and somehow knowing that he’s still focused on something else outside of whatever trauma’s going on in my brain gives me a sense of relief. If I was in that bad of shape, he wouldn’t be thinking about work at all.

  Would he?

  Dad walks down the hall, up the stairs past the foyer, and when I hear the door to his home office click shut, I jump up from my chair. After tossing my soggy cereal into the sink, I sprint toward my room. It’s more like a stumble, truth be told, but my body is surging with enough adrenaline that I may as well be racing for my life.

  Inside my room, I yank open my drawers. Where is my cell phone? I tear around the place blindly. If I can’t find my phone, what else is there to look for? I’ve never been one to keep a diary. Too risky when you have an older brother who’d love nothing more than to read your most revealing secrets and lord them over you. I scan my bookshelves. Yearbooks? Nothing. Not even the photographs of Chris I had pinned up on my bulletin board. Come to think of it, even my bulletin board is gone now. What’s happening to me?

  In a desk drawer, I find the Bible my mom gave me when I started junior high. A Teen Study Bible. I still remember how old and mature I felt, having something with teen written right there on the front cover. I flip open to a random page.

  Remember when you’re choosing your friends that the Bible says, “Bad company corrupts good character.”

  The short devotional goes on to tell me that if I constantly hang out with kids who make bad decisions, I might end up falling into temptation as well. I slam the book shut. Hard to accept advice on making friends when have no idea where all mine are.

  Three months. Dad says I’ve been like this for three months. That means it’s what? The end of August?

  What about NYU? What about my scholarship?

  I glance down at the Bible again, the little devotional mocking me. Friends? Where are my friends? Has Kelsie gone to Barnard already? Has she left me?

  And where is Chris? If he knew how sick I was, if he knew what happened to me, he’d be here.

  I need my phone. Kelsie will tell me what happened. She won’t treat me like I’m fragile or broken. She’ll tell me exactly what I need to know. And Chris will comfort me. Promise me that he’s here for me no matter what.

  I need to talk to my boyfriend. He must be so worried about me. Where is my stupid phone? If I could just find it, everything could go back to normal ...

  I’m banging open drawers, dumping items across the floor.

  “What in the world is going on in here?” Dad appears in my doorway, and I immediately feel guilty. I don’t know what to tell him.

  “I just wanted to find my phone.” It’s the best I can do, but it does nothing to convey what I’m feeling. What I’m really looking for. Clues. Answers. My identity. I don’t mean to start crying again but I do. Maybe I’m hormonal. Maybe it’s PMS. How would I know when I last had my period if I can’t remember the past three months?

  Thinking about all I missed only makes my headache worse. Dad’s holding his office phone. Probably has whoever he’s been talking to on mute. “Listen,” he says, “I’ve got to finish this call, and then we’ll talk, okay?”

  I sniff. Knowing my dad, “finishing this call” could take another four hours. At least while he’s engrossed in work, I can try to figure things out on my own. I’ll just have to do it more quietly.

  I put on a smile to placate him. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be ready whenever you are.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Half an hour later and I’ve made three important discoveries.

  One: My cell phone is no longer in existence. Either that or it’s turned off or something. I’ve called it from our landline and stood around waiting in every single room of the house and didn’t hear it ring once. Which means it’s either tucked away in Dad’s office, it’s on silent, or it simply vanished.

  Just like my memory.

  Of course, without my cell, I don’t know anybody’s phone number. Can’t call Chris on our home phone because his information is stuck in the contacts section of my non-existent cell.

  But that’s not the only thing that’s missing from around here, which leads me to discovery number two: Besides what Dad showed me this morning in that album, there isn’t a single photograph in this entire house. Which is pretty telling, seeing how much scrapbooking Mom loves to do. She wanted it to be a surprise, but I know she was making me a memory book to give to me as a graduation gift.

  Memory book. Ironic, isn’t it?

  I know all the places where Mom used to keep her photographs. In cute little storage boxes by the printer in the craft room. On the top shelf of her closet next to her hats.

  There’s nothing left.

  I know that photos don’t just disappear. They’re saved on hard drives, saved to the cloud, saved on Mom’s Facebook page. I turn on the computer in the spare bedroom, and guess what? Somebody’s changed all the passwords. I try everything. Dad’s birthday. Mom’s birthday. My birthday. I remember everything so clearly. The names of my various goldfish growing up.

  Nothing works.

  So here I am. No memory, or at least missing a huge three-month chunk. No way to look up anything on my phone or the family computers. No pictures of Chris or anything else for that matter. Think. What do I need to do?

  The landline. I still have the landline. But what good is that if I don’t have anybody’s phone number memorized? I walk back downstairs. I have to go slowly because I’m still dizzy. My stomach is empty, but I’m too nauseated to eat.

  Back in the kitchen. Staring at the landline phone. What could I do? I know Mom’s cell number, at least. It’s ...

  It’s ...

  Wait, I know it. I know I do.

  Mom’s
number. When I was younger and she needed help locating her lost cell, she’d shout out the numbers for me to dial into the landline. I scan the room. There must be something to jog my memory. Some sort of trigger. When Mom lost her cell, she’d tell me to call it. She’d say the numbers were ...

  I know there’s a 2. There’s a 2 and a 7. Wait, now that jingle from the pizza delivery commercial is in my head. Dang it. Why can’t I focus?

  My eyes dart around wildly until they land on the fridge. That’s it. When Marco and I were little and Mom hired a babysitter, she always kept emergency numbers on the fridge.

  I’ve got the landline in my hand and ignore the fact that I’m shaking. Check the fridge. Check the fridge.

  Magnets Dad brought home when he went on business trips and Marco and I were young enough to still expect trinkets as gifts. The same flowery notepad Mom always buys from the craft store to keep track of menu planning and grocery lists, except it’s totally blank. A magnet with the contact info for some banker Dad works with. Not going to be any help.

  No emergency numbers.

  Wait.

  There’s something down there between the fridge and the stove. It must have fallen. If I could twist my arm a certain way, I might just be able to reach ...

  My heart is racing. I need those numbers. My fingers brush against the side of the fallen magnet.

  No. I’ve pushed it back even farther now. I glance toward the hallway, where I’m certain Dad’s going to appear any minute, demanding to know what I’m doing. If my arm was just another inch longer ...

  I grab one of Mom’s wooden spoons. See if I can scrape the magnet against the floor, drag it closer to me.

  I’ve got it. It’s ...

  My hands tremble as I stare at the words. Angelo’s. We Deliver. A local telephone number that isn’t going to help me do anything except order a pizza.

  The doorbell rings. I’m not going to wait for Dad to come out of his office or tell me whether I should answer it or not. Right now, even if it’s that nasty detective from earlier this morning, I don’t care. I just need to talk with someone who can explain exactly what’s going on.

  I march toward the doorway, ignoring the dizziness. Ignoring the shaking in my body.

  It’s time for me to get some answers.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Mia, how good to see you.” The woman standing on my porch steps in and wraps me up in a giant hug. “How are you, dear? You remember me, don’t you?” She lets out a chuckle. I’m not sure what’s so funny, but I’m relieved to say that yes, I do know her.

  “Is your Dad home?” she asks.

  I nod. “He’s in his office. Doing some work.”

  Sandy gives me a smile and steps into the foyer. I’ve known her for years. Her husband’s the pastor at our church, and she ran one of the teen girls Bible studies I used to belong to.

  “Well, I don’t know if you remember this,” Sandy says, “but I’ve been coming over here every Tuesday to pray with you and talk through anything you might want to chat about.”

  Good. This is better than some emergency number written out on the fridge. Sandy can actually help me. Can actually fill in the three months I’ve lost.

  I follow Sandy into our sitting room, and she makes herself at home. I have to wonder how many times we’ve done this. Every Tuesday?

  “How’s your head today?” Sandy looks perfectly comfortable and content sitting there, as if she were a queen residing over her adoring followers.

  “Hurts,” I answer truthfully.

  “So you talked to your father this morning?” Sandy asks.

  I nod. “Yeah. A little bit. There was a detective here too.”

  “Officer Drisklay?” I can’t tell by Sandy’s voice what she thinks of him, but given how unpleasant my own experience was, I wonder if she dislikes him as much as I do. “How did that go?” she asks kindly.

  I shrug. “I don’t really know.”

  I’m not sure what to expect. Even though I was in Sandy’s Bible study for a few years, this is the first time we’ve talked one-on-one. At least, this is the first time that I remember us talking one-on-one. It feels weird. Like maybe the pastor’s wife at such a big church has other things to be doing. Our family isn’t even all that active there.

  Sandy clears her throat. “Did your dad show you the photo album?”

  I nod, wondering how many times Sandy and I have had this exact same conversation in the past three months.

  “I’m guessing you still don’t remember what happened?” There’s something in the way Sandy says it. Something gentle in her voice. I find myself getting more comfortable, if only just a little.

  “It’s hard to ...” I raise my hand to the back of my skull, not sure if my head hurts worse than it did before or if I’m just focused on the pain now that we’re talking about my memory.

  “I know it’s disorienting.” Sandy’s voice is so soft. Her features so maternal. “If there’s anything I can do ...”

  I don’t know how much longer Dad’s going to be up in his office, but I’m not about to let this opportunity pass me up. I lean forward, stare intently into Sandy’s kind eyes, and blurt out, “Can you tell me where my mom is?”

  Sandy shifts in her seat on the couch. She doesn’t look uncomfortable. Not exactly. And if my question caught her off guard, she doesn’t show it. Still, there’s something in her expression I can’t quite place.

  “Your dad hasn’t told you yet?”

  I shake my head, and for a split second I wonder if I really want to know.

  Sandy has my hand in hers. We’re sitting so close our knees almost touch. She presses her lips together. “Are you sure you’re ready for me to tell you?”

  “Please,” I beg. “I need to know.”

  This seems to be the answer she was waiting for. Sandy sighs. Gives my hand a squeeze. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry that I have to be the one to tell you this. No matter how many times you hear it, I know it never gets any easier.”

  This is torture. Like being a little kid watching the nurse prepare your injection, where waiting is worse than the pain itself.

  Sandy shakes her head. Clucks her tongue. “Pumpkin,” she says, “I want you to listen to me very carefully. This isn’t going to be easy for you to hear.”

  Just tell me, I want to shout, but somehow, with everything else I’ve forgotten how to do, I can’t remember how to talk. Not right now. It’s taking all of my energy just to breathe.

  “Mia.” Sandy’s voice is pained. Full of compassion. “Your mother passed away, sweetie. She’s with Jesus now.”

  CHAPTER 10

  I’m snuggled against Chris in the backseat of the minivan. Mom says that’s fine, that she has a new playlist she’s been dying to listen to anyway. I think she knows Chris and I need this time. This privacy.

  She taps a few buttons on her phone and makes a show of tuning into her soft rock mix station, turning the volume up as high as it will go. Giving me one quick glance in the rearview mirror, she flashes me a smile before pulling on her sunglasses and backing out of our driveway.

  I glance up at Chris. I’m sitting in the middle seat since Mom’s packed the cooler right next to me. Maybe she did it because she knows how much I like to be next to the people I’m closest to. It’s my love language, she tells me. Physical touch.

  I give Chris a little nudge with my shoulder. “Well, what do you think?”

  “About what?” he asks with a grin.

  “About the weekend,” I answer. We’re both whispering, even though so far we haven’t said anything we’d be embarrassed for Mom to hear. “Senior trip. Can you believe it?”

  “No. I can’t.” There’s a faraway look in Chris’s eyes. I didn’t mean to turn the conversation so serious so soon. I try to change the subject.

  “You ready for the history final?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Thanks to you.” Chris and I have spent the past couple weeks studying together. He has to pass in order to gradua
te.

  “Want me to quiz you?” I offer.

  “Nah. It’s nice just sitting back here.” His voice gets a little wistful. It’s the tone he gets when he’s thinking.

  I don’t ask too much about Chris’s home life. He tells me some. More, I think, than he ever wanted anybody to know. But with secrets like that, it’s not healthy to keep them to yourself. I’m glad he came to me. Glad he trusted me. But it’s not like it’s something we talk about every single time we get together. He knows I’m here if he needs me, and that’s good enough for both of us.

  I’ve actually never been to Chris’s house. Not in the entire three years we’ve been dating. I’ve seen his dad once or twice but never spoken to him. It’s a sad family life. There’s no denying that. It’s miraculous that Chris has turned out so normal. I know a ton of that is because he started going to youth group and got serious about his faith. I sometimes feel like he’s disappointed in me that I’m not as spiritual as he is. I don’t mean to say we’re totally different. I believe in God just as much as he does. Chris is just more open about talking about things like that, whereas I keep my faith more private. More personal.

  I reach out and grab Chris’s hand then lean my head against his chest. He’s strong. I feel so safe here. I start playing with his thumb, drawing little patterns on it with my own, clicking on the nail that’s so much thicker and stronger than mine. In a moment of impulsivity, I bring his hand up toward my face and kiss one of his knuckles.

  “What was that for?” he asks sheepishly.

  “For being you.”

  We ride without having to speak. It’s nice. We have a little over two hours. No rush to get out a lot of words right now. No rush to dive into the discussions neither of us is ready to have. Like what will happen to us once we graduate and I go off to New York and he stays here.

  I’ve thought about deferred admissions, even though I haven’t told my parents. Mom would understand, but Dad would probably throw a fit. There’s nothing that says I couldn’t start at NYU next year. I could even save money taking a few classes locally.