Page 12 of Forget Me Not
Only then do I flip on the light, rooting around in the cabinets until I find the mugs and coffee. Then I bring them to the machine, measure out a few scoops, and lean back against the sink as it brews.
I take a deep breath, pushing the stale air out through pursed lips as I try to slow my still-hammering heart. The truth is, I always feel strange when I awake from that dream—off-kilter and queasy, like putting on the wrong glasses, viewing the world through a warped lens—but it’s even worse now, being back in this house. Now, it feels like Natalie is watching me, somehow. Like she’s trapped in the walls. Glassy eyes following me around, waiting to see what I might do next.
I glance to the side, taking in the raw-wood cabinets and linoleum floors. The scent of strong coffee curling under my nose. Thenmy eyes land on the same table my mom and I sat at that morning, the very first morning we realized Natalie was gone: me picking at my cereal as the same smell of coffee soaked the air. Natalie used to sleep in, especially on Sundays, but then noon rolled around and it started to feel strange she hadn’t come down.
I imagine my mother standing up, the squeak of her chair before she ascended the stairs and the gentle noise of her knuckles as they knocked on the door. It was such a timid sound it was almost embarrassing, like she thought of her own daughter as some curled-up viper ready to strike on the other side… but then there was no answer and the knock grew louder, more incessant. Her voice urgent as she commanded her to come out.
Next came that scream, Natalie’s name. The sharp clatter as she dropped her mug on the ground and me slinking up the steps to find my mother alone in an empty bedroom. No movement at all except for the gentle dance of the curtains, a wide-open window letting in the wind.
Abeepfrom the coffee maker cuts through the thought, the pot in front of me filled to the brim. I blink away the memory and fill up my mug, blowing on the steam before glancing out the back window, taking in the gaping hole on the porch. The wood is clearly rotten out there, the boards simply buckling after years of neglect, and I turn away quickly, stifling my judgment before making my way into the living room and lowering myself onto the couch.
I bring the mug to my lips, taking a small sip before I look to the side. The shoebox is still there, the roll of old film sitting beside it, so I put the mug down and grab the film next, twisting it slow between my fingers.
I open the box, ready to place the film inside when a muffled sound steals my attention.
“I don’t care, Alan. You should have asked me first.”
I freeze, staring in the direction of my mother’s voice travelingthrough the thin walls. She’s clearly awake, on the phone with my father, and while I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop like this, I’m way too curious to turn away now, so I drop in the film and slide the box shut before making my way to the other side of the room.
“Yes, but this ismyhouse now,”she continues as I creep into the hallway, red runner lolling like a tongue in a throat. The door to the guest room is closed, a thin ribbon of light spilling onto the carpet, and I hold my breath as I lean in close, acutely aware that they’re talking about me.
“I know,”she says, her shadow pacing across the crack in the door.“But I don’t need her here.”
I clench my jaw, a familiar hurt bubbling up from the depths of my chest as this entire encounter calls to mind that summer they separated. The way my mother would routinely retreat to her bedroom, the quiet click of the door as I stood still in the hall. Her seeping soft sobs I would pretend not to hear.
The way I immediately started to curl in on myself while Natalie did the opposite and started to lash out.
“I told you already,”she adds.“I can take care of myself.”
I twist around, eager to get away before she can hang up and find me. Then I sneak up the stairs, getting dressed quickly before charging back into the living room and grabbing the shoebox, making my way toward the front door.
CHAPTER 8
It’s still early, just past eight, a golden glow illuminating the water and a quiet stillness as the world wakes up.
I’m back in my car, my phone returned to its spot in the cup holder as a map once again leads me through the streets of my past. After twenty minutes of driving, the voice in my speakers has announced my arrival, so I pull into an empty spot on the street as I read the sign of the small shop opposite my pollen-caked windshield. Claxton is still small, still relatively old-fashioned, and although chain restaurants are now erected where mom-and-pops used to be, the corner store I used to go to for candy replaced by a Starbucks that looks oddly out of place, a few of the original shops still seem to be in business, including the one I’m sitting in front of right now.
I put my car in park before opening the shoebox and grabbing the film, stepping onto the asphalt, and walking inside.
“Hi,” I say, making my way toward a man tinkering with something behind a counter. The place smells like hot metal and dustand I smile as I approach, a collection of cameras and technical equipment taking up every inch of the wall. “I was hoping I could get this developed.”
I push the film across the counter, watching as he grabs it and deposits the roll in his palm.
“I read online that you specialize in that,” I add. “Better than a drugstore or something.”
The man stays quiet, two rodent eyes magnified behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
“This is old,” he says at last, twisting it between his fingers like he’s found something sacred. “Reallyold.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. Thinking about the pictures in that box, twenty-two years, and realizing, for the first time, that it might actually be impossible to recover these now. I have no idea how long film keeps, what the images would even look like if we could get them developed. “It got lost in some clutter, but I guess I was wondering, I washoping—”
“Sure, yeah, I can do it,” the man says, squinting as he pulls at the tape. “It’ll take some time, though.”
“That’s fine,” I say, glancing at my watch. “A couple hours?”
“Try a couple days,” he says. “Maybe a week.”
“Aweek?”
