Page 7 of Forget Me Not
Her twin bed forever unslept in, a closet full of clothes forever unworn.
I take a deep breath, forcing my thumbs to dance away at the screen. Then I type a few words, delete them. Rephrase, type something else, as I remember my dad’s plea not to mention his name before finally settling on something casual, vague.
Thinking about coming home for a visit. Any chance my room is open?
I shoot off the text and close my eyes, my jugular pulsing hard in my neck. I realize, after I’ve sent it, that it’s one in the morning and my mom is probably asleep—that, and she’s notoriously bad about checking her phone, anyway; it can sometimes take days for her to get back to a text—so I open my eyes and stand up quick,ready to make my way to bed when I feel the phone vibrate in my hand.
I look down, the screen suddenly bright in my palm as my mom’s number appears on the display, a genericMin place of a picture because I didn’t have any recent ones to use.
I swipe up, holding my breath as I read her response.
Would love to have you. The room is yours.
CHAPTER 4
I know I’m close by the scents seeping in through the open windows: salt, mud, the sticky film of the air itself gripping to my skin like drying glue. I rolled them down an hour ago, once I started to approach the coast, the exhaust from the city replaced by aromas I know deep down in my bones.
I can feel my hair whipping in the wind, strands getting stuck to the wet of my lips, the corners of my eyes. My phone perched in my cup holder, Google Maps narrating each turn because I’ve forgotten how to find my way home.
It’s funny, the things the brain chooses to recall. I can’t for the life of me remember street names but I instinctually know the tide is low solely based on the smell.
I take a left, the map now telling me I’m five minutes away. The sky is peach pink, a little bubble of orange barely visible on the horizon, and I watch as it shimmers against the water like the Earth itself is holding a mirror. Despite my fifteen years away, it’s a warmly familiar sight: the water, the reeds, the shade of green thatglows so bright it looks practically neon at dusk. Comforting like an old stuffed animal, a childhood blanket wrapped warm around my shoulders.
I had forgotten, until this moment, that there are good things about this place, too. That it isn’t all synonymous with death.
I take a right, my car winding down a street that looks vaguely familiar like recognizing a face from my past but not being able to place the name. It’s so surreal to be back here, so haunting and strange, and I feel myself twitch as my phone rings through the speakers, the sudden sound pulling me out of my trance.
“Hey, Claire. Your renter is here,” Ryan says as soon as I answer. “I just dropped off the keys.”
“Thank you.” I exhale, a physical relief at this last piece of my plan clicking into place. I had found a tenant in record time, some intern in town for the summer, so after a flurry of deep cleaning, a couple hours spent hiding the evidence of my recent decay, I had collected my three thousand dollars and left the place in pristine condition with a request for Ryan to occasionally pick up my mail. “I really appreciate it.”
“Sure, any time.”
His voice cracks and I glance down at my screen, realizing I only have one bar of service. Claxton is in the middle of nowhere, a tiny little town surrounded by nothing but other small towns. The reception out here is probably terrible, a problem that hadn’t even occurred to me when I was a kid.
“Hey, look, I’ve been thinking a lot about what you told me at Vern’s,” he continues, his voice a little hesitant now, a little embarrassed, like he isn’t sure if he should keep talking. “And I just wanted to say that I think this will be good. Healing.”
“Healing,” I repeat, only half listening as my eye catches a glimpse of the next road sign, my old street now coming into view.
“You having a reason to finally go home.”
I stay silent, not sure how to respond.
“Have you ever heard of exposure therapy?” he asks, and I can’t help but smirk. Ryan has always been into this kind of thing: wellness blogs and self-help books, happiness podcasts and name-dropping his therapist in casual conversation. Like every small tragedy is an opportunity togrow.“Avoiding the thing you’re afraid of only gives it more power.”
“I’m notafraid—” I start to argue, my denial trailing off once I realize my hands are clasped too tight on the wheel.
I study the whites of my knuckles, their gentle shake.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, trying to backtrack, and I’m grateful he can’t see the way I’ve relaxed their grip, flexing my fingers to loosen them back up. “I just mean that you haven’t been home in fifteen years. That’s a lot of emotional weight. But if you expose yourself to it, little by little, maybe it can start to release its control.”
I push down my turn signal, distracted as my old house comes into view. It’s exactly as I remember it, brick by brick, almost as if time has been paralyzed in this little corner of the world. I can see the same tuft of weeds pushing its way through the pavement, the one I used to trip over when I ran up the driveway before coming down hard on stinging palms. There’s the familiar tangle of jasmine crawling its way up the walls, the citronella my mom planted to scare away the mosquitos. Rows of gap-toothed blinds covering the windows, the same slats still missing after all these years… although it does feel slightly smaller, somehow. Like the cartilage is wearing, shrinking down. The bones of the place shriveling with age.
“Claire?” Ryan asks when I don’t respond.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m having a hard time hearing you,” I lie, realizing I’ve been holding all the air deep in my throat, an old superstition like the place is a graveyard and I’m afraid it might come to life if I breathe. “The service out here. It’s not the best.”
“Oh, sure. I’ll let you go then,” he says. “But you can do this, Claire. I know you can.”
