Page 33 of Forget Me Not
But if shedidn’tleave on purpose, if she was somehow taken against her will, then her own words might be my only way to find out.
I grab it before I can change my mind, hoisting the diary up by its spine and revealing the picture tucked underneath. I forgot this was in here, the print I slipped in as I shuffled around that first morning, slowly unpacking all my things.
The picture of Natalie, here, in this same place.
I lower the diary onto my lap, lifting the picture from its home in the drawer and holding it between my still-slick fingers as I realize thatthisis the real reason I can’t seem to stop digging. This is the thing that’s been nagging at me, pulling at me to keep going like two fingers tugging at yarn, desperate to watch it all unravel and reveal the answers hidden beneath.
It’s the fact that there are parallels between Marcia and my sister that I cannot even begin to explain. Their lives, their stories, despite them occurring two decades apart, seeming to be inexplicably linked.
I slide the picture into the journal before standing up from the chair and walking back to the bed, easing my body onto the sheets. Then I flip to the latest entry, hesitating for a second as I look at thedate scrawled at the top of the page. It’s just a few months before Marcia would go missing and something about this moment feels like a point of no return, a crossroads between two conflicting paths as I stand dead in the center, gazing into the darkness ahead.
I stare down at the text, Marcia’s quaint cursive like a curling finger beckoning me in. Then I take a deep breath and continue to read.
CHAPTER 22
JANUARY 1984
She visited the Farm for the first time on a Tuesday.
It was Christmas break and Marcia had finally found a few weeks of freedom, her school shut down for over a month. Her father had been preoccupied at work, her mother preoccupied with all the things that weren’t her, so she had managed to get away for a while. Lying about spending the day at the library, not wanting to fall behind at school.
She was getting good at that. Lying. Every falsity that came trickling out of her mouth easier to stomach than the one that came before.
She chewed on the side of her cuticle now as they bumped down a gravel roadway, Mitchell leading her farther from home and deeper into the wild unknown. She had no idea where they were going but instead of asking him outright, trying to pry out an answer she knew he wouldn’t reveal, she simply slid off her shoes and propped her feet up on the dash, glancing out the windowwhile they passed each road sign. Entering and exiting various small towns as winter’s cool fingers brushed through her hair.
Her eyes darted down to the clock, half an hour gone since they had left.
“We’re close,” Mitchell said, reading her mind, so she turned toward the window again, skin prickling as a woman outside eyed their approach. She was older, back hunched as she shuffled out to her mailbox. Twin slits for eyes as they roared past.
Her gaze drifted to the rearview, watching as the woman continued to stare in their direction until her body was nothing more than a silhouette in the dust.
The car took a left, finally, a narrow ribbon of dirt adjacent to a small stream leading them into a field just ahead. Then she dropped her feet to the floor and leaned toward the windshield, searching for any indication of life. There was nothing around here—no neighborhoods or apartment buildings, nowhere a person could actually live—until she noticed a ramshackle house standing off in the distance, a collection of bodies lying out in the grass.
“Is this—?” she started, trying to choose her words with care. She didn’t want to offend him, but at the same time, she couldn’t imagine a person living like this.
“Home,” Mitchell said simply. “This is home.”
Marcia swallowed, her attention narrowing in on the house creeping closer… although she quickly realized it wasn’t a house. Instead, it looked like a barn, weathered and worn. Spongy brown wood with holes like craters pocking the surface. The double doors were swung open wide and she watched as a woman appeared from inside, bare feet stopping in front of the entrance as she raised up a hand to shield the sun from her eyes.
“There’s something I need to take care of,” Mitchell said as the camper made its final approach, though Marcia was still trying to take it all in. The place was littered with junk: a small blue bicyclewith a dislodged chain, an old mattress splotchy with mold. There was a dog loping around, ribs visible through matted fur. A couple cars clumped together beneath the bony arms of a sweetgum. “Go ahead and join the others. I want you to think of this as your home now, too.”
She opened her mouth, the two other people lying in the meadow slowly perking up as they parked. Then she turned toward Mitchell, so many questions quivering on her lips, but he had already opened the door and was stepping outside, slamming it shut before she could respond.
She leaned back, exhaling slowly as he walked away. Picking at that phrase,the others,like a scab that was starting to itch. It was the same phrase he had used when they lay in his camper a few weeks ago, his fingers resting gently in the dip of her throat. She still didn’t know what that meant, who they were, but now that she could see them, now that they were no longer some nebulous notion, she felt the words starting to squeeze at her chest. A coiling snake crushing the life from her lungs. After all, the existence ofothersimplied that Mitchell was a part of a group, a piece of a whole. Something Marcia had never experienced before. Up until that point, she was under the impression that it was just them, just thetwoof them, and a small part of her resented the fact that there were nowothersthrown into the mix… but at the same time, she was drawn to the idea of belonging to something. Of no longer floating through life so alone.
She twisted her neck, observing as Mitchell made his way to the cars. At first, she had thought they were empty, but now she noticed the outline of a person in one of the driver’s seats. The shadow of a man, twitchy and gaunt, his body slouched deep in the seat.
She watched as Mitchell opened the passenger door, sliding inside the occupied car. Then she turned back around and glancedout the windshield, the three other people present on the property now staring directly at her.
She sighed, forcing herself to get out of the camper before making her way across the field. The grass was calf-high, itchy against her exposed ankles. The entire place filled with weeds and wildflowers, vegetation in various states of bloom. Every single step felt heavy with effort as if her body itself was screaming in protest, warning her not to get too close… but at the same time, her mind kept replaying Mitchell’s words from before, his command that she meet the others without him. The sound of his voice overriding everything else as the orders throbbed like a pulse, a rhythmic beating inside her mind that forced her feet to keep moving forward until they stopped next to the girl in front of the barn.
“Hi,” Marcia said, a whiff of something strong wafting in her direction: the sour smell of body odor mixing with a scent that was herbal and damp. The girl was still squinting into the sun with that outstretched hand hovering over her brow and Marcia glanced at the other hand dangling down by her hip, a smoking roach clutched in her grip. Then her gaze traveled back up, carefully taking in the body before her. The girl was about Marcia’s height, maybe a little bit shorter, dishwater hair twisted in knots and a constellation of pimples across her chin like a rash. She wore a linen dress, cream-colored and crinkled. Not even remotely close to the right size.
“I’m Marcia,” she continued, cracking a shy smile, though the girl stayed silent, lifting the joint back to her lips. Her hands were dirty, what looked like dried blood caked into the corners of her nails. A collection of rings squeezed over each finger and eyes reminiscent of a summer storm.
The girl exhaled, finally gifting her with the smallest of smiles in return.
“Marcia,” she repeated, a ribbon of smoke rolling off the curl of her tongue. “Welcome to the Farm.”
