Page 34 of Forget Me Not
The afternoon crawled by in a lazy haze, the first hour spent perusing the property as the girl took her on what felt like an official tour. There was hardly anything at all to show but Marcia watched as she gestured to various inanimate objects, a catch in her voice that sounded like pride.
“This is the willow,” she said, sucking the last of the cigarette down before tossing it onto the ground, a mound of dark dirt that looked newly churned. “It’s a good place to get some shade when it’s hot. The firepit,” she continued, gesturing next to an ashen pile of debris. “We cook our meals over the flames each night.”
Marcia nodded politely, keeping her distance. The entire thing feeling like some strange dream.
“This is the bedroom,” the girl said as they made their way into the barn, Marcia watching as she pointed to a heap of sleeping bags in the center; another mattress with a big yellow stain. “Of course, there’s the camper, too,” she continued, as if that were obvious. “We take turns, but that’s where Mitch sleeps.”
Marcia nodded like she understood, though she wasn’t sure whattaking turnsmeant.
“So, where did he find you?” she asked next, though Marcia was still glancing around, soaking it in. There were piles of food on the other side of the room, bags of potatoes sprouting spindly roots and a pyramid of pears dotted with flies. The place was musty, stale, smelled faintly of rot, and she felt herself swallow a sudden swell of nausea, the sharp taste of bile climbing its way up her throat. Still, there were things that made it feel oddly homey. Funny little details like a pink pillowcase nailed over a window, tied like a curtain with a piece of frayed string. A dining room table holding a vase of deadflowers, the water inside cloudy and green. There was a tall tower of books in the corner, pages stained yellow like nicotine teeth.
“Mitch,” the girl pushed, and Marcia turned toward her, those curious eyes taking her in. “Where did he find you?”
“Oh,” she said, feeling her spine straighten like a string that had been pulled too taut. Something about the question struck her as strange, though she wasn’t exactly sure what it was. “We met at the theater,” she replied, realizing it was that word,find,that made her uneasy. Like Marcia was some kind of odd collectible; something Mitchell had discovered and slipped into his pocket. Some lost, damaged thing in need of a home. “Romeo and Juliet.”
The girl smirked and Marcia felt herself flush like she had just been caught in a lie. It was the truth, technically, but she knew the way she said it had been misleading. Making it sound like more than what it actually was.
“I didn’t know Mitch was into movies.”
She swallowed, her throat dry as she unearthed the other thing that was making her edgy. It was the fact that this girl kept calling himMitch,three times now, a nickname Marcia had never used herself but slipped out of this other mouth so easily it was obvious the girl said it often.
That her bond with Mitchell, withMitch,was clearly deeper than Marcia’s own.
“What about you?” she asked, a territorial stirring rising from the deepest depths of her chest. “Where did Mitch find you?”
The girl smiled again, as if she, too, could hear how wrong the name sounded on Marcia’s own tongue. While this other girl said it so coolly, as fluid as the smoke that coiled out of her mouth, coming from Marcia it felt clunky and awkward like a foreign language she hadn’t yet mastered. Her desperation so sour it left a lingering taste.
“Digging through a dumpster looking for lunch.”
Marcia blinked, the unfiltered honesty catching her off guard.
“This is Annie,” the girl said next, changing the topic quick as whiplash before turning around and walking back outside. Marcia jogged to keep up, suddenly remembering the two other people lying out there, and she watched as the second girl glanced up, smiling softly at the sound of her name. Her legs were stretched out in front of her; long blond hair spilling over her shoulders as her bare feet bounced back and forth in the grass.
“Montana,” her host continued, gesturing now to the man beside Annie, who simply jerked his chin in their general direction.
“And… you?” Marcia asked, realizing the girl never gave her a name.
“Lillian,” she said, reaching out to grab Marcia’s hand. Then she looked down, ten frail fingers hugging tight at her wrists; the sweat from the girl’s skin like a warm, wet kiss. “But everyone here just calls me Lily.”
CHAPTER 23
My eyes are fixed to the inside of the desk, that single sentence scratched into the old, worn wood. Then I reach in my hand and rub my finger against it as if the motion itself will buff away all my questions and expose the answers hidden beneath. The etching is weathered, soft like hide, and even though I don’t yet know what it means, it still feels like I’ve taken the smallest step forward, so I stare until the words are branded into my brain.
Lily was here.
It’s morning now, another sixA.M.,muted pastels leaking into the sky as the cabin starts to grow warm in the sun. I’m running on only a few hours of sleep so I tilt my mug back and drain the rest of my extra-strong coffee. The much-needed caffeine making me shake.
I slide the drawer shut and push my chair back, shuffling over to the kitchen as I stare through the window. My senses blunted like my brain is stuffed full of gauze. Once again, I had stayed up too late reading, and although Marcia’s diary is full, every singlepage filled with her words, I had made a sizable dent, making my way through almost two months. I could practically feel her nerves bleeding out of the ink, smelled the whispers of smoke still trapped in her lungs after she got home from that first day at the Farm. Imagined her crawling into bed with her diary in her lap, blue pen racing across every page as her mind stayed stuck on Mitchell and the others still out in that field; a bonfire burning hot between them and the sound of crickets as the sun set.
I want you to think of this as your home now, too.
I place my mug into the sink before rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands, trying in vain to wake myself up. Then I hear a low growl and look down slowly, recognizing the hollow snarl of my stomach. I never ate dinner last night, I’ve hardly eaten anything in almost a day, so I open the fridge and grab a few eggs, breaking their shells on the edge of the counter and scrambling them in a small skillet on the stove.
I pour my breakfast onto a plate, steam twisting in the air as I pick at the pile.
I take a small bite, chewing slowly. My gaze trained on my laptop on the other side of the room as Marcia’s memories play out like a movie in my mind. There’s something that’s been nagging at me, some strange sensation ducked just beneath the surface ever since I found that diary pushed into the vent, imagined Natalie’s voice narrating the events on the page. Discovered that first article about Marcia going missing—the open window, the lost bag—all these little details between her and my sister that seem to be so much the same.
I walk to the desk and tap at my laptop, clicking into my search history and finding the article I first showed Ryan, the one about Natalie from back at the bar.
