Page 42 of Forget Me Not
The same one she has almost every time I see her. A clean, simple, ceramic white.
I peer inside, finding it empty except for some leafy residue caked to the bottom. Then I pick it up, my theory about Mitchell continuing to grow as I push the pad of my finger into the base, feeling a few leaves stick to the surface of my skin.
I pull my hand out, bringing it slowly up to my nose. There’s a hint of something herbal, a concoction of smells I can’t recognize. Then I bring my fingers to Marcia’s neck as I check for a pulse.
It feels strong and steady, albeit somewhat slow, but still, she’s breathing. She’s breathing fine.
I put the mug down, trying to think through what to do next. Talking to Marcia clearly isn’t an option, but now I realize I might have something better.
Now, I have free rein to search their home.
I pull out my phone and glance at the clock—ten minutes have passed since Mitchell left—and decide to poke around a bit, see if there’s anything here that might help. I start in the kitchen, opening the fridge and scanning the contents. Finding all the right things in all the right places, nothing jumping out as out of place. Then I move toward the cabinets, opening the doors to find a bunch of canisters of dried herbs. I sniff a few, not sure what they are, before I make my way back into the foyer, trailing my fingers across the banister.
I lean back, checking to make sure that Marcia’s still asleep. I can just barely see her from down the hall but I can tell that her eyes are still closed, her breathing steady, so I take the stairs two at a time, making my way to the second floor and cringing as the old wood creaks. Once I hit the landing, I find one long hallwaywith three closed doors—two on one end, one on the other—and it makes me blink for a second, my mind suddenly back on our hallway at home. The layouts of the houses are practically identical and I picture our two rooms now, the way Natalie’s and mine were situated side by side.
How I would lie in bed and hold my breath, listening for traces of life through the walls before I heard her leave and slipped in behind her, snooping through her stuff like I’m doing right now.
I shake my head, ignoring the hammering of my heart in my ears, and decide to start with the door on the left.
I approach the knob, twisting it gently and peering inside. It seems to be a guest room with a full bed in the center and two small tables on either side, a large wooden dresser pushed flush to the wall. The bed is made, a checkered blue quilt folded tight across each corner, and I think about stepping in farther, looking around, when I realize twenty minutes have probably passed. There isn’t much evidence of life in here. The walls are sparse, all the lights off, and if it is just a guest room, I’d be better off using my remaining minutes in Mitchell’s room instead.
The room where he probably spends most of his time, the room he’s most likely to stash his secrets.
I close the door and peek inside the second door beside it, finding a small bathroom that’s immaculately clean. I do a cursory scan of the cabinet, sneak a peek behind the shower curtain, before I close the door and make my way back down the hall. My eyes trained on the last room left.
I grip the knob, my breath held in my throat as it turns.
The room behind this door is the primary bedroom, unmistakably, and I step inside, keeping it open to ensure I can hear any noises from downstairs. The first thing I spot are two windows facing the front of the property and I walk toward them quickly, glancing outside. The driveway is still empty, nothing but tiretracks where Mitchell’s truck is typically parked. Liam is sitting in the shade of a live oak, eating his lunch, so I turn around and start my scan of the bedroom, pulling open various drawers as I search.
I find a tube of hand cream and a wad of thin tissues, a couple torn bookmarks and crumpled receipts. Then I close the drawers again, sighing as I survey the rest of the room. There are some clothes scattered across the ground, balled-up socks and a stray pair of sweatpants peeking out from beneath the bed… and then I notice a patch of the floor that looks different than the rest, the boards slightly lighter than the ones that surround it.
I drop to my knees, running my hands along the edge of the boards. The lighter ones are slightly loose like they were ripped out once, the wood worn down from being repeatedly handled, and I dig my fingers under one of the planks, surprised to find it comes up easily. It isn’t nailed down; instead, there’s a hollow spot beneath it with some kind of fabric stuffed deep inside, so I keep lifting the others, removing two more until there’s a distinct hole in the floor.
I peer in, a knife in my chest when I see what’s there.
It’s a bag, charcoal black and covered in dust, and I feel my fingers shake as I think back to August of 2002, somehow just yesterday and a whole lifetime ago. Then I take a deep breath, imagining myself listening as Natalie opened her window, grabbing a bag from deep in her closet before climbing her way down that old tree.
A bag that looked just like the one I’m staring at right now.
A bag that disappeared the same night she did.
CHAPTER 28
My hands are shaking as I reach my arms out, lifting the duffel from its hollowed spot in the floor.
There are clumps of gray grime clinging to the fabric, the musty smell making me stifle a sneeze. Then I pull it onto my lap, the tips of my fingers grazing the surface before reaching for the zipper and yanking it open. I’m terrified to learn what might be in here, bracing myself to find more of Natalie’s things—clothes I might recognize or, God forbid, the remains of her body that have yet to be found—but instead, the wordBERKELEYappears from between the two lips and I twist my head, eyeing an old sweatshirt folded on top.
I touch the fabric, faded blue cotton with the collegiate name stitched in white thread. Then I feel a shiver travel down the length of my spine as I think back to one of Marcia’s earliest entries.
This is the sweatshirt she found in the camper, the one she wrapped around her shoulders as she and Mitchell lay in the dark.
I pick it up now, rubbing the cotton between my fingers. The strangest feeling washing over me like I had actually been in therewith them, like I had physically been in that car. It feels suddenly surreal, the idea of Marcia’s words on the page actually existing in real life; this thing in my hands being the exact same thing she held forty-one years ago. The same thing I read about my first night here. It’s like a part of me hadn’t been convinced of the diary’s truth before, those pages a portal to some strange, separate world, but just like finding Lily’s name scratched in the desk, discovering the location of Marcia’s childhood home, this old sweatshirt now clutched in my hands feels like more irrefutable proof that her recollections are actually real.
That the events in those pages really did happen.
I drape the sweatshirt across my lap and unfold it slowly, the cloth smelling like dust and decay. Then I think of the diary again, Marcia describing the way she tried to stitch Mitchell together piece by piece.
Not all that different from what I’m doing right now.
