Read below for an excerpt from Forget Me Not by Stacey Nash:
Chapter 1
It’s not getting
any easier to tell my mother what’s
happened, what she’s missed,
what’s been going on in my life. It’s not
getting any easier to survive each day without her. It’s
not getting
any easier to think of her and not
cry. Elbow on my writing desk and
chin cupped in my hand, I stare at
the yellow notepaper. The lines across it
are as empty as my pounding head. The spot where
the tip of my favorite pen touches is marked by a growing dot, evidence that there are no right words.
It’s sure as heck not getting any easier.
Hoping to
find inspiration, I glance at the photo waiting
to be slipped into the envelope with
this letter. Normally I put aside a
nature shot for her, but this one’s a ‘selfie’ of me and Will. His sandy hair looks kind of messy the way it falls into his
bright eyes, and his arm, resting over
my shoulders so naturally,
pulls us close together. Our grins say
more than words ever can.
Twirling the
pen between my fingers, I gaze out the
window at the soft autumn afternoon and daydream about what to write. A
distant clang like metal against
metal sounds from outside. Will must
be at it again. I shoot up, lean over the desk, and raise the window, letting
a rush of warm air brush my face.
His jean
clad legs stick out from under the
hood of a beat-up car parked in their yard.
That car is like a
full time job, he works on it so often now. He backs out and
hoists a motor, or something,
onto his shoulder, lifting like it weighs
no more than his kid sister. He
looks up, catches me watching him, and grins. I wave and, with a sigh, plonk back into the chair, dropping my gaze to the blank
sheet in front of me. I really want to write her.
For nine years I’ve been writing
these letters and placing them in my top drawer
with a photo. It’s become a
yearly tradition. At least if we ever find Mom, she’ll know what my life’s been like.
Nothing
comes to me. None of the thoughts ambling
through my mind are quite right, so I drop the pen, pinch my lips together, and tap my fingers on the desk in a sharp rhythm that cuts through
my aching head. I need the right words.
I last saw
her on an ordinary March school day the year
I was eight. She packed my lunch,
gave me a kiss on the cheek, and
waved goodbye. I climbed into the bus.
As she stood on the curb,
she didn’t look happy or sad, scared
or frightened—just the same as any
other day.
Heaviness squeezes
my chest and makes each inhalation of breath hurt. I’ve played
that day back in my mind over and over, analyzed every detail: her
wave, her smile, her words, her haunted look. Did she know it was goodbye?
Not knowing leaves a complete emptiness inside me. Knowing if she’s alive or
dead, or why she
hasn’t come back would make it so much easier. Especially since Dad barely mentions her anymore, and no matter how many times I turn her
photos around, they continue to spin and face
the wall. I guess it’s just too
hard for him.
I shake my head in an effort to expel the
memories, but it’s no use. The lines on the
paper blur, my eyes slide shut, and it hurts too much. I can’t do this right now. Grabbing my camera off the desk, I slam the window shut and run down the stairs,
shouting to Dad, “I’ll be back for dinner.”
“Wait. Can you grab milk?”
He walks out
of the kitchen, a five dollar bill pinched between his fingers. I pluck it from his outstretched hand and turn to leave, but his hand closes over my shoulder, spinning me around.
“Everything okay?”
I close my
eyes and expel a long breath. He won’t
want to hear it, so there’s no point sharing. “I miss her, too.”
He pulls me into his chest, and it’s too much. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I throw my arms around
him, holding him as tight as I can while he
runs a hand over my head.
“Sweetheart.”
I cling to him.
“It’s just…”
“I know.”
He holds me
for a long time, until
my tears stop.
When I pull away, I
rub the telltale streaks from my
cheeks, and shove the money in
my pocket. “Milk, right?”
He nods, and
I turn for the door. “Anamae,”
he says, “I love you, kid.”
A weak
smile raises my lips. “Love you, too.”
Outside, I head straight
to the white picket fence separating our yard from Will’s. He’s been my
best friend since he moved
here in the sixth grade, and I’m so
grateful his parents decided quiet suburbia
was a better place to live than
the inner city.
I slap my hands onto
the flat tips and stretch
over, calling, “Will.”
He
peers around the corner of
the house, and the
sight of his
smile is enough to
rattle this awful mood.
“Sure. Two minutes.”
Fishing
for weeds in the garden occupies
the time while I wait. The
Averys have the nicest
yard on our street. A
perfectly manicured lawn complete with stone
statues and spiky plants in white pebble
gardens. Will’s
mom likes being fashionable and modern,
obvious from the gravel now crunching under his feet. Appearances aren’t important. Sure it’s nice to look good, but
it’s not the thing that matters most.
That’s one of the things
she just doesn’t get about me. I always wear faded jeans and comfy t-shirts,
yet she
constantly tries to dress me
up. Make me look like a girl. Still, she’s been like a second mom to me. She even
gave me The Talk. I just about
died when I realized what was happening.
Will’s coming.
“Hi, Mae.”
“Hey.” I grin. Love it when he shortens
my name.
We stroll down our wide path and turn onto the next street.
It’s only a few blocks
from our street to a small cluster of shops. The short walk, fresh air, and Will’s banter help lighten my mood. The cafe
comes into sight, and I grab
his hand, dragging him across the road
toward another storefront—an old shop. Aqua paint peels off the
brick walls around huge glass windows,
and two stories rise up
above us. Like all the shops on
this street, a big tin awning
slants out over the pavement,
and a balcony juts out above. Albert’s
Second-Hand Treasures
emblazons a window spanning the shop’s
front. Through the window
piles of odd stuff
are visible, cluttering the inside. According to the kids at
school, it’s evidence the
old man who owns the store is a little unhinged, which earns this place the nickname, Crazy Al’s. But to me, it’s far more than that. ‘Crazy Al’s’ been a part of my life almost as long Will.
“Bet you can’t find the weirdest
one today,” I say.
Will raises his brows and shoots me a look that says ‘you’re
insane.’ “Really, this old game? I thought you wanted to get coffee.”
“Oh, come
on. I need some childish fun.” I lean in toward him an smile. “Bet you can’t
win.”
I also need
to see Al, not to talk… just see him. His grandfatherly ways might make me feel
better.
I drag Will
toward the front door, and all the while he
shakes his head and scuffs his heels. “Okay, but
loser buys coffee,” he finally
says, “and cake.”
He pushes me
through the door, making the bell
overhead jingle. As he heads toward a
large table in the far corner of the
shop, a small smile crosses my lips. Glancing toward the counter, I stop
at a long bench and paw through
ancient yellowing books and
old jewelry scattering it in a disorganized mess. I’ve no idea how Al even knows what’s here.
Al raises his white-grey frizzy-haired head from the newspaper sprawled on the
glass counter. His bushy eyebrows
lift, and he throws me a warm smile which somehow makes me feel a little better.
Running my hand over the ‘treasures,’ I stop at a ceramic owl perched amongst the clutter
on the table. When I turn it over
in my hand, chubby little claws grip the
sides of a skateboard. I hold it up so Will can see it. “Check this out.”
“A skating owl?” Will
laughs. “I can top that.”
He holds up a book
with the title Peanuts
in Love. On
the cover two peanuts hold hands, their cute little shell bodies in a
sea
of pink hearts.
“Not good enough.” I scan the table looking
for something better and spot a pile
of
old movies scattered over the next table. I move them aside one by one,
looking for a good title. Sunlight dances across the
table and glints off
something shiny. A blue flower
with a yellow center. My heart jumps,
the only part of me still moving. It can’t be.
Surely Dad didn’t pawn it or give it to Al. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It can’t possibly have been made into something else.
A small noise
of surprise
escapes my lax mouth, and a memory flashes into my mind: the pendant lying on Mom’s pillow the day she disappeared.
Will chuckles
from the corner. I drag my gaze away from the flower
brooch to see a bright
pink pith hat sitting atop his sandy head. He eyes my open
palm, which now holds the brooch.
“You call that weird?”
I run my fingers
over the cool glazed
metal, and a lump grows in my throat.
“It’s the same as the forget-me-not pendant
Mom always wore.”
Not missing a beat, he raises his voice toward the back of the shop. “How much?”
Al pauses in
his perusal of the
paper, two fingertips touching
his tongue as if to dampen them as he
flicks a page over. His bushy
eyebrows lift, and he clears his throat.
“Gosh, lad, for that?” I hold up the brooch, and Al squints at it. “It’s for
Mae?” He smiles at me.
“Yep.” Will pulls his wallet out,
and empties the coins into
his cupped hand.
“Nothing,” Al
says, then flicks his gaze to me. “Tell your Dad poker’s on
tomorrow night. All the boys are coming.”
I return
his smile with a nod. “Sure thing, Al.”
“Take care, Mae.” He doesn’t mention
today’s Mom’s anniversary—the day she disappeared, but he doesn’t have to. Even though
he never knew her, I’ve always suspected it’s why
he took me and Dad under his wing. Especially after Nan died; her death upended the last slither of
normalcy we had.
“No refunds….” Al says.
“Without magic,”
I chime in on his usual farewell. No wonder people
think he’s crazy,
since he’s always saying stupid things. A
sign hangs on the wall above the counter mimicking
his words. No refunds without magic.
We walk
out the door, and the
bell jingles. “You owe me cake,”
Will says.
“I do not. The brooch won.”
“No way, the peanuts
definitely—”
“The peanuts
did not beat the skating
owl,” I say, and we both
laugh.
I want
to go home. I want to go straight to mom’s pendant. I want to
compare it to this brooch, but I promised
Will cake and coffee.
He’d understand, but it wouldn’t be
fair after dragging
him out here. Although
it makes me a little impatient, I’ll wait.
~*~
After
hanging out with Will, I climb the stairs into
the rarely used, cold, dark attic.
Goose bumps prickle my arms with each step. This place is so
eerie. Holding my hand out, I grope around
in the dark until it closes around the cord for the light switch. A sharp tug illuminates the room with a soft glow which highlights the dust floating in the air. Pressure
grows in my nose, and I hold my
breath to suppress a building sneeze.
A corner of the chest which holds all my mother’s most precious possessions peeks out from behind
cardboard boxes. I need to see the pendant and make sure it hasn’t somehow been altered and made into this brooch. Something
so precious to her can’t be lost. A wooden creaking noise makes me spin around so fast my neck kinks, but the entry is empty. Phew. If Dad catches me up here… don’t think about it. He won’t know, as long as the driveway stays empty of his car, I’m safe.
A tight knot
grows in my chest, anyway. An image of Mom running her thumb over the charm
she wore everyday lingers in my mind.
I ease open
the lid of the chest. Love letters,
a few small items of jewelry, and other precious odds and ends rest on top of a discolored wedding
dress, as if every last item was placed in here with care. Dust
and the smell of moth balls make my nose twitch and finally bring on
the sneeze.
Blue fabric,
the same color as the brooch, peeps
out between a stack of old
envelopes. I slide it out of the bunch with care and peel
back the fabric, my fingers slipping on the soft, smooth
silk. My breath catches at the sight of my mother’s pendant.
My memories of it
remained unchanged by time. It’s exactly
as I recall. Five blue petals come to a yellow center, creating the shape of a forget-me-not flower. The
pendant hangs on a long chain with shiny, silver looped
links.
The sight of it brings
back so many memories. The only time I ever saw my parents fight…
Mom shouted so loud I covered my ears, and Dad responded in a low emotionless voice. Young and
scared, I hid in the curtains while she screamed. Her last words were punctuated by her yanking the pendant off
and tossing it across the room.
Dad scooped it up, crossed the room in
long strides and pulled her to him.
His fingers traced the edge of her face before
he kissed her. He lowered
the pendant over her head, and the
angry lines on her face
melted into a smile. It’s not exactly a good memory, but it was her.
Now, I find myself smiling, too. Surely he won’t mind
if I wear it. Something so precious to her shouldn’t be left to rust
in the attic. I’m almost certain
she’d want me to have it, so I slide the pendant into my pocket with the
brooch and pack the other contents of
the box away.
Easing the
door closed, I climb out of the attic
and head to the bathroom to clean my dust-covered hands. Water rushes from the spout and splashes against the
sides as the basin fills. A
reflection of me stares back at me
from the mirror, my dirty hand clutching my aching chest. Today everything feels so raw, open, and fresh, like it
only just happened.
She should still be here.
Rubbing my
hands clean, I delve into my pocket for the
jewelry. Bringing it to my collar, I
pin the brooch into my blouse. The hard edges
prick my skin. My thumb brushes over
the
smooth, round sides of the pendant and when I pull it over my head, the chain catches on my hair. After I
twist it through the tangle so it
finally falls cool against my skin,
it nestles in the hollow
of my throat. I pick it up
between my fingers and with reverent slow strokes, rub my thumb over the shiny yellow center—the
pendant Mom never took off.
A shiver
shoots up my spine and out through my limbs like an electric current, zapping
every cell, every fiber,
every part of my being. Walking on graves, that’s what Mom would have said. Maybe it’s an omen about her.
I plant my
palms on either side of the full
basin and peer into the still water, taking a
moment to collect my thoughts. The water reflects only the cream
ceiling. That can’t be right. I do a double take.
My chest
tightens. I hold my hand up, but I can’t see
it—not my arm, not my chewed fingernails,
not my leather watch on my wrist.
Where am I? Mouth gaping, I look into the mirror again, but I see nothing.
Not even my
face.
I dip my
finger into the warm, reflection-free water.
Circles ripple in ever growing
rings, but there’s no image. My gaze flits to the mirror, but I see only
the open door. I have no reflection.
My stomach
flutters like a thousand butterflies are
trying to escape it. I slap my palm onto my chest, and I can still feel me. I
must be here. When I slide the
pendant over my head, my reflection
blinks onto the mirror. Huh? Pulling
it back on, my hand brushes the cool
metal. The ripple goes through
me again. I look into the mirror,
and once more my reflection’s gone.
I grab my hairbrush
from the drawer and wave it around in the air, but its image isn’t cast in the mirror either. It has
to be magic, but that’s only in
fairytales. Will’s not going
to believe this, not in a million years. I pull the pendant over my head
and my reflection returns. No way. It can’t be, but it is. I’m almost certain it’s making me invisible, but how?
I put it
on—invisible. Take it off—visible.
It doesn’t
make any sense. How can something like this—like those video games Will plays—even exist? It must be a magical artifact or some kind of prank. My shoulders shake with a chuckle while I stare at myself in the
mirror. This is unreal. I bet he’s gone right back to working on his car. He’ll love this. Ha! Now let’s
see who found the weirdest treasure. I slide it back on and
wipe my damp hands on my jeans.
Watch out Will, I’m going to
sneak up and scare the life right out of you.
A sharp rap,
someone knocking on the front door,
echoes up the stairs. I duck into my room, unpin the brooch, and place both forget-me-nots in the jewelry box on my
dresser. The rap sounds again. “Coming.”
I bound down the stairs,
through the living room, and yank the
door open.
A man in
blue overalls carrying a toolbox holds a yellow box-like thing snug in his palm. “My name is Thomas.
I’m from the East Coast Natural Gas Company. There’s
been a gas leak reported
in this area, so I need to check the levels in your home. It won’t take
a minute.”
A green
flame and fancy words, the logo for East Coast Natural Gas, are embroidered on his loose,
navy overalls. He’s legit,
so I unlock the screen and pull it open,
letting him inside.
“Sure.”
The man’s gaze
meets mine as he walks past
me, into the living room. He
scratches his head of close-cropped dark hair, and moves his hand to his chin, rubbing it along
the shadow of facial hair lining his jaw.
I scrape my
palm across my forehead, suddenly
recalling my recent vanishing act. He spoke first.
I must be visible again. Phew. I
didn’t forget to take it off.
“Ignore the mess,” I say.
He holds the yellow gas meter out in front of him, his eyes never leaving the small flashing
green light. He walks in straight
lines across the living room.
Crossing my arms over my chest,
I tap my foot. Hurry up. I’ve
got a neat trick to show off.
He nears the base of the stairs and the green light flicks to red. His pace quickens, and he strides up the steps two at a time. I rush up
behind him. “What is it?”
The gas meter beeps when he reaches the
top of the staircase. Coming upstairs seems kind of strange. I mean, surely gas leaks would have to be a kitchen thing. The beeping
sets my teeth on edge, and I just want it to stop. Maybe there’s something
wrong, but here in the upstairs hall?
“That doesn’t
sound good,” I mutter.
“It means there is indeed…”
He twists,
angling himself toward my open bedroom door, and his gaze locks on
my dresser. The back of my neck prickles, a sure sign something about this just isn’t right. I step past him and pull the door closed, but he pushes me aside and slams it open. Panic shoots through
me, but I’m fast enough
to dart around
him. Turning my shoulder and reaching for the box.
He lunges toward me, grabs me from behind, and his arm pins my neck to him with a shoulder crushing grip. He pushes me against the dresser, and the
box falls open, its contents spilling
across the top. Heart pounding,
my throat burns with a scream. I’ve got to get him out of here.
He must know about my pendant, the brooch. Dammit. I wriggle to escape
his vice-like grip, but it’s no use—he’s
too strong.
My hand
darts toward the pendant. I snatch it, but he grabs my wrist.
Adrenaline tries to pound my heart right out of its home
in my chest. If only I can get the jewelry on, I might be able to make its magic work and hide.
“Tech breech confirmed,” he speaks into his collar in
a matter-of-fact tone; then he turns his gaze to
me. “Give me the pendant.”
There’s a tiny ripping sound, like Velcro torn
open.
A young guy
in a black leather jacket flickers
into my bedroom. A sharp gasp leaves me. I can’t escape
one attacker, let alone two.
Where the heck are these men coming from? I’m
not going down without a fight,
so I kick at my captor’s shins.
The leather jacket
guy wrenches the man’s grip from my shoulders and punches him square in the chin, knocking his head
to the side. Shaking his head, the gas man
stumbles backward.
The jacket guy raises his knee and drives a foot
into the other man’s stomach. The straight,
hard kick makes a loud thud and
forces the dude to double over and curl in on himself. The leather
jacket guy crouches and drives his fist straight up into the man’s chin. It knocks
him flat
on his back like a felled tree.
My chest rises
and falls with my quickened breath.
My heart thuds like a
booming drum.
The
mysterious rescuer turns toward
me, holding my gaze with intense, steady jade eyes.
He
grabs my assailant by the
arm, and they both flicker out
of
my room.
My mind spins.
Legs, arms,
body—I can’t move, but it doesn’t
matter. Moving is the least of my worries.
Who were they,
and what just happened? The meter seemed to lead him straight to Mom’s pendant. Gas
man, my ass.
I clutch my head in
an attempt to stop my mind spinning, but my hand slides off my
sweaty forehead and falls
against my tightened stomach. They might come back. The guy in the jacket…
What was
that? The brooch, the pendant…my disappearing reflection. They wanted it. Damn.
Sweat trickles down my forehead and into my eyes. I wipe it away with
a trembling hand. Questions hurtle through my mind, all jumbling together as they race faster and faster in my mind. Seconds, minutes, hours I don’t know, but a single
thought emerges through
the haze of my
mind.
Will.
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