Forgotten: A Novel (14 page)

I hide my smile. I remember Sunshine telling me when I was seven that a fairy died every time someone said, “I don’t believe in fairies.” When I told her I knew that came from
Peter Pan
(I was that kind of seven-year-old), she just smiled and said, “Of course it does. Mr. Barrie’s an expert on fairies.”

“Lots of people thought I was dead,” I say.

She appraises me again. “Yes, I can see that. There’s death hanging around you.”

“Do you mean my mother?”

“No, she’s not a bad presence. She’s the good you’re feeling.”

“Then who is it?”

“Who thought you were dead?”

“I don’t know. Everyone.”

She shakes her head. “Not Stephanie. She never gave up.”

My heart constricts. “No, that’s true.”

I stand up and take a slow lap around the living room. The dark bookshelves on either side of the fireplace are filled not with books but with African artifacts, filmy now with dust. My mother’s lifelong obsession, one I fed on countless birthdays and Christmases, saving up my allowance just to see the joy on her face when she’d unwrap the latest mask, or spear point, or beaded necklace. It didn’t matter that what I bought her—particularly when I was younger—was mostly fake. It was the thought that counted, and what she thought and dreamt about was Africa. The place she most wanted to go and never made it to. In my book of regrets, number one is never asking her
why
she was so intrigued by the place. Perhaps because it was just one of those immutable things, like cotton candy at a fair.

But on the mantel, above the fireplace we never used because we couldn’t afford to have it fixed, is the reason I should’ve come here much sooner: pictures, pictures, pictures. Of my mother, of us together, of all the important moments.

I pick up the shot taken on the day I graduated from law school and hold it close to my chest. Sunshine puts her hands on my shoulders. “If you’re going to move on, we have to clear the death away.”

“What do you mean?”

“Here, come with me.”

She leads me back to the faded chintz couch. When my grandparents were alive, the furniture was covered in plastic, making it slippery, the perfect place for me and Stephanie to play our favorite game—living room slip and slide—until discovered and punished by my frightened-looking mother. She peeled off those covers the day after her mother’s funeral with a determined look on her face. When I asked what she was doing, she only said, “Did you want another sliding session?” and then started laughing semihysterically. I hugged her, and we laughed and cried, missing Grandma even if we didn’t want to live by her rules anymore.

Sunshine closes her eyes and places her hands on my shoulders. As she concentrates, the smell of patchouli seems to grow stronger. My mind starts to wander, flitting from my mom to work to Craig. God, Craig. He’s the one I should be throwing glasses at. Only next time, I won’t miss.

Sunshine’s eyes open. “Stop thinking about him.”

“Okay, Patrick Jane, now you’re kind of freaking me out.”

“Who’s Patrick Jane?”

“It’s the name of a character on a television show. He can kind of read people’s minds, only not really . . .” I trail off lamely.

“Well, maybe I’ll watch it sometime. Now, I think I know something that might work.” She reaches into the large leather satchel she uses as a purse and takes out a pink crystal that’s the size of my thumb. “Give me your hands.”

“What for?”

“Just trust me.”

I hold my hands in front of me and she places the crystal in them. “What’s the crystal for?”

“I’m going to use it to draw out all the negative energy and localize it.”

I think briefly of protesting, but what can it hurt? It’s only a rock.

She holds one hand to her heart and the other on the crystal. She closes her eyes and hums a low, indistinct tune.

“Instead of death, life. Instead of pain, happiness. Instead of brain, heart,” Sunshine murmurs over and over, almost singing the words.

It’s strangely soothing. I close my eyes and feel myself drifting.

Life, happiness, heart. If only saying it over and over would make it so.

“You can open your eyes now,” Sunshine says.

“Is that it?”

“No, I want you to keep this with you until you find a place where you feel safe and secure and ready to let go of all the death, pain, and unhappiness. When you do, I want you to bury it in the ground and leave it all behind you.”

The crystal feels warm in my hand, and lighter somehow. Maybe I do too. “Thanks, Sunshine.”

“You’re welcome.” She kisses the top of my head. “Your mother loved you very much, you know.”

“I know.”

Chapter 13: When the Ball Drops

T
he weather warms right after Christmas, as it often does. I remember more than one ski trip with Stephanie’s family where we ended up in the lodge watching the rain wash the snow away. And so it is this year. One day of steady rain and above-freezing temperatures is all it takes to scrub Christmas off the sidewalks and leave brown strips of lawn. The lingering, twinkling lights look out of place.

I spend much of the week hibernating. As much as Stephanie lets me, at least. When she’s not dragging me out for walks, or on a quest to find the perfect throw for her couch, or any of countless other manufactured errands to keep me from disappearing into the box Dominic gave me for Christmas, I immerse myself in books I’ve always meant to read.
The Time Traveler’s Wife, A Million Little Pieces
, the collected works of Malcolm Gladwell.

Dominic returns from his parents’, black mood back and firmly in place. He spends most of his time away from the apartment. He tells me he’s at his studio, working on the photographs for his next show. I don’t know him well enough to call him a liar, but judging from the smells he brings home with him, my bet is that he’s spending more time on a bar stool than in the darkroom. Not that I can blame him. He was supposed to be on his honeymoon, sipping frothy drinks in a deck chair under a hot sun. And who am I to call him out? If I thought hiding in a bottle would fix things, I’d be right there with him.

“All right, Gloomy Head, enough of this shit.”

I look up from
What the Dog Saw.
Stephanie’s standing at the end of my bed in jeans and a ski sweater with a disapproving look on her face.

“How did you get in here?”

“Dominic let me in.” Her eyes travel from the stack of books by my bedside to the dishes on the floor. “I leave you alone for one day and look what happens.”

“I’m catching up on my reading.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m even reading books that are making me smarter. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, if you’re sick. Are you sick?”

I give a halfhearted cough. “I do feel a cold coming on, yeah.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Will you stop saying that?”

“Only when you admit that you’re hiding.”

“From what?”

She stands and walks to the window, pulling back the filmy curtains. Cold sunlight streams through the dirt-spattered panes, falling across the bed. “From life.”

“Ha! What life?”

“From the life that’s passing you by.”

“You mean my once brilliant career? Or were you referring to my ex-boyfriend?”

She raises her right hand. “Enough. I don’t want to hear it. We’re late.”

“Late for what?”

“For finding the perfect outfit.”

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve, and you’re coming to Drop the Ball with me. Whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t.”

“Too bad.”

“I don’t have a dress.”

“I mentioned shopping, didn’t I?”

“I don’t have a date.”

“I’ll get Kevin to come. We’ll make it a threesome.”

“You did not just refer to me, you, and your gay brother as a threesome.”

“Ask someone, then.”

“Like who? Sunshine?”

“What about Dominic?”

I throw back the covers and stand up. “I doubt he’d want to come.”

“You doubt I’d want to come to what?” Dominic asks, popping his head around the door.

“Nothing,” I say at the same time as Stephanie says, “Drop the Ball.”

His brow furrows. “You mean that thing at the convention center? Aren’t we a bit old for that?”

“Yes, exactly. We
are
too old for that.”

“Nonsense,” Stephanie says. “I’ve been going for years.”

“Tell him how old you were the first time you went.”

She colors, remembering, perhaps, who she went home with that night. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Besides, it’s fun.”

Dominic’s eyes meet mine. “I’m in if you are.”

I hesitate as my mind strays to the things I planned on doing tonight. Eating an entire can of Pringles. Watching
Bull Durham
for the zillionth time. Falling asleep at 10
P.M.
feeling sick to my stomach.

“I guess we’re going to a party.”

Stephanie raises her hands toward the roof. “Woop, woop!”

W
e arrive at the convention center six hours later. It’s all lit up, and there’s a line of cabs and Lincoln Town Cars disgorging some suspiciously young-looking people dressed in pastels and tuxedos.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Dominic mutters to me, eyeing a couple who look about fourteen.

“What’s that?” Stephanie says. She looks fresh and pretty in a ballet-slipper-pink satin gown that resembles Marilyn Monroe’s dress in
Some Like It Hot.

“I was just wondering if we were going to get carded,” Dominic says. He’s looking . . . well . . . dashing, really, in a black suit with a light-blue tie and a matching pocket square.

I shake out the black cocktail dress I bought this afternoon. It cost way too much money, but the shop was about to close and I was desperate. It’s sleeveless with a high neck, a green sash around the waist, and a pleated bell skirt with pockets sewn into the seams. I twisted my hair up and made my eyes smoky to complete the look.

“Let’s get inside before we freeze,” Dominic says.

We walk through the crowd. The air is thick with aftershave and the kind of perfume teenage girls think makes them appealing.

“Is there anyone over thirty here?” I ask.

“Yes,
us
,” Stephanie replies.

“Right, of course.”

“You could at least
try
to have a good time, you know.”

“You’re right. Engaging good-time programming now.”

Dominic’s eyebrows rise. “Oh God, you’re not a Trekkie, are you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Stephanie walks up to a pretty teenage girl sitting at a card table outside the main ballroom. She pays the entrance fee and returns with a string of bright yellow raffle tickets.

“What are these for?” I ask.

“Drinks, of course.”

Dominic shudders next to me. “I just had the worst case of déjà vu.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It involved waiting in line for more raffle tickets while my buzz died.”

“Okay, that’s it!” Stephanie says loudly enough to catch the attention of several other partygoers. “I’ve about had it with the both of you. Nobody else came up with any better ideas for tonight, and it’s not like I forced you to come here.”

“Well . . . ,” I say.

“What?”

“I
was
forced to come here.”

Dominic shoves his fist into his mouth.

“Shit. What’s wrong with you guys?”

Dominic coughs.

“What now?” Stephanie asks.

“My fiancée cheated on me.”

Stephanie looks annoyed. “Why did you say that?”

“You asked what was wrong. That’s what’s wrong.”

“My boyfriend cheated on me,” I say.

“But not with your best friend.”

“Yeah, just while I was
missing.
”

“Four weeks before my
wedding.
”

“With my mortal enemy.”

“In our bed.”

I pause. “Okay, you win.”

“Enough!” Stephanie shouts. She points at Dominic with a stabbing gesture. “You, go use those drink tickets.” She points at me. “You, go find us a table.”

“What are
you
going to do?” I ask.

“I. Am. Going. To. The. Bathroom,” she says with as much dignity as she can muster.
“Capisce?”

“Yes,” we say in unison.

“Good.”

We disperse on our separate missions. In the ballroom, there are thousands of little white lights on the ceiling and soft panels of pastel fabric covering the walls. Baskets of flowers hang from hooks all around the room, emitting a perennial-garden scent. There’s a series of moving strobe lights at the edge of the stage. Behind them, a thirty-something cover band is doing a great rendition of Kanye West’s “Gold Digger.” Large round tables covered in white tablecloths and candles fill the area between the walls and the dance floor. It’s full of pretty young things busting a move.

I walk along the edge of the room, searching for an empty table. A group of awkward boys are leaning against the wall, gazing at three maybe-eighteen-year-old girls. The girls have that queen-bee confidence, all blond highlights, flipping hair and dresses that are a little too short. These geeky boys don’t stand a chance (even they know that), but they can’t help harboring some small,
Sixteen Candles
hope that one of the girls will have a soft spot for a boy who might invent the next iPod.

I move a little closer so I can hear their loud whispers.

“She’s looked at you twice, Ethan,” says a tall, thin boy-man. His tuxedo hangs loosely on his lanky frame, and his white shirt gapes away from his pencil neck.

“Are you sure?” Ethan answers. He’s rounder than he should be and in the throes of a bad case of acne.

“Totally. Look, she just did it again.”

“Doesn’t she look kind of old?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of cougars? Don’t be such a 404. Just ask her already.”

Ethan peels himself off the wall and walks toward me with a shy smile on his face. He’s about my height, and his thick glasses magnify a pair of watery blue eyes.

Oh shit, they were talking about
me.
I’m the potential cougar.

“Hi, my name’s Ethan. Would you like to dance?”

“Um . . . my, um . . . date was just getting me a drink.”

A blush creeps up his face. “Oh, sorry.”

“No, that’s okay.”

I try to give him a never-stop-going-for-it smile, but that’s a lot to convey in a look. As is maybe-you-should-wait-until-college-before-you-ask-another-girl-out.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am.”

He shuffles back to his wall and his friends.

Dominic joins me with a drink in each hand, something bubbly and pink. “Did you just crush that poor kid?”

“Me crush
him
? He called me ma’am. And his friend referred to me as a cougar!”

“Ouch.”

“I know. Can you beat him up for me or something?”

“You want me to beat up a member of the nerd herd?”

I consider him. “It wouldn’t be your first time, would it?”

“Now who’s being mean?”

“I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“Why didn’t you dance with him?”

“Seriously, Dominic? I could be his mom.”

“I was going to say . . .”

I whack him on the arm.

“Hey! Don’t spill the drinks.”

I take one of the glasses from him and taste it. It’s one part fruity punch and two parts Firewhiskey. It scorches the back of my throat and leaves me feeling short of breath.

“You want to dance?” Dominic asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Stephanie’s orders.”

“Well, in that case.”

We leave our glasses on a table and push our way into the dancing throng. The band finishes a loud guitar song by Nickelback. Then the drummer kicks it up a notch and they launch into a pitch-perfect version of “Sunday Bloody Sunday.”

“Where is Steph, anyway?” I yell over the music.

“No idea. You going to dance or what?”

“Just as soon as you do.”

“Watch out, honey.” Dominic raises his hand above his head, pushing it toward the ceiling, and bites his lower lip with his upper teeth. He swivels his hips in a way that is both geeky and sexy.

I start laughing. He lowers his hand and beckons me with his index finger. I sashay toward him, letting the music and the drink work their magic. Around us, the kids are jumping in unison and asking how long they have to sing this song. The floor is vibrating beneath our feet.

Their energy is infectious. We jump and sing, just as I used to do when I was the right age to be at this kind of event. And like then, I feel happy and young and free. Maybe Stephanie knows what she’s doing, after all.

The song ends, and the band transitions into Sam Phillips’s “Reflecting Light.” The crowd around us melds seamlessly into couples. Dominic pulls me toward him and slips his hands around my waist. They feel warm through the thin fabric of my dress.

As I put my arms around his neck, it’s my turn for a case of déjà vu. It’s my senior prom, and I’m wearing a black dress and spinning slowly on the dance floor. Only then it was Bobby Jordan holding me close, and the alcohol on my breath was the Southern Comfort I stole from my mother’s liquor cabinet. Bobby and I had sex in his parents’ basement much later that night (such a cliché, right?), and broke up three weeks after that.

I lean away from Dominic. “Do you think Stephanie’s trying to teach us a lesson?”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know yet, but it feels like something.”

He leans toward my ear. “Maybe she brought us here to forget. Isn’t that what New Year’s is all about?”

“I thought it was about remembering. Isn’t that what ‘Auld Lang Syne’ means? All that stuff about old acquaintances.”

“Maybe, but it shouldn’t be. It should be about starting fresh. Starting over.”

“Are you going to tell me to ‘imagine the possibilities’ again?”

“Hey, that was some good advice.”

We twirl in silence for a moment, my chin resting on his shoulder. The band starts to play a song by Taylor Swift that I never caught the name of.

“This really is kind of like high school, isn’t it?” Dominic says.

“Only with alcohol.”

“Thank God. That really was the only thing missing.”

I start to laugh. “You must’ve been really popular in high school.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because only someone who was popular in high school could think the only thing missing was alcohol.”

“Are you saying you weren’t popular in high school?”

“Are you kidding me? Between the braces and the loud opinions, I was one step above those boys on the wall.”

He looks down at me. “I can’t imagine it.”

“Good.”

He tightens his arms and pulls me close enough to smell his aftershave. Warmth flows through me—a mix of the alcohol, the pretty song, and the solidity of Dominic.