A. M. Taylor - Forget Me Not

“I’m looking at Manhattan. I’m in Brooklyn. Where are you?”

“I’m in bed.” Oh, of course. I wonder for a second if he’s lying down, or sat up next to Emmaline. I wonder if she’s there, asleep next to him, dreaming. Probably not even dreaming yet. Pre-REM.

I don’t say anything for a while and it feels like a full minute goes by until I hear Nate cough softly and then say: “You should go home, Maddie. Go back to bed.”

But I can’t tell him about how I haven’t left the apartment in almost three days, and how every time I even think about doing so, my vision swims and black, black, black seems to rise up in front of my eyes.

“I need to ask you a favor,” I say instead.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Can you read it out to me? Do you have it?”

I hear him suck in his breath, even across those thousands and thousands of miles, because of course he already knows, instantly, that I’m asking him to read to me the last words Nora ever said to me. It’s the last voicemail she left me—the last voicemail she left anyone—and I transcribed it years ago, worried I would lose it one day, which of course I did when I finally upgraded my cell phone. Nate’s the only other person in the world who has that transcript, and this isn’t the first time I’ve asked him to read it out to me.

“Mads.”

“Please, Nate.”

There’s a pause before he says: “Okay. Just give me a second.”

I wait while he turns on his computer I guess, and I can hear him moving about, and moving furniture around, and the sound of a Mac starting up. It takes a while of tapping and typing and then he says, with a catch in his throat: “Mads, it’s me. Where—oh God, Maddie I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I can’t read this out.”

I can hear in his voice that he’s about to cry, about to break down, and I wonder to myself if I’ve done this purely to know that someone else is crying at the same thing, and at the same time, as me, to know that someone other than me feels the same pain. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” I croak, “I should never have asked. I shouldn’t have called—”

“No, that’s—”

But I cut him off before he can finish his sentence and I say, “I love you, Nate,” and then I hang up before he can reply, if he even replies at all.

Back in my childhood bedroom, almost four years later, I managed to ask him what time I should be round the next day to look after Noah before crawling out of bed to root around in my bag for a bottle of diazepam I hadn’t had to use in months.

Ange and I met for breakfast at CJ’s the next morning. It had taken me a little while to get out of bed; my limbs heavy, my brain sticky. I’d almost given up and texted Ange to cancel, but I didn’t want to do that to Elle. I lost so much time, so much of myself after Nora went missing. Days, weeks, months had slipped by, sometimes with me barely even noticing, at other times with a heaviness and a slowness so thick it spread itself all over everything, smothering me. I couldn’t be sure that wouldn’t happen again; I never could be, but I wanted to do my best, my very, very best to ward it off for as long as possible. I felt as though I owed Elle that. At the very least.

The door stuck a little as I pushed it open, making a gentle sucking sound as it finally gave way and I walked into the overheated diner. The windows were temporarily frosted with condensation and I immediately started to unwind my scarf as I looked around the room, trying to find Ange. CJ’s wasn’t a chrome ‘n’ leather kind of diner. Just a wooden box by the side of the road with vinyl booths and a slightly off-putting plaid and taxidermy theme. The sloped roof met in a point in the middle of the building, atop which spun a slowly revolving sign that just said “waffles.” Ange was sitting in the booth furthest away from the door by a window overlooking the road rather than the parking lot, and she already had a cup of coffee in front of her when I sat down. The diner was quiet despite the hour; it was just before nine in the morning and normally it would have been busy, but there were only three other booths full of people and there was a general hush over the place that pricked at my skin.

“Morning,” I said to Ange.

“Hey. You sleep okay?”

“Once I popped a couple of pills, sure.”

Ange’s lips pursed just as she was raising her mug to her lips and she put the mug down before even taking a sip.

“How about you?” I asked.

“Not great. I spent most of the night emailing my editor and trying to write up an article about Elle’s death that he deemed printable.” She stared down into her coffee. “This is my fourth cup of coffee this morning.”

I raised my eyebrows and said: “I should probably catch up then,” while signaling to a dyed-blonde waitress I didn’t recognize that I was ready to order. “Is the paper sending anyone else up to help you?”

“No, I managed to convince them that I could handle it myself. They wanted to send up Elise who works for the crime desk but, in the end, I told them just to send up a photographer and I’d handle the rest.”

“Are you sure that’s such a good idea?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this isn’t just some random crime. This is Elle. You knew her. We were there when Katherine and Jonathan brought her home from the hospital, Ange. Are you really going to be okay writing in detail about her murder? Not to mention writing about Nora.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said shortly, looking up to smile at the waitress who’d just appeared at our table.

“Can I get you girls anything?” the waitress asked.

“Coffee,” I said before looking down at the plastic-encased menu, although God knows why I did; I already knew what I wanted. “Plus waffles, side of bacon, two eggs over easy. Bacon extra crispy though. Like, carcinogenic.”

The waitress kind of chuckled but Ange gave me an edgy look.

“Sure thing. And for you, Ange?”

“Just more coffee, waffles and a fruit cup, please.”

“Should I know who that is?” I asked Ange once the waitress had gone to place our order.

Ange shrugged. “She’s been here about a year. Ruby. She’s nice. Never charges for maple syrup.”

Before Nora disappeared CJ’s decision to start charging for maple syrup was one of the most controversial things to ever happen there. Ruby returned with a mug for me and poured me a cup of coffee before topping up Ange’s.

“Your food will be right out,” she said before leaving us be.

“I went by to see Willard Knowles before coming here,” Ange said. “Do you remember him?”

“Yeah, of course I remember him.” Willard Knowles was the editor of the local newspaper, and both Ange and I had done work experience with him while we were still in high school. “Is the paper still going?” I asked, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice. It had always been on the edge of collapse, even ten, eleven years ago.

“Yes and no. He’s gone online and he’s working out of his basement but the Forest View Examiner still lives. I went over to see if he knew anything about what happened to Elle. I’d been hoping to work out of his office, but when I saw his new setup I thought better of it.”

“Depressing?”

Ange shrugged. “Just a little weird. His photocopier is on top of his tiki bar.”

I let out a short snort of laughter despite myself, and reached for my coffee.

“He didn’t know much more than me; the police are keeping pretty quiet on this one. Willard thinks they’re waiting on the state police before they officially announce anything. But he did have some photos.”