(Don't You) Forget About Me (23 page)

SIXTEEN

THE NIGHT OF PIPER'S PARADE, LONG AFTER ALL THE
survivors had been dried off and returned to their beds, I stood outside the gates of the reformatory, searching for some sign of my sister.

Mom had been shocked when I walked in the front door.

“Piper's at the reformatory,” I told her.

It's hard to remember exactly what happened after that. Those first few months without Piper are so hazy. Then I started taking the forget-me-nots to keep things fuzzy. I took them to forget . . . about Piper.

Missing her hurt too much. I'd wanted to wipe her from my brain.

I hadn't been successful. Of course I hadn't. I couldn't erase Piper without erasing myself.

Now as I pass through the reformatory's oversized front doorway and enter the too-dark interior, something roars in my ears, like I swallowed the ocean. My heart beats fast, and even though I keep trying to breathe in, none of the air seems to be making it to my lungs.

Panic.
Something inside me whispers the word.

I can't be here. I can't. I turn to leave, but the door has already closed.

From a distance I can hear the guards talking to Foote. They have his wallet and are pawing through it. One of them holds up a bit of pink material. They all laugh too loudly as the guard flaps it in front of Foote's passive face.

One of the other guards grabs it, his thick, grubby fingers smoothing it out. I think it must be from that little girl Foote had been talking about. Amy. A memento to remember her by. But then the guard points to the embroidered letters. “Who's SLG?” he asks.

“I am,” I say, not even realizing the words are coming out of my mouth until everyone turns to stare. My hand reaches out, taking the piece of fabric, recognizing it as soon as the pads of my fingers make contact with the worn material. It's the missing piece from my baby blanket from when the little boy in the carriage was carried away by the birds.

“Holy shit,” I murmur, suddenly certain that Foote is that little boy. And even more certain that we are connected in some powerful way. It would explain why he's the first person I've ever met who can tell when I'm poking through the secrets in his head. It might even be the reason behind his odd lucky streak. But when I turn toward Foote to tell him, he is already gone.

In fact, everyone is gone and they've left me standing here. I realize then that no one has touched me or tried to take any of my things away. They walk past me, almost as if they've forgotten I'm here. Even when I stare right at one of the guards, he doesn't seem to see me.

This would be the perfect time to look for Piper. I could go room by room, until I find the locked one that Ozzy mentioned. Or . . .

I walk up to one of the guards and tap him on the arm. He jumps and then looks at me in surprise. It is only then that I recognize him as the man who Foote and I watched beat the crap out of the inmates during the walk. Right now, he doesn't look so dangerous. If anything, he looks drowsy, and the longer I stare at him, the more his lids seem to hang over his eyes, until only little slits are left.

“Take me to Piper”—that's what I was going to say. But instead, I hear myself say, “Um, give me a minute.”

He nods, or maybe his chin just wobbles, but either way he seems prepared to wait. Which is good, because even though it's the moment of reckoning, I'm nowhere near ready for it.

I push my hand into my pocket and feel the broken cassette tape I stashed there. As my fingers wrap around it, I suddenly remember the recorder that goes with it. From what I recall, neither LuAnn nor any of the other girls had it, which mean that with any luck it's where I left it—buried on my bedroom floor beneath piles of last week's laundry. And if I'm royal-flush levels of lucky, then it will still hold the tape that was inside it the day I bought pills from Jonathan in the double-wide. Amazing that was only three days ago; it feels like it was a different lifetime.

I turn to the half-comatose guard. “I need to make a phone call,” I tell him.

Immediately he turns and leads me into a back office. The walls are lined with filing cabinets, and in the center is a wooden desk with an old rotary-style phone sitting on it. I pick it up, stare at the heavy black receiver in my hand for a moment, and then start to dial. As the phone rings at the other end, I study the guard while he waits by the door, arms slack at his sides. It hits me then that he isn't there to watch me or hold me in place; he's simply waiting for his next order. From me.

I told Elton to jump. He did.

I told the guard not to touch me. He didn't.

And here inside the reformatory, where I should be weaker than ever, I feel strong. And unstoppable.

How though? All that reformatory dirt I ate must be part of it. But that doesn't explain how I have Piper's powers too all of a sudden.

I can still hear the guard's hidden thoughts too. I think. I reach out, testing my power. As if I'd split his gut open, his secrets fall out like the foulest entrails. That boy wasn't the first one he hit. He's beaten several inmates near to death. Is known for it. And enjoys it too. At least as long as he's here, inside these walls. At home, doubts creep in. He goes to the bar to drink them down. A couple times he tried some forget-me-nots. Nothing worked as well as taking extra shifts, though. When he's here, everything seems fine. Better than fine.

Take that thought,
a voice whispers inside me.
Take them all. It'll be a gift and a curse and he deserves both. Take every thought from his head 'til it's empty and clean
.

I nod, agreeing, and then reach toward the guard again—

“Hello?” Wills's voice, sweet and squeaky, comes through the line. The whispery voice is gone along with the urge to hurt the guard. “Hello?” Wills says again. Unexpected tears spring to my eyes.

“Hey, buddy, can you get Mom? I need to talk to her.” Setting the phone down, I look at the guard again. Greg is the name sewn onto his shirt, but he must be wearing someone else's uniform because the name I pull from his head is Paul. “Hey, Paul,” I say. His eyes when they connect with mine look uncertain and a little scared. He thinks he's dreaming; that's how he's making sense of what's happening now. Usually, though, his dreams about this place are darker. If Wills hadn't answered the phone when he did, it's possible that he wouldn't be feeling or thinking anything at all ever again. I almost apologize to the guy, until I remember that I didn't do anything. I'd been about to, but I hadn't. It's more than he can say for his bad deeds. Still my voice is gentle when I tell him, “Cover your ears and hum. Okay?”

Without hesitation, he puts his hands over his ears, and a steady hum of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” comes from behind his closed lips.

Turning my back to him, I pick up the phone once more. “Mom?”

“No, it's me,” Wills answers.

“I told you to get Mom.”

“But I wanted to talk to you.”

I sigh. Amazing. I can make a guard inside the reformatory bend to my will, but not my little brother. I change my tone. “Please, Wills, it's important. And if you do this, I'll get you some candy the next time sweets come in on the train.”

“Okay,” he quickly agrees. There is quiet on the other end, and then, finally, Mom.

“Sky? Is that you? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. That's what I wanted to call and tell you.” I turn back and look at the humming guard, making certain he's still occupied. “And also, I need to ask you a favor. Could you go look in my room for that old tape recorder? You know what I'm talking about?”

“Yes, of course I do. You've been carrying it around with you for months now. Hold on a minute, and I'll go check.”

I hear the phone thunk onto the table. I close my eyes, cross my fingers, and wait.

“Sky?” Mom comes back on the line.

“I'm here.”

“I found it.”

A mix of relief and panic wells up inside me. “Is there a tape in it?”

Something crinkles and clunks on the other side, and then Mom says, “Yes. It's labeled, ‘Don't You (Forget About Me).' Oh, I loved that song. You know it broke my heart when you and Piper recorded over all my old mix tapes.”

“Well, they were just sitting up in the attic.”

“That doesn't mean they were free for you two to take. You could have at least asked me first.”

“Mom!” I scrub a hand across my face, unable to believe we're fighting about this right now. “I'm sorry, I really am. Now please play the tape.”

She sighs loudly, and then I hear the familiar whine of the tape starting. A moment later Piper's voice comes through the receiver.

“Skylar, if you're listening to this, then it means everything went the way I wanted it to.”

I fall into a chair, and my eyes drift closed as her voice continues to play over the line. Every word is painful and precious. And when it is over, I don't try to stop the tears falling down my cheeks.

“Sky.” Mom's voice comes on again. “Sky, are you there? Are you okay?”

I have to clear my throat a few times before I can talk. “Mom, if I don't come home, you need to talk with Wills and explain to him that he's not normal—” I stop and shake my head. “No. Wait. Don't say it like that. He shouldn't see it as a disability. Just tell him he's a Gardner and that comes with certain unique responsibilities. And abilities. Or maybe it would be better to explain about Piper and me first—”

“No, Skylar,” Mom interrupts. “We don't need to have this discussion. Wills is not—”

“Yes, we do need to talk about this. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Wills needs to be prepared. I've already seen the signs of his power, okay? He's a Gardner, and we're twenty different types of messed up, and if he's gonna have any chance of fighting that, he needs to be ready.”

“Skylar, for once just shut up and listen.” A deep breath followed by a heavy sigh comes through the line. “Wills is not your father's child. There was another man. It was right after your father left. I was so desperately lonely and it just . . . happened. Wills isn't like you. No powers. He's just a little kid.”

“Who—?” I start to ask but then stop, realizing it doesn't matter. “You're wrong. Wills does have power. I think he's kind of like Dad with the feelings. When I'm with him, I feel calm and just . . . better.”

Mom doesn't say anything for several long seconds, and I wonder if my words are making her rethink Wills's parentage. “Oh, Sky, that's not a special power.” Mom laughs sadly and then sighs again. “Or maybe it is.”

“Oh,” I answer, and then without another word, I gently rest the telephone receiver back in the cradle.

After that I simply sit there for a long while, let time pass, and absorb.

There are so few constants in Gardnerville. Most places, you know that whatever else might happen, in the morning the sun will rise. But Ezekiel Wood blew that to bits over twenty years ago, when he kept the whole town in darkness for six days straight. We're left to create our own constants, to find small things to cling to when all else is incomprehensible chaos.

For me, that was Piper. Four years ago, losing her rocked my world. But the truth about Piper that I just heard on that tape destroys it.

Now I remember why I took all those forget-me-nots. The only way to survive was to forget. It's tempting to try and forget again, but it's too late for that. I've already put this off for far too long.

I push myself to my feet, finally ready.

The stupid guard still stands there, humming as I walk right past him. Turning a corner, I run up the stone steps that lead to the second floor. At the top of the stairs I stop for a second, uncertain of which way to go. Should I continue up to the next floor, or search this one first? Ozzy once told me the place was a labyrinth, and from the looks of it, this was one thing he didn't lie about.

My decision is made for me when a group of girls come bounding toward me with outstretched arms.

“Sky!” They cry out my name from mouths stretched wide with smiles.

I take a step back, an automatic response. They all look a little insane.

They surround me, wind their arms through mine, and propel me forward, chattering nonstop about how happy they are to see me, asking if it's time. When I can take it no more, I shake them off.

“Is it time for what?” I demand. Then, as an afterthought, “And who the hell are you people?” As I ask the question, some of their faces begin to feel familiar. Felicia Davids, Georgia Armice . . .

But those are not the names they give me.

“We're Piper,” they say together. “And it's time, Sky. It's finally time.”

DON'T YOU (FORGET ABOUT ME)

Four Years Ago

SKYLAR, IF YOU'RE LISTENING TO THIS, THEN IT MEANS
everything went the way I wanted it to. I know that may be difficult for you to accept—that I actually wanted to let the train catch me. But what you didn't understand from the first time I walked out on that track was that I was never trying to get away from it. I never wanted to win. I was just working up the courage to let it run me over.

Pollywog, I can see you shaking your head, not believing it.
Piper couldn't be suicidal.
That's what you're thinking. And you're right. Ending my life is the last thing I want.

Except.

My life. It's not right. It didn't begin like yours. It won't end like yours either.

I'm sorry if I'm not making sense. I guess I don't know quite how to explain it. I've only begun to understand it myself. Although, that's not really true. I found out four years ago. It was one of those moments when everything in you goes
aha
, when so much that has seemed wrong has come right. Not right in a good way. I put the puzzle together. There was some satisfaction in that. But the picture it made . . . I didn't like that at all.

I think I'm still confusing you. Let me try again. Remember LuAnn's fairy balls? That was the day I found out. That was the day my life truly ended. That was the day I found out that I was only make-believe.

The fairy ball told me, just as I touched it. Or maybe in the moment after, when everything exploded into that brilliant light. I thought I was dead. It was an actual thought in my head. I could feel my whole body shattering, splitting, and separating, like I was a bomb going off.

This is it. The end
.

Those were the exact words in my head. But then the fairy ball whispered to me. “I can't kill you. We're the same, you and me. Made of someone else's magic. That's us. We're one and the same.”

Do you know what my response was, Pollywog? “Oh, wow. That makes a lot of sense.”

Finally I understood why no one ever remembered me when I wasn't standing right in front of them. Do you know why I refused to get my picture taken for the yearbook? Because they always listed me as “unknown.” My real existence was limited to family. You thought everyone stared at me because I was special. You were sort of right. I was always the new girl. I don't know when I began to resent that. When I started thinking of ways to make them remember me.

Do you think they'll remember me now, Pollywog? Do you think they'll know who led them onto that bridge? Do you think for the rest of their lives when they hear the train's whistle, they'll recall my name?

I don't know how long I was out after the fairy ball exploded. Eventually I heard you calling, demanding that I wake up. That I return. So I did.

I know you may find this difficult to believe, Sky. You'll say I imagined it. That it was a near-death experience. For someone who's lived their entire life here, you can be so prosaic at times. And tonight, if the train did what I thought it would, then you watched me disappear just like I did when the fairy ball exploded. Except I hope the train, made out of steel instead of magic, will ensure that you won't be able to put me back together again. If everything went right, then I winked out of existence like a star that had burned out a long time ago.

I can still hear you making excuses: “It was dark. Chaotic.”

So let me remind you that this is not the first time you've seen this happen.

Remember when Chance was hit by the train when he was just a puppy? I know you think you do. You're probably looking at his missing leg right now as the number-one reason you'll never be able to forget. But Sky, for all your ability to see into everybody else's heads, you've never been much good at navigating your own.

“What do you mean?” I can hear you ask.

What I mean, exactly, is this: you remember things wrong.

Chance was hit by the train. He heard that piercing whistle, and although he'd heard it many times before, for some reason he decided to follow it. We raced after him on our bikes, screaming at him to come back. He'd never been a very obedient dog, though, and that day was no different. By the time we reached the tracks, the train was nearing the station and slowing. Chance started running alongside, eyeing those steel wheels like he was waiting for his moment to take a chunk out of one of them. The final car was about to glide past, when he made his move. It happened so fast. He went in for the wheel. A second later he was gone. There was no blood. No yelp of fear and pain and terror. Chance just disintegrated beneath the wheel. He was there and then he wasn't.

You couldn't accept it. We both saw the same thing. We both knew that the dog had been a gift from GG. The moment he disappeared, it became horribly obvious what had happened. GG up to her old tricks. Or maybe just trying to do something kind for her grandchildren. But either way, the result was the same. She made us see something that wasn't there. She gave us an illusion, and reality killed it.

I tried to explain this to you. I'd never known you to be so stubborn, so unwilling to hear me. You insisted that the train was moving slowly, that he'd slipped underneath. You wanted to search for him. He might be hurt, you kept saying.

It turned into a fight. I called you stupid. You said that I'd always been jealous that he liked you better. It was true. Chance had never taken to me. He slept on your bed but never mine. He would sit patiently, wagging his tail when you pulled him into a crushing hug, but bristled when I simply reached out to gently run my hand along his back.

You accused me of making him run after that train. Of putting the thought into his head.

I slapped you then. You were only seven years old, and I shouldn't have done it. But we were screaming at each other, with our faces red and our eyes glaring as hard as they could at the other. When you said that I'd made Chance do it, my hand snapped out and caught your cheek before I could even think to stop myself.

You gasped and then went silent. It wasn't until your hand crept up to touch the spot where I'd hit you that you started to cry.

I could've said I was sorry. The truth is, I was. But I was also still angry. And feeling betrayed that you would believe such a thing about me.

I ran away and left you standing there, sobbing.

I didn't want to go home, so I went into the woods behind Al's Grocery. Some kids were adding on another section to the fort, and I joined them. When it got dark, everyone started to head home. I was the last one to leave. Not because I was trying to avoid you. No, by then my anger had spent itself, and only regret remained. Finally, I thought about how sad you must be after losing Chance and then having to deal with us fighting on top of that. I wanted to make it up to you.

I started walking home slowly, waiting for the perfect idea to come to me. It finally did when I saw a pile of boxes sitting near the grocery Dumpster. I picked the cleanest-looking one, and practically skipped home. We would have a burial for Chance, I decided. All of his puppy toys would go in the box, then we would hold an elaborate funeral. Finally, we would figure out the perfect place to bury him and spend the rest of the day decorating his grave. It was, I decided, the perfect thing.

And it would've been too. I am almost certain of that.

If only Chance had stayed dead.

As I came up the driveway, the burial box tucked under my arm, I heard the sound of a dog barking inside the house. It was the excited, high-pitched bark Chance would use when you dangled a toy over his head and out of reach of his spring-loaded legs.

And when I opened the front door, that was exactly what I saw.

I stood there, staring at Chance, who, despite missing his front right leg, looked no worse for wear.

“Hey,” I said.

You smiled up at me. “Look, Piper. Can you believe it? I found Chance lying in the field by the train station. He was in pretty bad shape, but GG helped me patch him back up.”

I don't remember what I said then. Something like, “That's great.” Or, “Wow.”

Really, I was struggling to understand what had happened. The best I can figure is that you brought him back, Skylar. That you willed him back into existence.

Pollywog, I have to admit, that scares me more than a little bit. You hold on so tight. You want so badly for things to be a certain way that you just ignore it when they aren't.

Sometimes I wish I could be more like that. I wish I could forget what that fairy ball whispered to me.

When I met Elton, I thought that loving him, and having him love me, might be enough. I thought that if he and I got married and had babies and lived happily ever after, it would prove I was real. Remember when Elton and I started getting serious, when he asked me to go steady and we both giggled about him being so old-fashioned? I told you I needed to talk with GG, to get her blessing.

Really, though, I wanted to ask her if what I suspected was true. I wanted to know if at some point I might start to fade away, like a dream that gets fuzzy and worn over time.

GG said she was surprised it had taken me this long to ask. Then she spilled everything. I'd been Mom's idea. It was after that neighbor boy was taken by the birds. Dad was acting weird. He saw how upset Mom was that something had almost happened to you, and he was jealous. And resentful. Mom was starting to feel the same way, and some part of her knew it was Dad making her feel that way.

And you were inconsolable. You cried day and night. Even years later, Pollywog, you would talk about that boy. “John Paul will be back,” you'd say in your little toddler lisp. “I told him to come back.”

Sometimes, Sky, you can be scary.

I guess Dad thought so too, because one night Mom came into your room and found him holding a pillow over your face.

That's when she decided you needed someone to watch over and protect you. A dummy child to draw Dad's attention away from you. The two of them—Mom and GG—dreamed me into existence. GG took a lock of your hair and braided it together and left it in her spare room. The next day I was sitting there, a fully formed four-year-old who was more mature than her age and who drew every eye to herself wherever she went.

GG said that none of her pretend people had ever lasted as long as me, and that she was fairly certain the only reason I still existed was . . . you. You had given me so much more than that lock of hair. Without knowing it, you shared bits of yourself—including your power—and in doing so made me more than just imaginary.

So, that's what I am.

By now, I hope you aren't still shaking your head. By now, even you must admit this is the truth. That it makes sense in a Gardnerville kind of way. But that doesn't mean you will accept me being gone. Oh, Sky, I know how stubborn you are. Now you are saying, “Who cares what you are? Why does it change anything?”

Skylar, did you ever suspect that—like you—I could hear secrets sometimes? Probably not. You didn't want to know. It made sense that I put thoughts in and you took them out. Two connected but separate powers. It would be messier if we could each do both of those things. We could though.

And that day, talking with GG, I saw the hidden thought that she didn't say aloud. You'd shared so much with me—given me so much of yourself—that I could take the rest. I could be the real girl, and you would be the shadow.

I wish I hadn't found that secret.

I wish I could say it wasn't tempting.

But it was. And it still is.

It is tempting enough that I often start thinking of all the things I've done for you. All the times I've shielded you from Dad. I've even tried to keep you safe from the reformatory. And that's when I think that maybe you owe me. Maybe it's my turn to be shielded and kept safe.

But I wouldn't hurt you for anything, Pollywog.

That's why things have to change.

I am asking you to let me go.

Remember me, or don't—if it's easier that way.

But whatever you do, when the train finds me, please don't pretend it didn't happen. Please, let me go.