(Don't You) Forget About Me (7 page)

FIVE

I'VE ONLY GOTTEN THREE OR MAYBE FOUR HOURS
of sleep when the sound of my bedroom door banging open shakes me awake. Reluctantly I force my sticky eyelids open. Great-Grandma stands in the doorway, holding a stack of clean and folded laundry. She invades our house a few times a week to beat back the dust bunnies and the mountains of dirty clothes that nobody else can quite bring themselves to care about. Grabbing a fistful of blankets, I roll away from her and squeeze my eyes closed again.

“Where do you want these?”

I ignore her, but she doesn't seem to notice.

“This room is a mess. Not even a place for a clean pile of clothes.”

I could tell her my dresser drawers are mostly empty. But I don't for the same reason I don't tell her to drop dead. Why does she constantly have to be cleaning anyway? Most of the centenarians in this town slow down a little and then a little bit more, until a decade or two into the triple-digit years, when they finally stop moving at all. Not GG though. She's determined to march straight through this century much like she did the previous one. “I'm gonna see two hundred. You just watch and see.” That's what she says. I've asked Dennis, the town bookie, to give me the odds. He told me not to bet against GG, but if I were determined, odds were currently at twelve to one in GG's favor.

“All right then.” I feel the laundry land on top of me. Still I don't move. The mattress squeals in protest as GG takes a seat beside me. “Are you trying to set some sort of record? Longest mope ever, perhaps?”

“Yeah, that's it,” I agree. “Can you go away now, please?”

“You want me to go away and let you lie down on the tracks of life and wait for the next train to come along and roll right over you just like that stupid dog of yours did.”

“Seriously?” GG knows exactly where to needle a person and dig it in deep. “Chance wasn't stupid. He was chasing the train. Dogs do stuff like that. And it didn't run him over. He only lost a leg.”

“Oh, that's right. I guess I got things mixed up. Must be my old age catching up with me.” I snort loudly. “Go ahead and remind me, Sky, where's that dog of yours now? Seems like it's been a while since I've seen him.”

Flinging my covers back, I sit up and glare at GG, trying to see past the dark glasses she wears to hide her half-blind eyes. She's varying percentages of sightless, depending on the day. Sometimes I think she picks and chooses what she wants to see. “He's gone. Been gone nearly four years now, and you know it too.”

I flop back onto the bed, and pull my blankets over my head. He disappeared the same terrible night that I lost Piper.

“Well, maybe he'll show up again one of these days,” GG says, jerking the covers away from me. “You never know.”

“You don't believe that.”

“No, but you do,” GG answers as she stands. “And for your sake, I hope that she does return.”

I throw my pillow at GG, but despite being a blind old bat, she easily sidesteps it. “Chance is a he. We are talking about Chance, right?”

“I could give a damn about that dog. Let's cut the bullcrap and talk about Piper.”

I shrug. “What do you want to talk about? She's gone.”

GG waves her hand, brushing my words away. “But where has she gone, dear? That's the question, isn't it?”

“I think she's in the reformatory,” I say, and as I do, I can hear Ozzy telling me—

Before I can remember, GG interrupts. “If she were there, they would tell us. The reformatory's pretty tight with information, but they do tell you when your loved ones have been locked away.”

“What if they didn't?” I answer with the question that's been nibbling away at me for the past four years. “What if the people who worked there didn't even know for sure whether or not she was there?”

GG sighs and I can hear the pity ready to come pouring out of her. Poor delusional Sky, that's what she's thinking. But she surprises me. “I'm an old woman, Skylar, and I've tried to be patient these last few years, but lately I can feel my age catching up with me. My plan of giving you enough rope to hang yourself with has obviously backfired, since you've done nothing with it but play jump rope. So now I am going to tell you something, and perhaps this time it will actually stick to the inside of your skull for longer than a day. Piper does not belong inside the reformatory, and if that is indeed where she's been these past four years, then perhaps you should find a way to get her out.”

“Is this one of those snobby Gardner things?” I ask. “We're too good to do time in the reformatory like everyone else?” It's something that GG has often told me with a certain pride.

GG's nose shoots up into the air. “You are speaking of me, I presume?”

“You, Dad, all the Gardners who found a way out of doing time.”

“And you disapprove of this, I presume?”

I sit up, because it is hard to be snotty when lying down. “I'm just telling you what people say.”

“What they say or what they think?” GG takes a thudding step forward. “Is there any person in this town whose secrets haven't been stripped from them?”

“I block them out.”

Her lips curve in a mocking smile. “Oh, that's right. You're in control of what secrets you do and don't overhear.”

“Yep,” I answer, and even though I am wide awake, I retrieve my pillow and force myself to lie down again. “I'm tired so, if you wouldn't mind, shut the door on your way out.”

“Always in control,” GG snorts, as she pulls the door closed. “The girl who knows everyone's secrets—except her own.”

“Get out,” I yell, unable to keep my cool a second longer.

I snuggle deeper into my covers, trying to find sleep again. But it's not to be. I can hear the rain slapping against the windowpanes and Wills pounding away at the piano downstairs. My mouth has a terrible dry rotting taste from the forget-me-nots and from throwing them up. Worst of all, the rain has done nothing to drive the stifling heat wave away; if anything, the air feels stickier and heavier than ever.

None of this is what pulls me from my bed, though. In the end it is my consistently inconsistent memory whispering in my ear, reminding me of a piece of paper still wedged into the pocket of my shorts from earlier this morning. I roll out of bed, sluggish, the way I usually feel after a forgotten day. Except yesterday isn't just fuzzy; large chunks of it have been permanently lost.

I sink onto the floor, and it takes me several minutes to find the energy to move again. As I lie there in my piles of discarded clothing, I can't help but remember what Foote said about me almost dying.

On hands and knees I pull myself forward like a sick dog, nosing through my clothes. I find the shorts on the other side of my bed, tucked beneath my old friend Paddington. I've had him since I was a kid small enough to find comfort in squeezing a stuffed animal at night. Paddington's felt hat and coat and red rubber rain boots have long since been lost, his fur is more nubby than fuzzy, and gray stuffing oozes from an opening in his left armpit. Still, earlier this morning, when I'd stumbled into my room, soaking wet and shaking, I grabbed him as I crawled into bed. I fell asleep with my face buried in his soft belly.

Now I cannot help but clutch him once more as I dig the paper from my pocket, carefully peel it open, and read what is written inside.

 

It sucks asking you for help. Not just because I don't like you—and I don't. Or because you don't like me—and you don't. It'd probably be better if I left this letter at the bottom of the Salt Spring, but I'm writing it anyway and giving it to you and asking for your help—not for me but for my sister, LuAnn.

She got home two months ago after eight years in the reformatory. I couldn't believe it when she walked out of that place, she looked so sick and ugly, like she had been chewed up and spit out. She kept walking on these horrible wobbly legs, right past the bus and down the road and across town, until she stood in front of our house. Then she fell over. We thought she was dead. But she wasn't and I carried her inside to her bed where she didn't move again for so long she might as well have been dead. Then, outta nowhere, two weeks ago, she started talking. Or mumbling. We couldn't understand her at first, but then we realized what she was saying. “Piper.” She was saying the name Piper.

Three days ago, LuAnn disappeared in the middle of the night. We went from one side of town to the other at least a dozen times each, but couldn't find no sign of her.

Last night, Elton came over and started asking questions and talking about locking her up again. I tried to tell him that she was practically neutered after all those years living up there and besides which she's not even a teenager anymore. Nope. Too bad. That's what he said, but in his fancy Elton way. “It would be a last resort” and “We'll work together to keep her on track.” Then when I started feeling a little better, he said I of all people should know his policy is always “better safe than sorry.” And if that weren't bad enough, he asked if he ought to be worried about me too.

That shut me right up. I can't be sent up to the reformatory. I'd rather die and that son of a bitch Elton knows it too. I shouldn't write that down, I guess, but fuck it and fuck him too. If he gets hold of this paper I'll be going down for more than just name-calling. It's crazy of me to be writing this down at all, much less giving it to you, but I knew it wouldn't be of any use to tell you 'cause you'd just forget it two seconds later. And anyway, I don't think you'll give me up or LuAnn either, not when Elton's gunning for you too.

Yeah, that's right. You should know he keeps close tabs on you, always making sure you're coming to buy more forget-me-nots. Told me they keep you in line, but the minute you stop taking them he's got no problem sending you up the hill. Maybe you think that can't happen to you 'cause you're a Gardner, but you already hid behind that four years ago when you more or less got away with murder. To my way of thinking, you got it coming, and I wouldn't be sad to see you go. In fact, I'd be happy to escort you on up there and lock the gates behind you.

Damn. I'm rereading this and thinking that maybe I should be buttering you up, but that's not my way. I never liked the way everyone round here thinks they got to kiss some Gardner ass. And anyway, you'd see right through my lies anyhow.

Here's the thing I want you to understand: I need your help, but you need mine too—at least if you want to stay out of the reformatory. I can keep telling Elton you're taking pills, and I don't care if you do or you don't, but I need a little tit for tat.

You gotta keep Elton away from LuAnn. Don't ask me how, 'cause I don't know. What I do know is that half the people round here call you the Pied Piper behind your back, and I don't think it's a coincidence that LuAnn started using that name. I don't know if you put something into her head as revenge for eight years ago, or if the reformatory just made LuAnn crazy or maybe it's that everything seems to be going sideways lately. I don't care nothing about the whys, all I know is you're a part of this, and you need to fix it, or I'm gonna tell Elton that it's about time he locks you up too. So when you look at it that way, you can see this as helping me or you can see it as helping yourself.

I hope you're not so dumb that you can't see the smart thing to do here.

J.

 

A chill tingles down the backs of my bare legs, making my toes curl. Now I remember my run-in with LuAnn. Elton must not have been able to chase her down. I allow myself to enjoy the idea of her outsmarting him, sucking on it like a lemon drop. Then it occurs to me that I'm the one who needs to hunt LuAnn down. Damn. I'm not sure what was going through Jonathan's little pea brain when he was writing this letter, but I have no doubt that he'll rat me out to Elton in a second if something happens to his sister. I almost have to respect him for that.

Slowly I fold the paper back up into its neat little square. It doesn't go together quite the same way. I've noticed lots of things are like that once taken apart.

Tossing Paddington aside, I find a cleanish pair of cutoffs and another worn-out wifebeater. After pulling them on, I shove the paper square into my pocket. Seems like it belongs there now.

Dread should be pooling in my stomach. Jonathan's given me an almost impossible mission, and the price of failure is a steep hike up the hill to the reformatory. Instead, I feel almost giddy. LuAnn comes out of the reformatory after eight years and the first thing she says is “Piper.” Jonathan's right, that's not a coincidence. Where he's wrong is connecting the dots to me and discounting Piper. Maybe he thinks she's dead. Or maybe he thinks anyone in the reformatory is as good as dead. He doesn't know Piper, though. Not like I do.

There are things I can't remember and others I can't forget, and in the midst of them is Piper. Maybe in trouble. Maybe causing it. Both sound like the Piper I know. It's indisputable that once you go into the reformatory you are never the same. Teenagers who enter vibrant and alive exit squeezed dry, afraid of shadows because they are shadows themselves. But even Piper's shadow would be a force to be reckoned with. A part of me is not surprised. A part of me has been waiting for this, and wonders why it took so long. A part of me knows exactly what to do.

I follow that part of me out of my room and toward whatever comes next. I won't turn back even if it takes me straight into hell.

And there's a good chance it might.

 

“Skylar was born during a fourth year.” Mom's voice drifts up the stairs to meet me as I come down. I know before she comes into view that she'll be curled up on the sagging couch with Wills tucked into her side.