Page 13 of Forget Me Not

Sleep consumes me, the warm embrace of it sudden and unexpected after leaving the porch and walking to the guesthouse, the night thick and heavy like velvet plush.

Without any streetlights or nearby houses, there had been no ambient light to lead the way.

No obtrusive noises like the honking of horns, the backfiring of cars.

The music drifting in from some nearby party or the whispers of neighbors, voices muffled and low.

Instead, all I could hear was a cloud of cicadas screaming in the trees, the occasional flip of a fin coming from the direction of the water.

An entirely different kind of silence, both foreign and familiar at the exact same time.

It’s morning now, six A.M ., hazy light streaming through two tiny windows and flecks of dust floating aimlessly in the sunbeams. I wake up groggy, unsure of where I am, one of those disheveled arousals that’s immediately disorienting—and then it hits me, like recalling a dream.

I’m in the guesthouse at Galloway Farm, my new home for the next month.

I sit up slow, blinking a few times as I think about how I had pushed the key into the door last night, twisting it slowly before letting myself in.

The way my body had beelined straight to the bed, collapsing hard onto sharp metal springs.

I hadn’t realized how tired I’d been, how much of a toll the last few days had taken on both my body and mind.

I could keep sleeping, I want to keep sleeping, but the cabin is growing warm with the mounting sun and I can already feel my skin getting slick with sweat so I climb out of bed and look down at the mattress, the damp outline of my body caked to the sheets.

I glance at my phone on the side table and reach for it quickly, a jerk reaction, until I notice the exclamation point in the upper right corner.

I have no service. Not even a single blinking bar.

I drop my hands; defeated, but not entirely surprised.

Google Maps had worked to get me here, but the service was unsteady once I got on the island.

This place is small, rustic. Smaller than Claxton, if that’s even possible.

I don’t actually recall seeing any phone lines on my way in and I make a mental note to ask Liam about the internet the next time I see him.

Surely they have Wi-Fi. I can get connected with that.

I put my phone back down before walking to the windows and pushing them open, the wind whipping off the water still stifling hot.

Then I head into the kitchenette, the distance between everything only a handful of feet.

The guesthouse is nice, but old, and undeniably tiny.

It’s even smaller than my apartment back in the city but I can’t deny the view is better.

I can see the marsh through the windows; bright green reeds and curtains of moss swaying gently in the barely there breeze.

A runway of dock, long and lean and stained from the sun.

Then I scan the kitchen, taking in all the things Mitchell left me to use.

There’s a knife block on the counter, a container of utensils right next to the stove.

I notice a percolator in the corner and move to fill it up with hot water from the tap; then I locate the coffee in a cabinet and spoon some into the filter, sifting through a few more cupboards while it brews.

I eventually find what I’m looking for: a collection of mugs, all ceramic and white, and I grab one at random before walking to the fridge and opening the door.

Then I catalogue the contents: a glass jug of milk, a dozen fresh eggs.

A loaf of seeded bread and all the typical condiments; a bowl of bright berries that look freshly picked.

It’s all so welcoming, so homey, so harshly at odds with those first few hours at home with my mother, and I can’t help but smile as I imagine Mitchell stocking the place with all the necessities. The mental image so genuine and warm.

I close the fridge, filling my mug and easing my body onto the floor, legs crossed as I start unpacking my bags.

I load some clothes into a small dresser before hanging a few shirts in the closet beside it.

I put away my toiletries, dropping my toothbrush in the little glass holder; shampoo in the shower, face wash perched on the edge of the sink.

I unpack my laptop next, positioning it on the small desk opposite my bed and plugging it into the nearest outlet.

Then I fish the picture of Natalie out of my pocket and open the desk drawer, getting ready to drop it in along with my notebook when something inside catches my attention.

I lean down, reading the sentence scratched into the far-right corner.

Lily was here.

I run my fingers across the words, the surface smooth from years of use, as I wonder, vaguely, who Lily might be.

Then I place my things inside and slide the drawer shut, chalking it up to just a piece of old furniture.

There are a million different people who could have left that mark; a million different reasons for why it could be there.

Maybe the desk was bought secondhand, passed down from a friend.

Or maybe Lily was a worker, just like me, who decided, in a flash, to scratch her name into something as she unpacked her things.

Once my bags are empty, I find cleaning supplies in the kitchenette and wipe the place down, the morning light emphasizing the finest glimmer of dust on everything.

I don’t have much to unpack, but by the time I’m settled, the coffee is gone and the cottage is sweltering, the summer sun beating down hard on the roof.

I stand in the center of the room and dab the sweat from my lip, hands on my hips as I survey my surroundings.

There has to be air-conditioning in here.

I can sense it, just barely, the faintest draft breaking up the stillness of the air around me.

It didn’t feel terrible when I stumbled in last night, but at the same time, I had slept on top of the sheets.

I was bone-tired, too exhausted to be roused awake by anything—that, and I’m so accustomed to my apartment in the city, the constant mugginess that never really goes away.

I’m used to existing in a state of general discomfort, but here, in the South, the heat is something else entirely.

I’ve almost forgotten how oppressive it is, how exhausting, a siphon sucking the energy straight from my veins.

Especially as we creep deeper into the summer, the temperature ticking into the triple digits, I know I’m in for a miserable month if I can’t get a little movement in here.

Suddenly, I think of the dust. All those motes I could see swirling around in the light; the faint film of it in the kitchen before I wiped the counters clean.

I drop down to the floor and survey the walls, noticing an air vent partially obscured by the back leg of my bed.

Then I crawl toward it, pushing my bed to the side so the vent is fully exposed before curling my fingers around the edge and jiggling the cover.

It pops loose, a gush of cold air pushing its way out.

It’s absolutely filthy inside, inches of gray grime accumulated on each side.

The cover slats are clogged with it, which is probably why nothing was getting through before, so I stand up and make my way back into the kitchen, wetting a paper towel before running it over the metal.

Then I walk back to the vent and start wiping the dust from the inside walls.

I lean in farther, as far as I can go, until my hand bumps against something shoved deep in the back.

Something thick and hard with a fabric cover and deckle-edged paper.

It’s a book, unmistakably. There’s a book in there.

I crane my neck, squinting as I look into the hole.

I can make out the shadow of it cowering like an animal trapped in a cave; some nocturnal thing curled up in the dark.

Then I wrap my fingers around the edges, grime and cobwebs clinging to the pages and stretching slowly as I pull it out.

It’s old and worn, a deep maroon with no title at all, and I blow on it carefully, a plume of dust erupting from the fabric before I brush away what’s left with the towel.

I part the covers, the gentle crack of the spine indicating that it hasn’t been opened in quite some time. Then I flip to the very first page, eyeing the lines filled with cursive. Sweeping strokes that feel elegant and old-fashioned.

I guess I’ll start with my name, Marcia, because most days, my name feels like the only thing that’s mine.

I stop reading, my eyes hovering blankly over the page.

This isn’t a book, then. It’s a diary. It’s Marcia’s diary.

Marcia, Mitchell’s wife. The woman I met last night, sunken-in and ambiguously ill.

I assumed the book was old based on its appearance: the tattered cover and delicate pages, brittle like bones and crumbling at the edges.

Some of the ink is so faded I can barely make out the words, but the date in the upper right-hand corner confirms it for me.

November 9, 1983.

This first entry is forty-one years old, when the woman next door was still just a girl.

I look down at the words, continuing to read.

Technically, it’s Marcia Rayburn, and even though someone else gave me my name, I’m still the only person I know who has it so I cling to it like I bestowed it myself.

I pause again, hesitating as I attempt to swallow the discomfort lodged deep in my throat.

This is a clear invasion of privacy. I should put this down, put it back in the vent—or, better yet, I should return it.

Give it to Mitchell and let him know what I found.

I’m sure they would love to see it, it’s probably been lost for decades at this point…

but at the same time, curiosity overcomes me. I can’t help myself.

I keep going.

I’m seventeen years old. Almost eighteen, actually, in just a few weeks.

I can’t wait to turn eighteen because that means I’m finally an adult.

That means, at last, I can do what I want.

My parents act like they own me now: my body, my time, all of it strictly watched and regulated.

They control who I see, what I read, so in a lot of ways, this little book is my tiny rebellion.

It’s exciting, isn’t it? Keeping a secret.

I smile, my weight sinking deeper into my legs on the floor. Those final few lines sounding so much like my sister.

The truth is, I got this diary because I have another secret. A secret for my secrets, I guess you could say, only this other secret might burst right out of me if I don’t tell someone soon. And I can’t tell someone, I can’t tell anyone , so this feels like the safest solution.

A way to get the words out while still keeping them to myself.

I turn the page, surprised to feel a little lump in my throat.

The buzz of the text pushing me forward, my curiosity suddenly too big to contain.

I realize now, somehow for the first time, that Marcia didn’t speak a single word last night.

She just sat there, eyes wide and blank, staring as Mitchell and I talked just beside her.

I have no idea what she sounds like, I don’t have a voice to overlay on top of her words, so instead, I use Natalie’s, imagining all those little mutinies that made her feel so alive.

Pushing up that window at night, shimmying her way down that branch in the dark.

I met a boy . There, I said it! I can’t stop smiling as I write these words. But he’s not just any boy. He is THE boy. The boy of my dreams, but my parents wouldn’t approve of him AT ALL.

My smile widens at the teenage dramatics: AT ALL, written in caps, underlined five times for emphasis.

His name is Mitchell, the diary continues, and it feels so strange to picture my hosts like this. They’re older now, weathered skin and watering eyes, but Marcia’s words make me realize they weren’t always that way.

In the beginning, they were kids. Just two kids who stumbled in love.

And here, dear diary, is how we met.