Page 15 of Forget Me Not
I jump at the sudden sound of knocking: a person outside, their fist hard on the door.
I had settled back into bed earlier, subconsciously moving from my spot on the floor as if my feet had developed a mind of their own.
My eyes felt glued to the page before me; to Marcia’s quaint cursive, her bleeding blue pen.
Gentle loops and fluid strokes as my back sank deeper into the pillows, cracked-open spine perched against my propped-up knees.
I hear the knock again, more urgent this time, and it’s as if the noise has jolted me from some sort of trance.
I leap from the bed, shoving the diary beneath the sheets.
I don’t know why I hid it—it was a simple reflex, not even a conscious thought—but I do know that I’ve read enough of it by now for my interest to be piqued.
I don’t want to give it up. I want to keep going.
I smooth down my shirt, run my hands through my hair, and open the door to find Mitchell standing on the other side.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says, his eyes darting to the digital clock in the kitchen. Somehow, it’s just past ten, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about him thinking me too languid, this woman he hired to keep his home running seemingly sleeping until its late morning.
“No,” I say quickly, trying to orient myself.
Feeling like I was just startled awake from some vast, vivid dream.
I had been so consumed in Marcia’s story, this illicit glimpse I had been given into these two people with whom I’m now sharing a home, I hadn’t even noticed the hours tick by, though I can tell that the cottage feels cooler.
The marsh is higher. “Not at all. I was just getting settled.”
“I figured I’d show you the property,” he says. “Go over your duties before it gets too hot.”
“Sounds great,” I say, plastering on a smile as I try to keep my thoughts from wandering back to the book.
To the Mitchell I was just with, forty-one years younger: longer hair, slimmer frame, some spellbinding quality to him I caught the faintest glimpse of last night as he stood on the porch, assessing me slowly. “Just let me get dressed.”
We start with the garden: romaine lettuce, mustard greens. Bell peppers in all colors and tomato plants that are practically my height, little red welts dotting the leaves like a rash.
“We grow all our own produce,” Mitchell says, and I watch as he grabs a snap pea, breaking it from the stem before biting down with a satisfying crunch. “Herbs are over there. Berries in the corner. We’ll need help with the weeds and watering.”
“Sure,” I say. “Simple enough.”
“Make sure you harvest first thing in the morning,” he directs. “If you neglect the crop, it’ll die on the vine.”
“Of course,” I say, wondering if that was a subtle stab about the time.
“And help yourself to whatever you want,” he continues. “Make a list of things you need from the store, but anything fresh, just take it from here.”
“Oh, I can do my own shopping—” I start to say, but Mitchell cuts me off.
“I head to town every day to deliver the produce. Doesn’t make sense for you to go, too.”
“I really don’t mind.”
“One of the benefits we offer is free food and board,” he argues. “There’s only one gas station on the island, and it’s obscenely expensive.”
I think about the drive in, both yesterday and that summer with my parents twenty-two years ago.
The single-pump station as soon as I entered the island and the long stretch of road for miles thereafter.
It does seem like a waste, retracing his footsteps.
Spending my own money on groceries and gas when Mitchell is offering to do it himself.
Not only that, but there’s also the concern about running into my mother.
Even though I don’t think she ventures out much, even though her leg means she shouldn’t drive, I wouldn’t put it past her.
She tried to do it before. Besides, it’s been fifteen years since I was last here.
I don’t actually know her routine, the places she frequents—and then, of course, are all the other people who I could run into.
Old neighbors and classmates, people who would inevitably gossip about my return.
It might actually be wise for me to lay low for the summer, avoid unnecessary outings where I could be seen.
“But of course, if you insist —” Mitchell continues, drawing me back.
“No,” I say suddenly, cutting him off. “No, that’s very generous of you. Thank you. I’ll make a list.”
“Chickens are in the coop over here,” he continues, nodding, and I follow as he leads me to a giant wood structure, six massive birds plucking around in the mulch. “They lay once a day. Just pop in in the morning and grab the eggs. Don’t forget to lock the gate.”
“Got it,” I say, trying to make a mental list, but I really should be writing this down.
“Supplies are in the shed,” he continues at a dizzying speed. I watch as he opens the two double doors, musk hitting me like a solid wall. “Feed, gardening gloves. Rakes, shovels, fertilizer, pesticides. Anything you might need for the whole property is here.”
I scan the room, taking it in. The place is musty and neglected, a stark contrast to the house and guesthouse, though I suppose it’s simply worn down from years of use.
The proximity to the water and the hot, humid air.
I follow Mitchell deeper inside, the wood spongy beneath my feet and an inexplicable shudder running down my spine as I stare at all the tools with sharp metal tips; the smell of rust and old, wet dirt.
There’s a giant barrel with packets of seeds, chains hanging from nails on the wall, and I wonder if I might be in a little over my head here.
I don’t even know what half these tools are.
My only experience with this kind of thing are my weak attempts at caring for the potted plants in my apartment: a rubber plant I water once a month, if I remember.
A snake plant I don’t water at all. I hadn’t thought much about the work, to be honest, when I asked Liam to bring me on.
Instead, I had been drawn to the place itself, the idea of having a space of my own.
That guesthouse the answer to all my problems and the memories of my sister clouding my judgment, blotting out everything else.
“The grapes,” Mitchell continues, snapping me back, “will be taking up most of your time.”
“Of course,” I say, blinking out of the daydream. “The grapes.”
“We’ve got muscadines and scuppernongs,” he continues, and I let him lead me out of the shed, latching the double doors behind us and tugging them twice to ensure they’re closed.
He ignores the padlock hanging open on the handle and we walk toward the edge of the vineyard, coming to a stop next to the nearest trellis.
“Harvesting will be time consuming and labor intensive,” he says, and I watch as he plucks a grape from the vine. “We don’t use machines out here. We do it the old-fashioned way.”
“And what is the old-fashioned way?” I ask.
“You pick them,” he says, like it should have been obvious. “One by one.”
“By hand ?” I ask, eyes bulging as I look beyond Mitchell and the trellis before us, scanning my way down the rows of vines. It feels like standing at the entrance of a giant hedge maze, the plants extending out so far in the distance I can barely see the end of it.
“By hand,” he repeats. “Of course, you’ll have Liam to help.”
My mind flashes back to Liam again; his big biceps and large, tan hands.
The grime permanently stuck to his nails and those dirty brown boots holding on by a thread.
I had assumed, back when he mentioned they had pivoted to bringing on only one other worker, that that meant they had found a more efficient way to handle the harvest.
Having twenty people picking by hand is one thing; having just two, given the size of this place, seems to be slightly insane.
“I think you’ll find it rewarding,” Mitchell continues, maybe picking up on my hesitation. “Therapeutic, out here in nature. Nothin’ at all but you and your thoughts.”
I attempt a smile, though I’m still not convinced.
Besides, me and my thoughts are a dangerous combination.
We’ve never gotten along when left alone together—but then I imagine Natalie from that summer, her manic smile and big, bright eyes.
The bloody little nicks I’d always see on her skin, evidence of the hours she spent digging through vines, and I feel a shiver at the thought of us spending our summers in the exact same way, in the exact same place.
Like swimming through a cold spot, sharp and brisk, the idea itself an unexpected thrill.
I try to shrug off the irony—the fact that, twenty-two years later, I still want to know what it must have been like to be her—and instead focus on the fact that it makes me feel closer to her, somehow. Closer than I’ve ever felt before.
“I’m sure I will,” I say at last, because if she did it like this, then I can, too.