Page 8 of Forget Me Not

Sleep does not come easily here.

I spend the first few hours lying rigid in bed, eyes wide in the dark, the sour taste of wine on my tongue and a tinny ringing deep in my ears.

I forgot how quiet this place is. How much I’ve relied on the city’s white noise to drown out my thoughts, my own bodily sounds, so instead, I listen to the ringing, to the way it grows louder as the minutes stretch on.

The silence around me so heavy and charged it feels like a physical thing, thick and meaty.

My mind on the countless other nights I used to do just this.

I stare at the ceiling, the childhood canopy suspended above me like an intricate web, sticky and strong, before I flip to the side, next training my eyes on the wall that Natalie and I shared.

After venturing into her bedroom earlier, trailing my fingers across the cold sheets, I’m now painfully aware of how empty her bed is, the absence of her body tucked safely inside radiating like an echo in a barren room.

I squeeze my lids shut, listening in the same way I listened before. Still desperate to hear all those same sounds: her breath low and slow like she was hiding something or the quiet flick of the pages when she read herself to sleep, the scrape of her furniture on the nights she stayed awake.

I drift off eventually, sometime past two, a restless dip out of consciousness until I twitch and find myself in the bathroom down the hall.

It’s pitch-black except for the glow of the moon through the sole window by the sink; the tile cold on my feet and the vanity mirror luminescent in the dark.

I don’t know what I’m doing in here, I can’t even remember the walk from my room, but I stare at my reflection until slowly, like a ripple traveling through water, I see Natalie’s face instead of my own.

I bunch my forehead, tilting my head to the left, to the right.

Observing as my sister does the same. Her neck is long and lean like a porcelain swan’s; her skin wraith-pale like a smudge on the mirror.

Then I start to reach out and that’s when something new happens, something strange.

Her lips begin to shudder into a smirk and I look down at my palms, vaguely aware of a pillowcase clutched tight in my fingers.

Little frills on the edges, the exact same one from my childhood bed.

I don’t remember bringing it in here, I have no idea why I did, but when I look back at the mirror, Natalie is holding it, too, and I watch as she lifts it higher, placing it snugly over her head.

My hands and her hands pulling it tight from the back, the fabric now flush against her face.

I can’t see anything anymore, all I can see is black black black, but I can imagine the indents of her eyes, the dip of her mouth as she tries to inhale.

The cloth of the pillowcase making it impossible to breathe.

Now she’s choking, and I’m choking, ragged little gulps like I’m underwater, my lungs on fire. My entire body begging for air.

I come to with a gasp, my hands grabbing madly at my own face.

I’m still in bed, dripping in sweat, my mind stuck in that same dream again—but there really is something covering my mouth, some kind of gossamer fabric stuffed in like a gag, and when I finally grip it and pull it away I realize it’s the canopy, mosquito netting covering my face like a cobweb.

It must have fallen somehow. I must have rolled over the fabric in my sleep, pulling at the old hook on the ceiling until it gave out after two decades of neglect.

I exhale, breathing deeply, relief flooding my lungs as my hand instinctively reaches for my heart.

The entire thing is draped across my body, a gauzy sarcophagus trapping me inside, and I rip the mesh from my chest. Throwing it into a wad on the floor before glancing at my phone resting on the table.

It’s just past six.

I got barely four hours of sleep, but I know I won’t be getting any more after that, so I decide to get up, peeling myself from the mattress before making my way into the hall in the dark.

The house is silent, my mom’s still asleep, though I notice her bedroom door is open because she’s been staying in the guest room downstairs, her leg making it impossible to walk up the steps.

Still, I keep the lights off as I descend to the first floor before turning into the kitchen.

Only then do I flip on the light, rooting around in the cabinets until I find the mugs and coffee. Then I bring them to the machine, measure out a few scoops, and lean back against the sink as it brews.

I take a deep breath, pushing the stale air out through pursed lips as I try to slow my still-hammering heart.

The truth is, I always feel strange when I awake from that dream—off-kilter and queasy, like putting on the wrong glasses, viewing the world through a warped lens—but it’s even worse now, being back in this house.

Now, it feels like Natalie is watching me, somehow.

Like she’s trapped in the walls. Glassy eyes following me around, waiting to see what I might do next.

I glance to the side, taking in the raw-wood cabinets and linoleum floors.

The scent of strong coffee curling under my nose.

Then my eyes land on the same table my mom and I sat at that morning, the very first morning we realized Natalie was gone: me picking at my cereal as the same smell of coffee soaked the air.

Natalie used to sleep in, especially on Sundays, but then noon rolled around and it started to feel strange she hadn’t come down.

I imagine my mother standing up, the squeak of her chair before she ascended the stairs and the gentle noise of her knuckles as they knocked on the door.

It was such a timid sound it was almost embarrassing, like she thought of her own daughter as some curled-up viper ready to strike on the other side…

but then there was no answer and the knock grew louder, more incessant.

Her voice urgent as she commanded her to come out.

Next came that scream, Natalie’s name. The sharp clatter as she dropped her mug on the ground and me slinking up the steps to find my mother alone in an empty bedroom. No movement at all except for the gentle dance of the curtains, a wide-open window letting in the wind.

A beep from the coffee maker cuts through the thought, the pot in front of me filled to the brim.

I blink away the memory and fill up my mug, blowing on the steam before glancing out the back window, taking in the gaping hole on the porch.

The wood is clearly rotten out there, the boards simply buckling after years of neglect, and I turn away quickly, stifling my judgment before making my way into the living room and lowering myself onto the couch.

I bring the mug to my lips, taking a small sip before I look to the side. The shoebox is still there, the roll of old film sitting beside it, so I put the mug down and grab the film next, twisting it slow between my fingers.

I open the box, ready to place the film inside when a muffled sound steals my attention.

“I don’t care, Alan. You should have asked me first.”

I freeze, staring in the direction of my mother’s voice traveling through the thin walls.

She’s clearly awake, on the phone with my father, and while I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop like this, I’m way too curious to turn away now, so I drop in the film and slide the box shut before making my way to the other side of the room.

“Yes, but this is my house now,” she continues as I creep into the hallway, red runner lolling like a tongue in a throat. The door to the guest room is closed, a thin ribbon of light spilling onto the carpet, and I hold my breath as I lean in close, acutely aware that they’re talking about me.

“I know,” she says, her shadow pacing across the crack in the door. “But I don’t need her here.”

I clench my jaw, a familiar hurt bubbling up from the depths of my chest as this entire encounter calls to mind that summer they separated.

The way my mother would routinely retreat to her bedroom, the quiet click of the door as I stood still in the hall.

Her seeping soft sobs I would pretend not to hear.

The way I immediately started to curl in on myself while Natalie did the opposite and started to lash out.

“I told you already,” she adds. “I can take care of myself.”

I twist around, eager to get away before she can hang up and find me. Then I sneak up the stairs, getting dressed quickly before charging back into the living room and grabbing the shoebox, making my way toward the front door.