Page 9 of Forget Me Not

It’s still early, just past eight, a golden glow illuminating the water and a quiet stillness as the world wakes up.

I’m back in my car, my phone returned to its spot in the cup holder as a map once again leads me through the streets of my past. After twenty minutes of driving, the voice in my speakers has announced my arrival, so I pull into an empty spot on the street as I read the sign of the small shop opposite my pollen-caked windshield.

Claxton is still small, still relatively old-fashioned, and although chain restaurants are now erected where mom-and-pops used to be, the corner store I used to go to for candy replaced by a Starbucks that looks oddly out of place, a few of the original shops still seem to be in business, including the one I’m sitting in front of right now.

I put my car in park before opening the shoebox and grabbing the film, stepping onto the asphalt, and walking inside.

“Hi,” I say, making my way toward a man tinkering with something behind a counter. The place smells like hot metal and dust and I smile as I approach, a collection of cameras and technical equipment taking up every inch of the wall. “I was hoping I could get this developed.”

I push the film across the counter, watching as he grabs it and deposits the roll in his palm.

“I read online that you specialize in that,” I add. “Better than a drugstore or something.”

The man stays quiet, two rodent eyes magnified behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

“This is old,” he says at last, twisting it between his fingers like he’s found something sacred. “ Really old.”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. Thinking about the pictures in that box, twenty-two years, and realizing, for the first time, that it might actually be impossible to recover these now.

I have no idea how long film keeps, what the images would even look like if we could get them developed.

“It got lost in some clutter, but I guess I was wondering, I was hoping —”

“Sure, yeah, I can do it,” the man says, squinting as he pulls at the tape. “It’ll take some time, though.”

“That’s fine,” I say, glancing at my watch. “A couple hours?”

“Try a couple days,” he says. “Maybe a week.”

“A week ?”

“You have to be delicate with film this fragile. Make sure it doesn’t get damaged in the process.”

I stare at him, chewing impatiently on the side of my lip.

“It might need some color correction if the dyes have broken down,” he continues. “The pictures might be faded, or grainy, or—”

“Okay,” I say, cutting him off. Realizing that time isn’t really the issue; that unfortunately, right now, I have all the time in the world. “That’s fine. Just do what you can.”

“All right,” the man says, slipping the roll somewhere out of sight.

This place is a mess, no obvious attempts at organization, and I try to swallow the twist of discomfort in my chest as I watch the film disappear, the anxiety of trusting a stranger with what could very well be some of my sister’s final moments making my palms itch with fear.

“Just leave your number and I’ll call when it’s ready. ”

I nod, jotting down the digits before forcing myself to walk back to the car.

Then I slide inside and crank the engine, eyeing the clock as it blinks back to life.

It’s only 8:20, the entire day, the entire month, stretching out before me like a long walk to the gallows, and I know I’m not ready to go home yet.

I’m not ready to spend the afternoon sitting in my bedroom, avoiding my mom.

Still bitter about the things I just overheard, an entire lifetime of resentment building as the two of us dance around our problems in that way we’ve always done—except this time, without the benefit of eight hundred miles of distance between us.

I need to keep busy, I need to do something, and I glance over at the passenger seat, that box of old photos still propped up on the fabric.

Then I lean over and peer inside, the picture of Natalie and that grape resting on top.