Forget Me Not

by Fern Michaels

  Lucy hugged her arms across her chest as she wondered what the next days would bring and, whatever it turned out to be, whether she could handle it. Like she had choices blowing out her ears. She had to handle it, and she had to move on.

  Lucy was up, dressed, and out of the house by seven o’clock in the morning. She did everything she had promised herself she would do. She even stopped at a service station, topped off her father’s gas tank, and had the tires and oil checked. All good. At eight she picked up boxes at The UPS Store; by eight thirty she was at the funeral home, waiting for the doors to open. She thanked Mr. Dial for the certificates and turned to leave.

  “Miss Brighton?”

  “Yes?”

  “Didn’t you forget something?”

  “I don’t think so. I just wanted the certificates. I paid for the cremation the other day. I have my purse. No, I’m good to go, Mr. Dial. Oh, you must mean the remembrance cards. I thought you said you would mail those to me.”

  The funeral director stared at her. “I was referring to your . . . ah . . . parents. Their remains. They’re ready.”

  Sweet mother of God! My face must be apple red, Lucy thought. She turned around. And lied. “No, Mr. Dial, I didn’t forget. I was going to go back, pack up the truck, and come back. I wanted to make sure I could secure them safely in the cargo hold.”

  Even to her own ears it sounded like the lie it was. She could tell by the look on the man’s face that he wasn’t buying it, either. She had forgotten. That was the bottom line, which didn’t say much for her.

  “I can take them now, if it’s a problem. Actually, sir, I should take them now, as it will save me coming back this way. Are they in boxes or urns?”

  Mr. Dial sniffed. “You specified urns, and urns are what you’re getting. I wrapped them in bubble wrap.”

  “Bubble wrap?” Lucy said inanely.

  “You said you would be taking them with you. The urns are sealed, but one can’t be too careful with the remains of loved ones.”

  “Oh, I absolutely agree,” Lucy said. “Where are they?”

  Mr. Dial pointed to a table in the foyer. “I had my assistant set them out when he opened at six this morning. Travel safely, Miss Brighton.”

  Lucy licked at her dry lips as she marched over to the table and picked up the box in which the urns rested. She hadn’t expected it to be so heavy. She nodded to the director, who was holding the door open.

  Lucy almost ran to the truck, but she knew that the man was watching her. So she opened the cargo hold and plopped the box on top of the boxes she’d picked up at The UPS Store.

  A splatter of rain hit the windshield as Lucy climbed into the driver’s seat. When she had awakened that morning, she’d thought the rain was over. But the sky had turned almost black. Not good weather to be traveling up I-95. She might have to wait till the storm passed before she started out. Ordinarily, driving in the rain didn’t bother her, but she’d never really driven a big SUV like a Range Rover on a major highway. Driving around, doing errands, wasn’t quite the same thing to her mind.

  Lucy made it home just as the sky opened up. The first thing she noticed was that her rental car had been picked up. The waterfall of rain was so heavy, she couldn’t see the house across the street. She pulled into the garage, turned off the engine, closed the garage door, and popped the cargo trunk. She grabbed the urns and ran into the house and up to the second floor, where she set them on the floor and pressed the switch on the crazy umbrella. In the blink of an eye, she had the third compartment open and was pulling out the guns and ammunition. In went the urns, and then she slammed the door shut and pressed the keys. Locked. As in forever. That was when she noticed she was drenched in sweat. She felt so dizzy, she had to close her eyes and will herself to calmness. When she felt stable enough, she peeled off her clothes, headed into the bedroom she was using, opened her suitcase, and pulled out fresh clothes. She dumped the clothes she’d been wearing on top and zipped up her bag. She longed for Valium.

  Get ahold of yourself. Go downstairs, make some coffee, eat the last of the doughnuts, and shift into a neutral zone, she told herself. Ha! Easier said than done. But she did just that, and within twenty minutes she felt normal enough to go out to the garage to take the boxes out of the cargo hold. She carried the boxes upstairs and started packing up her parents’ belongings. She was glad she’d picked up the packing tape at the same time. She hustled then as she folded and jammed as much as she could into each box. She ripped off tape and sealed box after box, doing her best not to stare at the guns and ammunition on the closet floor. She labeled each box neatly with a Magic Marker from her purse. MOTHER’S PURSES AND SHOES. MOTHER’S SCARVES AND BELTS. MOTHER’S SLEEPWEAR, MOTHER’S SUITS. MOTHER’S JACKETS.

  Lucy started on her father’s boxes. In between each suit, she wrapped a gun in a towel, then layered the box. She picked it up to make sure it wasn’t too heavy. It wasn’t. She repeated the process until all the guns were safely packed in thick, thirsty towels. She sealed up the box and wrote on the outside with the same Magic Marker. Finally, she slipped the ammunition into the toes of the shoes and used three different boxes to pack them up, until she’d used up all the face and hand towels from the master bath.

  Time for a break. Lucy headed downstairs and out to the kitchen, carrying one of the boxes with her. In the garage she pulled out the manual from the rear pocket of the Range Rover and flipped to the page that gave instructions on how to fold down the backseats. That small feat accomplished, she shoved the box as far forward as she could push it. She crossed her fingers that all the boxes would fit. If not, she would have to go back to The UPS Store and mail them. But not the ones with the guns and ammunition, in case they scanned packages.

  Lucy drank another cup of coffee, her gaze on the windows. It was still dark, it was still pouring rain, and she could hear the rumble of thunder. So much for Florida’s boast of being the Sunshine State.

  It was almost eleven o’clock when Lucy shoved the last box into the cargo hold. Somehow, she’d made them all fit. She felt like cheering. All she had left to do was fax off the death certificates, pack up her parents’ personal papers from Compartment Number One, and decide what she was going to do about the contents of Compartment Number Two.

  Thankfully, she’d gauged right, and she still had one box left. That one she could set on the floor or on the seat of the passenger side. She frowned. There was nothing left to wrap the cigar boxes in. Unless . . . she could use the sheets and towels from the guest-room bath. At that moment, she couldn’t decide which was more dangerous to travel with, the guns or the cigar boxes. What she did know was that the combination of the two was a lethal mix if she got stopped for speeding or she broke down or got robbed in a parking lot. Well, she’d just have to make sure that didn’t happen. She’d drive the speed limit all the way. The Rover was new, so she seriously doubted it would break down. If she didn’t stop along the way, she couldn’t get robbed. So much to think about and worry about.

  Back on the second floor, Lucy gathered up sheets and a few matching decorator towels and carried them into the walk-in closet. She looked down into Compartment Number Two and cringed. She pulled out the three Cuban cigar boxes. Then she started to layer the sheets and the towels, wrapping the cigar boxes in fancy lace-trimmed towels with her mother’s initials on them. She yanked at the packing tape and wrapped the boxes so tight, a flea couldn’t have gotten into them. She was breathing like a long-distance runner when she reached for the Magic Marker to mark the box. In neat script she wrote: QUEEN-SIZE MIST-GREEN SHEET SET, CHAMPAGNE-COLORED KING-SIZE SHEET SET, MATCHING TOWELS, PALE BLUE QUEEN SHEET SET WITH MATCHING TOWELS, ONE LIGHTWEIGHT CHAMPAGNE AFGHAN. She put the same amount of tape on this box as she had on the others. A pattern, so to speak, in case anyone were to look in or want to search.

  “I think I might have the makings of a criminal,” she muttered to herself, “because I’m starting to think and act like one.”

&nb
sp; Lucy carried the box and the big manila envelope in which she’d sealed her parents’ personal papers back downstairs. On the front of the envelope she had written, MOM’S AND DAD’S PERSONAL PAPERS. The envelope went in the passenger-side door, and the box was placed on the floor. That left the seat empty for her purse, soft drinks, coffee, and whatever she bought for the trip before she got onto I-95.

  The only thing left to do was to pull out all the plugs from the appliances, then make sure the fridge was empty and no trash remained. She walked from room to room and managed to get it all done in fifteen minutes. She found a stray bag under the sink, into which she put the contents of the fridge. All that was left to do was go back upstairs, make her bed, be sure her wet towel was hanging so it would dry out, open the safe, take out the urns, close the safe, and get rid of the umbrella.

  In the walk-in closet, Lucy stared down at the three-compartment safe, then pressed the button on the umbrella. There were no answers there. She realized that there would probably never be any. She picked up the urns and the umbrella, walked out into the hall, and pressed the button. She dropped the umbrella to the floor and ran back to see if the floor had slid back. It hadn’t. That had to mean the umbrella needed to be in the closet so it could connect with some unseen eye to make the safe open. Lucy looked down at the urns and said, “Bye, Mother. Bye, Daddy,” as she walked out of the room for the final time.

  Back in the kitchen, Lucy looked down at the umbrella. What to do with it? Should she take it? What was the point? She’d cleaned out the safe. Her parents were sealed away for eternity. Better to destroy the umbrella. She ripped at it, pulled the wires from the core, and stuck them in her pocket. She did her best to crunch up the umbrella, then stomped on it.

  The clock on the Wolf range said it was twelve o’clock on the nose. Outside she could hear the deep rumble of thunder and see lightning zipping and cavorting across the darkened sky. Rain continued to come down in torrents. Lucy finished her coffee, rinsed the cup, and unplugged the pot so she could be on her way. If she didn’t leave immediately, she could end up getting stuck all day, and there was no way she was going to spend one more day in that house. Not even one more hour.

  Lucy reached for the trash bag, the remains of the umbrella, and her purse. In the garage she locked the door leading to the kitchen and pressed the remote for the garage door to slide open. If she stayed under the overhang, she wouldn’t get too wet. She had reached the opening of the garage when she noticed a car’s headlights coming down the street and a big brown UPS truck right behind it. Both were merely crawling. Lucy raced for the trash can. She had the metal lid in her hand just as a bolt of lightning zigzagged downward, and her world went all black.

  Chapter Five

  Lucy tried to open her eyes, but she couldn’t. There seemed to be lead weights on her lids. Then she tried to work her arms, but they felt heavy, too. She struggled to talk, but her mouth was dry, as though she were sucking on cotton balls. And she felt pain. Where? Pain in her foot. She needed to tell someone.

  Then she heard a gentle voice saying, “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  She tried and finally got her eyes open, but she couldn’t focus at first. She blinked, the heaviness receding. She licked at her lips. “Water.” She felt ice chips—at least she thought they were ice chips—pass between her lips. Her tongue moved. “Hurt,” she managed to say as more ice chips passed her lips. A thin stream of water trickled down her cheek, but she couldn’t make her hand move to wipe it away.

  Lucy felt panic then, as she struggled to move. Strong arms held her down. “Easy now. I want you to stay calm. Everything is fine.”

  The voice was so soothing, so gentle and kind, Lucy immediately calmed.

  “It hurts.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it does. Getting struck by lightning will do that to you. Do you remember what happened? By the way, I’m Dr. Lyons. My friends call me Jim. And this is Nurse Franks. Her friends call her Margie.”

  Lucy shook her head. “Am I in a hospital?” she managed to croak. More ice chips found their way to her lips. This time they didn’t dribble down her chin. “How did I get here?”

  A neighbor and a UPS driver saw what happened, and they called EMS. Your neighbor came with you in the ambulance. You were very lucky they saw what happened and got you immediate attention.

  “Why does my foot . . . my leg hurt so bad?”

  “Because your foot was burned. It appears you were holding the metal lid of a trash can when the lightning hit the ground and your foot. You have third-degree burns on all of your toes and the top of your foot, down to the arch. It will heal, but you’ll have discomfort for a while. We have pills for that. And we’ve been giving you shots for the pain. You’re going to be fine.”

  Lucy worked her tongue again as she tried to focus on the fatherly-looking doctor standing at the side of the bed.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Today is the third day. I can discharge you if you think you’re ready to leave, but if you feel you need another day, that’s fine with us. I have some questions I need you to answer. Are you up to it? If not, I can come back later, now that you’re fully awake.”

  “Sure,” Lucy mumbled.

  “What’s your name?”

  Lucy made a snorting sound in her throat. Such a stupid question. “My name is . . . is. My name is . . .”

  She felt a flutter of panic rush through her. She should know her name. Why didn’t she know her name? If she didn’t know her name, they would keep her there. “My name is . . . Is it Angie?”

  “Nope, wrong answer. Want to try again?” the soothing voice asked.

  “I think it’s Angie,” Lucy said fretfully.

  “Where do you live?”

  Another stupid question. Or was it stupid? “In a house, I guess.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “I . . . I can’t remember. An apartment?”

  “Do you know what state you’re in?”

  Lucy let her gaze go to the window. She saw tall palm trees outside. “Someplace warm, I guess. Palm trees are outside. I don’t know. You’re scaring me. Why don’t I know the answers?”

  “Short-term memory loss due to trauma in cases like yours. Unfortunately for you, you had what we call a twofer. What that means is, the neighbor who came here with you told us what she knew. She said your name is Lucy Brighton, and you live in New Jersey. You came here to Florida for your parents’ funeral. There’s no way to soften this for you, so I’m just going to tell you what she told us. Your parents were killed in a head-on crash. She and her husband attended the service you held for your parents. She told us where they lived in Palm Royal. Does that ring a bell?”

  “No. My parents are dead?”

  “I’m sorry, but yes, they are. Do you remember anything about the service, your parents, anything at all?”

  Lucy squeezed her eyes shut. “This is terrible. My parents are dead, and I can’t even remember who they are. Can I talk to the lady who came here with me?”

  “Absolutely. She’s come by every day to see you, but you were always sleeping. She volunteered to take you back to your parents’ house when I discharge you. Her name is Adel Longhurst, and her husband’s name is William, but she said everyone calls him Buddy. They seem like very nice people. Does that help?”

  “No, it doesn’t help. I can’t put a face to them, and the names mean nothing. Can I sit up? I want to see my foot. Can I walk? How long will it take for my memory to come back?”

  The nurse pressed a remote dangling off the rail of the bed.

  “Is that better?”

  Lucy nodded as she tried to look down at her foot. A massive bandage covered her entire left foot, but her toes were exposed. They were red and raw looking, and they looked greasy.

  “I suppose you could hobble around if we fashion a heel of some sort on your foot. For now, crutches or a wheelchair will be best. The dressing has to be changed four times a day to ward off infection.
You’re in luck, Ms. Brighton, because Mrs. Longhurst is a retired nurse. She said she would be glad to help you out until you can do it yourself. If you are agreeable to all of this, I can go ahead and sign your discharge papers and call Mrs. Longhurst to come and pick you up.

  “As to your last question, I can’t answer it. It varies with patients. Your memory could come back in an hour, a day, next week, or a month from now. What I’m hoping for is, if you are in familiar surroundings, among familiar people, your memory will come back sooner. You could wake up tomorrow morning and remember everything. I just don’t have a pat answer. I do have some advice for you, and that is, don’t rush it. Don’t try to force it. The brain is a very challenging organ. It will happen. The worst thing you can do is agitate yourself. Try to stay calm. I’m going to be discharging you with several prescriptions, and I want you to take them religiously.”

  Lucy nodded.

  “Does that mean you want me to call Mrs. Longhurst? Or do you want to stay one more day?”

  “I want to go . . . wherever it is she’s taking me. Did you say I live in New Jersey?”

  “That’s what Mrs. Longhurst said. When I asked her how she knew you lived in New Jersey, she said that the funeral director told her. She said she lives on the street behind your parents’ house.”

  “Well, then, I would appreciate it if you called her and asked her to pick me up. I don’t think I like hospitals. I don’t think I’ve ever been in one.”

  The doctor chuckled and patted her on the shoulder. “Nurse Franks will help you get dressed. I’ll have someone come in and fashion a heel for your foot, but please, try to avoid walking as much as possible. We will be sending you home with crutches but ask that you return them when you no longer need them.”