Forget Me Always (Lovely Vicious)

by Sara Wolf

  “What do you want for breakfast? I can run out and get something, or we can call in. Checkout isn’t until one.”

  “There was a café I saw on my way in last night. Looked really swanky and smelled permanently like bacon. You should go there. While I sneak out the window.”

  “I think we should go together.”

  “Hear me out on this one: What if we don’t stay near each other for extended periods of time?”

  He rolls over and leans on his elbows, playing with a strand of my purple hair.

  “That’s an incredibly contradictory statement considering what you did last night.”

  “I touched your back! Stop making it sound sexual!” I gasp. “Did I just say sexual? Out loud? Without stuttering? Praise Jesus. Wait, does Jesus like people having sex? I keep forgetting who likes what.”

  “I like you,” Jack murmurs. I elegantly fall off the bed. There’s a silence, and then I peek my head over the mattress and raise my hand.

  “Uh, hello? Me here. I would preferably not like to be given a heart attack before I reach legal drinking age.”

  “Did that really surprise you that badly?” Jack smirks. He pauses. “I like you.”

  “Ah!” I put my arms up to shield myself.

  “I like you.”

  “Stop!”

  “Oh, this will be fun.”

  “I will kill you slowly,” I retort, but he’s already up and pulling on his pants. I set my entire facial region on fire involuntarily when I realize he slept in boxers. Next to me. And in the split second before he pulled his pants on there was a distinct bulge, and I am dying, this is what dying is, you burn up and then the ashes blow away and someone gets them in their eye and they walk around with a red eye all day and their coworkers think it’s pinkeye when really it’s just your dead carbon—

  “Isis. Shhh.”

  “You shhhh!” I hiss. “I’m having a seventeenth-life crisis here upon seeing a man’s junk for the first time.”

  He pulls on his jacket and grabs his wallet off the nightstand.

  “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  He shuts the door, and I’m alone. Alone but with him waiting for me downstairs. In a fancy hotel. For breakfast at a café. I pinch my feet and yelp when I don’t wake up. There aren’t any hidden cameras I can see, but then again if I could see them they wouldn’t be very good hidden cameras now would they? I don’t think this is a setup, at least. It’s an impossible little dream probably, cooked up by my waking subconscious, but for now I’ll let it slide. For now I’ll go along with it. I slept in the same bed as Jack Hunter, my nemesis, my rival, and now apparently something a little more than my friend.

  And I felt safe.

  Over breakfast at the café, Jack and I talk logistics. He’ll keep an eye on Nameless’s IP, and I’ll do a thorough cleansing of my computer. When we’re standing in the parking lot with bellies full of bacon and toast, we linger. I shuffle my feet. I have no idea what to do. How is a girl supposed to say good-bye to a boy she slept with but didn’t really sleep with? Is there a handbook for this shit? Should I write one real quick and mail it to my past self? Does publishing even work that fast?

  Before I can agonize any longer, Jack reaches his hand out and pats my head.

  “You’ll be okay driving home?”

  “Duh.” I feel miffed that he’d pat me like a child, but also weird and glowy on the inside in places I don’t even wanna think about. “I’m like a NASCAR driver. Minus the millions of dollars.”

  “Shame, really. Imagine how many more people you could annoy if you were a millionaire.”

  “At least ten whole people. And their grandmas.”

  “Ah yes, the time-honored Blake tradition of annoying grandmas.”

  “All it takes is like, a dirty pan and a cat without a furry pink sweater on it.”

  “Say hi to your mother for me.”

  “You, too. Um. If she still remembers me. Actually, don’t, it’s fine, I didn’t exactly make the best impression when I went over there—”

  “She remembers,” Jack insists. “She thinks you’re sweet.”

  “Hah. Must’ve met my doppelgänger. The one who doesn’t exist anywhere ever.”

  Jack smiles. It’s not a bright smile, like the one I’d seen him give Sophia in the hospital once. But it’s warm and without ice, and that’s all I can ask for, really.

  “You have my number,” he says.

  “Yup. I’ll text if there’re issues. Tissues. Not tissues, tissues are disgusting and so are issues.”

  He starts to walk away. I want to say a thousand dumb things at once—thank you, and I’m sorry you chose a shithead like me, and you deserve better, and drive safe, and be safe, and sleep well and eat well, but all the words and feelings come up in a jumbled mess and dissipate into the air as I open my mouth to say nothing at all and close it again.

  “YOU WHAT?”

  I hold the phone away from my ear to preserve my future hearing for eighty years to come.

  “Slept. In the uh, same bed,” I whisper.

  “YOU HAD SEX WITH JACK HUNTER?”

  “Jesus, Kayla, no, stop shouting, it’s indecent.”

  “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT’S INDECENT—SLEEPING WITH JACK HUNTER!”

  “We didn’t sleep together, dork! Do I look stupid enough to ever touch that bag of germs?”

  Kayla finally takes a breath. “That’s true. You can’t even say ‘dick’ without vomiting in your mouth a little. And sometimes on desks. And small children.”

  “That was one time, and that kid totally walked into the flight path of my vomit. It’s not my fault if he had no grasp of liquid physics.”

  “But you totally slept in the same bed and, like, hello, isn’t that at least second base? Second and a half base?”

  “Uh, like a second moon base?”

  “Ugh, no! Never mind, I’m not gonna explain really outdated sex terms to you.”

  “For the last time! There was no sect…ional things going on, okay? I would never do that with your ex. Ever.”

  “I would. With your ex. If you had one. If he was smoking hot. If you gave me your sure-as-hell approval, obviously. Which I totally give you, by the way, because, duh—it’s Jack Hunter! Someone in this school has to bed him before he gets to Hollywood or model-land or whatever and contracts a bunch of icky diseases!”

  “You are insane.”

  “Omigod! Did I tell you?”

  “That you’re insane? Already figured it out, thanks.”

  “No, dummy! Wren asked me to prom!”

  I feel my mouth drop open. “The one with glasses?”

  “Uh, duh, what other Wren do you know?”

  “Was he…was he drooling or shuffling or moaning about brains?”

  “Ew, no! He was in his right mind and I’m like, ninety-nine percent sure he wasn’t a zombie, okay? Is it so weird that someone would want to take me to prom?”

  “No, it’s just— Wren isn’t exactly bold?”

  “I know!” she squeals. “Which is like, the biggest compliment, if he got all gung ho to ask me and stuff, right?”

  “Yeah. Are you gonna say yes?”

  “I already did!”

  “What happened to him being a nerd king?”

  “He’s a slightly…cooler nerd king now? I mean, I just— We’ve had woodshop together and it’s been really fun, we made this birdhouse and it came out really cute, and I cut my finger on the band saw a little, and he got really concerned and took me to the nurse’s and—”

  “You like him.”

  Kayla chokes on nothing. “I-I do not! Like him! I just happen to want to go to senior prom! And he’s cute enough! And he’s nice!”

  “He doesn’t drive.”

  “That’s fine! I do! And anyway I’m totally gonna ask Daddy for a limo, and you and Jack are definitely invited.”

  “Uh, thanks? But me and Jack aren’t a thing.”

  “You slept in the same bed.”


  “Yes?”

  “You’re a thing,” she asserts. “I’ll see you on Monday!”

  I sigh and hang up. Having friends is great. Having friends determine your romantic status is not so great. Yeah, Jack and I slept in the same bed. And he touched my hair. And smiled a lot. And he was warm, and—

  I run into the bathroom and grace my head with a cold shower. Mom’s surprised to see my wet hair when I drive up to her shrink’s.

  “Did…did something happen?”

  “Jesus blessed me with his holy water.”

  “Oh?”

  “Took a shower. How was your session?”

  She laughs. “It was…it was all right. We talked about you, mostly, and Stanford.”

  “Oh yeah?” My voice pitches up. “Cool.”

  “It would be so wonderful for you, honey. And with your dad willing to help with the costs—you could really do it. You’d meet so many new people and learn so many amazing things.”

  “Yeah. And they’ve got these awesome foreign exchange programs.” I pull onto the highway. “I’ve been looking at this one in Belgium; it’s like, four months, so one semester, but you live with a host family right in the city and there’s all this cultural exchange stuff in your program, like going out to the countryside and visiting France for a week, and it sounds so—”

  I stop when I see Mom raise her hand to her face out of the corner of my eye.

  “Mom? Are you okay?”

  “I’m sorry.” She sniffs, laughing. “I’m fine. Really, I’m okay.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “I’m fine, sweetie! I-I’m—”

  Her crying gets louder. She’s shaking, her shoulders quivering and her hands quaking as she desperately tries to hide her face from me.

  “Mom!” I pull over onto the shoulder and put the car in park, lacing my arm around her. “Mom, are you okay? What’s wrong? Tell me, please.”

  “N-No,” she whimpers. “I’m being selfish. I’m sorry. Please, just drive us home.”

  “No! Not until you tell me what’s making you cry like this!”

  She sobs into my shoulder, every echo of her pain tearing a hole in my heart. I shouldn’t have gotten so excited about Stanford. It probably hurts her just to hear me talk about going away so far.

  “I don’t want you to go,” she cries. “Please, stay here. I need you here.”

  I wince and shut my eyes. I pull her closer to me, her trench coat enveloping both of us.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” I say softly. “Mom, it’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

  “No! I want you to go.” She looks up, eyes panicked and red. “But I don’t want you to go. I know you have to. You have to grow and learn and fly on your own. But I don’t know what I’ll do without you. I’m sorry. Please, go. Please do whatever you want. Just…just promise me you’ll come back and visit sometimes, all right?”

  “Mom, I’m not going—”

  “You are!” Her expression suddenly turns furious. “You are, don’t listen to me! Don’t hold yourself back for me. I want you to go to Stanford.”

  “But I don’t want to.”

  “Yes you do, Isis. I know you do. And you’re giving it up for me, and I can’t have that. You need people as smart as you, sweetie. You need challenges, and you’ll get that at Stanford. God, my little girl, going to Stanford. I’m so proud. So, so proud.”

  She composes herself, and I start driving again, and she smiles and talks about mundane stuff like grocery shopping and what the neighbors said about her yard and how work was, but I know she isn’t done with the sorrow, because when we get home, she locks herself in her room and turns on her music. And she only does that when she doesn’t want me to hear her crying.

  My chest burns as I look over the Stanford brochures again. They’re a wonderful, impossible dream.

  I can’t leave her. There’s no way I can leave Mom here with a good conscience. I’d be too far to help if anything happened again—and she’d be too lonely. She wouldn’t get better if I was gone; she’d only get worse. I have to be close. Very close. I have to stay with her until she’s strong enough to stand on her own two feet again, and going to Stanford won’t make that happen.

  My path is clear.

  My path has always been clear.

  I put the brochures in my desk drawer and cover them with my old sketchbooks from elementary school. Things I don’t touch. Things I won’t touch, ever again.

  My email beeps, shakes me out of my misery, and then piles more on. The email’s from the same address that sent me the picture. Nameless.

  Hi, Isis!

  How’ve you been? You got my pic, right? That Jack guy seems really cool. Have you guys fucked yet?

  Aw, who am I kidding? You don’t gotta tell me. I’ll see you again someday. :)

  I fight the urge to puke and lose, fantastically.

  The darkness wells up in the bathroom. It bleeds out of my eyes and my mouth that cries with no sound. I lock the door and huddle on the floor, hugging my knees.

  He’ll see me soon.

  I’m not safe. I’ve never been safe.

  I’ll never be safe. I’ll never be free. Jack’s wrong. He can’t do anything. He can’t help. Nameless lives inside me and always will. The darkness will always be here.

  There is a nest inside me, and all it takes is a few words from the boy who raped me to bring the monsters roaring out of it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Naomi isn’t pleased with the fact that I’m leaving town. She’s never been pleased when I leave, ever, because Sophia gets sad, and that probably makes her job harder. She escorts me to Sophia’s room grumpily.

  “Something the matter, Naomi?” I inquire.

  Naomi grunts eloquently. “Don’t try to schmooze me, Jack.”

  “I’m just wondering why your face is more lovely than usual. New eye cream?”

  “Are you really going to Harvard?” she snaps. “Do you know how far away that is?”

  “In another state, I believe.”

  “What about Sophia, hmm? What is she going to do when you’re gone?”

  Naomi’s words dig a needle straight through my heart. She seems to see that, and sighs and rubs her forehead.

  “I’m sorry. I— She’s been here so long, I care about her so much, and with the surgery coming up I’m just so worried. Dr. Fenwall says her likelihood of pulling through—”

  “She’ll be fine,” I say. “She’s tough, even though she doesn’t look it. She’ll live. She’ll be able to live her own life when it’s over.”

  Naomi nods. She pushes open the door to Sophia’s room and gasps. It’s empty. I walk over to the windowsill, where every single one of the vases I’d bought her are smashed. The floor’s littered with pottery, sharp and gleaming and just begging for someone to step in it and shed blood.

  “Where is she?” Naomi moans. “I told her you were coming and to stay in her room so I could bring you here. Oh no, oh, no no no—”

  “We’ll split up. Check her usual spots,” I say. “I’ll take the top floors, you check the bottom. And ask Dr. Fenwall if he’s seen her.”

  Naomi nods, and we run out the door. I take the steps two at a time and weave around wheelchairs and interns. She’s not in the cafeteria, and the servers say they haven’t seen her all day. The recreation room is nearly empty, and when I ask a kindly old woman if she’s seen her, she shakes her head. Nurses who work with Naomi say they haven’t seen her, either. The bathrooms are fruitless. Finally, I get to the kids’ ward, where Mira and James are playing video games. They look up, and Mira smiles.

  “Hey, Jack! Sophia was just here.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Upstairs. To the roof, I think. Even though we’re not supposed to be up there.”

  Four flights of stairs leave me breathless and sick to my stomach. Why the roof? She only goes there when she’s irrevocably sad or depressed. And with all the smashed vases? She loves
those vases. She’d never—

  I climb faster and burst through the emergency door and into the weak sunlight.

  Sophia’s standing at the edge. Not on it, like I’d found her so many times, like I was afraid she’d be. She peers over it, watching the world spread out below. Her hands are clasped behind her back, her silvery hair ruffling in the strong wind.

  She looks over her shoulder and smiles at me.

  “Hey.”

  “Sophia—” I run toward her, turning her to face me and inspecting her for wounds. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just wanted some air. You don’t look so good, though.”

  I exhale all the worry out. “I was— I came to visit, and your room, all the vases were broken. Did you do that?”

  She nods. “On accident. I was dancing to music and got a little crazy. I didn’t want to deal with it, so I just left it there for the janitor to clean and came up here. Mean of me, I know.”

  “No, no, it’s fine— You just worried Naomi and me.”

  She cocks her head and hugs me. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to, really.”

  I put my arms around her and inhale the smell of her hair, making sure she’s still here. She’s real. She has a scent and a feel and she’s realer than anything in my life. She always has been.

  Half of me wants to tell her about Isis, about Gregory Callan looking for Tallie. The other half knows she’d take it badly either way, and with such an important surgery coming up, her mental stability has to be rock solid. I’ll tell her after, when she’s healthy and whole again. If I worry her now, the stress could tip her over an edge she can’t come back from.

  “I love you,” I say.

  She giggles and pets my hair. “I know. I love you, too. Thank you for being so strong for me all this time. Thank you for trying so hard, for so long. It’ll all be over soon.”

  “You’ll be able to do whatever you want. Go wherever you want. You’ll be free.”

  She laughs and hugs me tighter.

  “I already am.”

  Today is easier.

  It’s not any brighter—the darkness still lingers on the edges of my vision, but I punch it in the gut and drive to the hospital anyway. I pause in the doorway of the ER.