Forget Me Not
Jade Goodmore
Forget Me Not, Copyright © 2013 Jade Goodmore
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1484956214
ISBN-13: 978-1484956212
For Those Fighting
Against The Odds
The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again.
Charles Dickens
Chapter 1
Fairview High's Graduating Class Of 2002 Invites
Ms Michaela Cole
To Our 10 Year Reunion
June 8th 2012 at 7:00pm
The Worcester Hotel and Bar.
Connecticut.
This pearlescent slip of paper in my hand threatens to steal my already diminishing youth. I’ve been fooling myself for too long that I am fresh out of school, but in reality it has been ten years. Ten years. At twenty-seven years old I’m hardly applying for my bus pass, but I can’t help feel like my best years are behind me.
At the time, I detested school. What teenager doesn’t? But looking back through my thick-rimmed, rose-tinted glasses, they really were the best years of my life. I have never had it as easy as I did then. My only money issues were when I was wavering between spending my pocket money on Hoobastank’s new album or a trip to the cinema. I was responsible for nobody but myself and the only time I fretted about a future career was when it became clear that Aerosmith were not looking to hire roadies in the near future.
I was happy, easily so.
After high school, my life got turned upside down, and although I’ll forever be sensitive to the events that broke me, I am finally on my way to being happy again. I’m stronger than I have been in years, but in truth, my strength hasn’t truly been tested until now.
Filing my thoughts away to be scrutinized later, I stick the invite under my Rolling Stones tongue magnet on the fridge and return to cooking breakfast. Unless I like my eggs smoking and black - I don't - then it's ruined, so I join Benjamin at the kitchen table and pour myself a bowl of cereal. As we eat in rare silence I bask in the youth radiating from my beautiful son, Benjamin. His pure skin exudes freshness and frequent freckles kiss his button nose. Six years worth of unruly hair hangs too long above eyes the color of rich chocolate, the only feature I can recognize as my own.
I manage half of my cereal before Benji is asking me to tie his laces.
"Why don't you try them first, sweetheart?" I ask gently, trying not to push it. We’ve had this conversation daily for weeks.
"I’ve already tried. Look!" Benji whines as he thrusts his foot onto my lap. On closer inspection his laces are twisted around each other and tucked into the side of his sneakers.
"Oh. Okay." I take his laces and tie them into a neat bow. "One loop, two loop, round and through,” I sing. “See?"
He says nothing but simply swaps feet to allow me to correct the other one. He mutters some variation of thanks and jumps to the floor to run and collect his bag from his bedroom upstairs. He has to hop over his toys that are scattered along the floor of our living room and he makes it seem like they’re much bigger than they actually are. I smile, briefly, before remembering my earlier woe.
Ring Ring!
I know who it is before I even pick up the phone.
"Emma," I answer.
"Mickey, how did you know it was me? Did you get it? Are you excited?" Emma squeals her assault of questions, way too many for this early in the morning. Her voice is too high and I wonder if that’s down to her usual caffeine overload or the sheer joy of our impending reunion.
"Yes, I got it," I sigh, before turning to look at the invite on the fridge. "It can't have been ten years already, Em. I feel old."
"Mickey, you're not even twenty-eight yet."
"Not far off. Feel free to get me Botox for my birthday," I suggest, only half joking.
"Oh, I should probably cancel the slippers and knitting needles I ordered then?" she asks, possibly only half joking too.
"Yes! I assume you’re going?"
Benjamin appears in the kitchen wearing his bicycle helmet and knee pads. Has he even looked outside? Our little town is being thoroughly watered and I am in no mood for a soggy bike ride to school. I shake my head and mouth "no" as Emma takes my invitation to chat about the reunion and runs with it. Benjamin stomps off to his room, much louder than necessary, and slams the door. I hope he doesn't change into his Power Rangers costume like last week.
"Tell me you’re going,” she demands.
I mutter a negative of sorts.
“Michaela Louise Cole! I thought we’d already agreed that we were going to go and it was going to be fabulous?" She's right. We already received a ‘save the date’ card a couple of months ago and talked about how nice it would be to catch up with everyone. Since the initial excitement, it’s fair to say that my enthusiasm has waned.
"Yeah, I know, but…I have a lot on with work, and leaving Benji with my parents, it's...it’s…"
"It’s Jesse."
Bingo. Emma has sifted through the bullshit and found my truth.
"You’re good.”
“I’m your best friend. Now spill.”
“It's just that, well, I haven't allowed myself to think about him for so long, and it’s easier that way. Seeing him again..." My breath catches at the thought of being in his presence and I bite my lower lip to subdue the panic.
"I know, but listen to your bestest. It’s time for some tough love.” She pauses and clears her throat, milking the drama for as much as she can. “Enough. It’s been so long. Too long. You’re a totally different person now and I’m sure that he is too. It’ll probably be like meeting a complete stranger.” She must sense my doubt, even over the phone, because she hurriedly tries a different tactic. “Besides, you don't even know if he’ll turn up, right?"
Her words invoke a wave of hope. He may not turn up. It’s completely conceivable that he won't. I’ve got no idea where in the world he is and it’s likely that neither does anyone else. He may not have even received the invite. My stomach knots at this realization and I can’t quite fathom out why. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to see him.
"I guess," I lie, knowing that she won’t leave it until she hears some acceptance. She can't possibly understand the mess that tangles my mind, so it’s just easier to feign belief in her words.
Emma is just about to scrutinize the situation further when Benji appears by my side in his Batman cape and mask.
"Oh, Em, I’ve got to run. I’ll talk to you later."
"Okay, just think about it. See you."
I will think about it. Nothing but it.
I’m grateful to be dropping Benji off for his last day of school before they break for summer. He’s been a ball of energy in anticipation of beginning all of the activities we’ve organized for him with local clubs and friends. Thankfully, my parents are able to occupy a little of Benji’s time while I’m at work. They’re teachers at a school outside of town so they’re free and happy to help out with childcare when school’s out. In my job, I’m fortunate enough to be able to work around Benji so I’ve managed to set aside a little time off in a few weeks to enjoy my son.
The rain lessens to a drizzle as I backtrack home to collect my forgotten work bag before heading to the office. I park directly outside my house and step out of my little VW Golf and onto the busy, wet sidewalk. It's always so chaotic at this time in the morning, so much so that I wonder why I insisted on living in the centre of town.
Our middle of the terrace townhouse sits in the heart of Starling, a beautiful place outlining the edge of Connecticut. It’s a typical coastal town that at its core is thriving with new developments and expansion, but thankfully, the further you travel away from the epicenter, the greener the h
ills get and the sandier the beaches become.
I unlock the door to our cozy home and give it a generous bump with my shoulder, stepping immediately into our living room and wiping the soles of my wet boots on the mat. Our living room and kitchen are all part of one moderately sized space, separated by a breakfast bar on one side and the stairs to the two bedrooms and bathroom on the opposite. It’s petite in size and mature in age, but I love every bit of it because it is all mine. I worked damn hard to be able to put a roof over mine and Benji’s head rather than having to rely on my parent’s kind hearts, and even though it’s not where I plan on seeing out the rest of our lives, or the not so distant future for that matter, I am more than happy here right now.
My Dad and I spent weeks before I moved in painting and decorating every wall in bright, airy colors and I’ve worked hard to make it both practical and homely. My attempts at restoring furniture lie evident around me with shabby chic pieces and my own artwork adorning the walls. Floral fabrics line the windows injecting some femininity into my little fortress, but little light enters through the glass, especially not on a miserable day like today.
I head to the kitchen to collect my laptop from the table but get sidetracked by the offering of fruit at its center. I sit and pick at some grapes, hoping that I can fill a little bit of the hole that my half eaten breakfast left. They don’t. I try a banana. Nope.
After I finish the grapes, banana, and an apple it dawns on me that I’m procrastinating with food. I’m stuffing my face as my subconscious continues to reflect on today’s mail. At least it’s not crap I’m shoveling into my mouth. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here staring vacantly at the fridge, or more specifically, the invitation, but I somehow feel calmer. It’s as if having a stare-off with this overly fancy, flimsy piece of paper has restored my prospective. This shouldn’t be a big deal.
It isn’t a big deal.
The woman sitting here isn’t so different to the young girl that left Fairview High ten years ago. My dark titian hair hasn’t changed, but it’s now longer and I’ve finally learnt how to tame the rich, auburn curls. My nose and cheeks are dusted with light freckles that I’ve slowly grown to accept. My eyes are still the same rich brown, albeit with newly owned laughter lines and my nose bares a faint scar on my right nostril where it was once pierced. I regretted this act of rebellion almost immediately. It looked less punk rock and more Rudolph when it swelled up to twice its normal size and it had to be removed by medical professionals. Nevertheless, my aspirations of achieving a punk rock look haven’t left me. Its effect on my wardrobe selection is evident in my array of skinny jeans and boots, but the intensity is toned down nowadays as I welcome the touch of taste that comes with age.
After establishing that I am not so far removed from the girl in her senior year, I resolve that with the help of a highly trained beautician and a new dress, I shall indeed go to the ball…or the reunion. I send Emma a text message with the good news and only have time to get out of the door and lock it before my phone alerts me to her response.
You won't regret it! So excited! Can you book us in at Gina's for the full works? xxx
Of course, I’ll need it! Speak later xxx
Chapter 2
The rain has calmed so I pull up the hood of my black bomber jacket and decide to walk the short distance to work. The fresh, damp air will do my muddled mind some good. It only takes ten minutes to walk to my office, fifteen when I stop for a coffee, which I do.
Warming my hands, I clutch the drink close to me and turn onto the main High Street. Buildings run parallel to each other on either side of a road that stretches for at least half a mile. Each store has its business name stenciled against its window in a variety of colors, and you can hear the sound of bells as doors open in turn up and down the sidewalk. If you ignore the cars and the traffic lights then this area of town looks almost unchanged from sixty years ago.
The front of Gina's Hair and Beauty Salon stands out with a neon pink sign and silver italic lettering that adorns the window. As well as my hairdressers of choice it’s also where I work. Not as a hairdresser, though. I rent a room upstairs and have done since my career as a local photographer took off and my little home became overrun with albums and equipment.
Opening the door, I say hello to Gina and one of the new stylists who I’ve yet to have learn her name. I remember to book an appointment for myself and Emma for next Friday, the morning of the reunion and will myself to actually look forward to the pampering as I make my way up the rickety stairs to my humble work space. My room here is of modest size and then once you factor in my desk and the wall of shelves buckling from the weight of my inventory, it can get quite claustrophobic.
After hanging my wet jacket on the back of my chair I start up my computer. I fetch my camera from my bag and begin working on transferring the images from last night’s gig so they can be sifted through and cleaned.
Waiting rather impatiently for technology to do its thing, my mind begins to wander and I somehow find myself back at home staring at the invitation on the fridge door. It really shouldn't be such a big deal. Half of my class mates still live in the area and the rest are on Facebook. I know what they are doing with their lives, along with what they had for dinner and what their children’s birth weights were.
The thought of seeing my classmates rather than reading their status updates is clearly not the reason for my biting nerves, but this gives me an idea so I excitedly log on to my business account on Facebook. Ignoring the messages and notifications, I click on the search bar and type in, JESSE JENNER. This isn’t the first time I’ve looked for him, not by a long way, but I’ve yet to unearth any sign of him on any of the social networking sites or through any search engines, and I’ve been thorough.
Several profiles are listed but none are my Jesse. Pah, my Jesse. He hasn't been my Jesse for ten years. I have undeniably remained his though. I’ve kidded myself in the past that I am over him and I’ve even adopted the role of the loving girlfriend in a couple of other relationships, but none could ever compare to my first love.
With Sebastian, Benjamin's father, it was as close to real as it could ever have been. We met at college after I’d spent the last couple of months mourning the death of mine and Jesse’s relationship. We became good friends and eventually I found that through Sebastian I could see a way out of the darkness.
I was studying photography and business and Seb was a major in music when we met. He was an amazing musician and we bonded over our shared tastes. There was no specific moment where we shifted from friends to something more. It was gradual and somewhat inevitable.
We never spoke about Jesse, I couldn't. If I did then I’d have had to admit that I wasn't over him, and where would that leave us? While I had strong feelings for Sebastian, he was essentially my way of getting over Jesse. When he graduated I quit college and followed him to New York, investing in an idealistic dream of being an artist in the city. I fooled myself into believing that I loved him for years, but when we found out I was pregnant and we split up, I felt nothing. Sure, I cried, but only because of circumstance. The thought of being a single mother devastated me enough to have me running home to the sanctuary of my parent’s arms, but I felt no gaping holes in my heart for the loss of Sebastian’s love. None that weren’t pre-existing.
The computer notifies me that the images have been transferred and I begin sifting through a catalog of photographs. I identify my favorites and begin editing, nothing drastic, just cropping and adjusting the contrast on a few. They were taken at a local gig in The Cellars. It's a busy place with minimal lighting so the photos are hit and miss, but I’ve worked there regularly and really enjoy it.
I’ve travelled far and wide for my combined love of music and photography. Documenting live music is what I’m most passionate about in relation to my work and so working within that industry is my ultimate dream. My pursuit of said dream is currently at a standstill and my only hopes seem to lie
outside of Starling. I mean, it’s hardly the epicenter of rock and roll. My hesitance to move can be blamed on the idyllic childhood I want for Benjamin. I want him to grow up surrounded by the space and sea air of Starling and with the love of his family around him. Thus, my dream’s on hold. In the meantime I’m enjoying other aspects of photography, mostly weddings and freelance work for the local paper.
Once the images have been sifted through and burned onto a disk, I spend the rest of the day catching up with clients, one of which wants to cancel their booking for tomorrow’s engagement party. For reasons unknown, the engagement has been terminated. Is there no such thing as ‘happy ever after’ anymore? This news threatens to ignite my earlier melancholy but I persevere with positivity. I have a free Saturday to find the dress for the reunion.
The weekend is upon us and on the first day of his summer off from school Benji is already fed up. Boredom has replaced my six year old son with a sulky teenager.
"I'm bored," he whines, while skipping through the channels on the TV. It’s not even lunchtime yet and we’ve already painted enough pictures to rival the Met’s inventory and our living room floor is home to the aftermath of a Lego apocalypse.
After turning down my proposition to come clothes shopping with me Benji has accepted an invitation to the cinema from a friend, so after seeing him off with money to feed his sugar addiction I walk down the High Street with at least two hours uninterrupted shopping time.
Ten minutes in and I’m already flustered. Emma is much more knowledgeable in this area so I give her a call.
“Help,” I wail, dramatically.
“Okay, firstly, step away from the music store and find a clothes store.” She’s joking but I still look around to see if she can see me and the new albums I’m clutching guiltily. “Secondly, try Redz. There’s loads of nice stuff there. Just not the navy, wrap dress, that's mine. We don't need a fashion faux pas to add to the excuses for you not to go."
Forget Me Not Page 1