The Forgotten Girl
Page 35
In the aftermath, and for the two hours that Steve-O was still alive to regale his story of bloodthirsty revenge, your name was never mentioned. Nor Miranda’s. No one is going to play you in the movie of their life.
You’re okay with that.
You took Miranda to Asbury Park, had the band play “Abilene” while you danced with her on the boardwalk. It was sweet and silly, but no memories were triggered. You read To Kill a Mockingbird—her favorite novel—to her, but she had no recollection of having read it before. You bought strawberries and bubbly wine, took her to Buttermilk Falls and played Van Morrison’s “Someone Like You” while wearing a long chestnut-colored wig you borrowed from one of Marzipan’s mannequins. She laughed and held you, even kissed you, but no connection points were repaired.
The gaps in Miranda’s memory are broad. You have tried to fill them, but for now all you can do is lift her in your arms and carry her across.
Keep carrying her.
Part of it, you think, is that she’s afraid to remember. Lang left her with the memories of others, Jackie Corvino and Swan Connor among them. There are cruelties in her mind that surface all too easily. She cries every day. Sometimes for hours. She wakes screaming from nightmares, slippery with sweat, and you hold her until she is sleeping again. There’s so much darkness inside her and none of it is her own.
“Your power,” you said yesterday. “How much do you have left?”
“A flicker,” she said, and smiled. “I sometimes know what you’re thinking.”
You were at Spirit Lake, skimming shale across the water. It was cold, that first hint of winter in the air. You took Miranda’s hands and warmed them in your own, pulling her toward you, opening your mind.
“No,” she said.
“Yes,” you said.
“I can’t.”
A flicker, she said. And yes, maybe that’s all it is. But it was still enough to defeat Lang. Miranda is still a powerful young woman.
You wanted her to transfer the darkness. Every scream, every drop of blood, every wicked memory she has appropriated. She could upload them into your brain, just as she had your memories. You would carry the load.
“No.”
“You can do this,” you insisted.
“I’m not going to,” she said. Her breath plumed the air. Her hands were still cold. “You’ve done so much for me, Harvey. I could never do that to you.”
She kissed you, drawing on those feelings not associated with memory. Her mouth was soft and warm and she pressed her body close. You, as ever, cupped her face.
“Never,” she said again.
Maybe she does remember what love means.
Strumming your guitar, watching the sun leak across the west and listening to the loose shutter tap, you consider the darkness she carries. It occurs to you that the life you have been trying so hard to rekindle was really no life at all, and that maybe—just maybe—Lang did her a favor by hitting the reset button.
You will hold her when she cries. You will wipe her tears away. And together, you will create new memories—collaborate on a new Book of Moments—bright and abundant enough to eclipse the darkness.
Michael Jackson purrs tunefully. You expect nothing less. Miranda strokes behind his ears and you play another song. Something raw but soulful.
This time, Miranda sings along.
* * *
You strum the final chord, let it fade, then look at Miranda and say with absolute seriousness, “You want to run away with me?”
“Yes,” she replies without hesitation, and then, “Let’s get bicycles. We’ll take the back roads—it’ll be wild.”
You set your guitar down, hold out your hand. She comes to you, sits on your lap, and rests her head on your chest. Michael Jackson watches you with pleased, sparkling eyes. His tail flaps rhythmically.
“Where shall we go?” she whispers.
“As far as we can pedal,” you say.
You kiss, and the darkness—hers and yours—fades, if only for a moment. You look toward the trees and Spirit Lake beyond, and recall the words of a very wise man: I’m more afraid of not believing than I am of not finding what I’m looking for. He’d been talking about UFOs, of course, but it counts for everything.
You hold Miranda closer and realize something else: that whatever it is you’re looking for, and however long the journey, finding it is just the beginning.
Acknowledgments
Mickey Choate agented this novel, and in so doing agented (by which I mean: brought to life) a dream I’d harvested for over twenty years. I’ll never forget the joy in his voice when he called to tell me that the deal was final. It seemed, for all the world, as important to him as it was to me. This enthusiasm continued as I went to work; Mickey requested I send him chapters as I wrote them, which I did. His valued and thoughtful responses fueled the early stages of the novel.
Make no mistake: This is Mickey’s book, too.
I was midway through the first draft when I received news of Mickey’s death. It came out of nowhere: a most terrible bolt out of the blue. Mickey had been battling a particularly aggressive cancer. I had no idea. I finished the book heavyhearted, but with Mickey at the forefront of my mind. He accompanied every word, every decision, every edit. I’m so proud to be associated with him, and to be one of his authors.
You changed my life, Mickey. Thank you.
Endless thanks to Laurel Choate, Mickey’s widow, for her kindness and understanding. And a huge thank-you to my new agent, Howard Morhaim, whose good grace, generosity, and professionalism have been nothing short of inspiring. I wear my tuxedo with pride, Howard. Now and always.
Jaime Levine acquired this novel for Thomas Dunne Books. Like Mickey, she read the early chapters and steered the book in a stronger, better direction. Thank you, Jaime. I owe you so much. Will Anderson saw The Forgotten Girl through its editorial stages. He was strong and ruthless where he needed to be (but always considerate and kind), and I am so damn grateful to him. Quressa Robinson took the reins and championed the book through publication, with no shortage of patience. Quressa also came up with The Forgotten Girl as a title, after I’d spent nearly two years slamming my head against the wall trying to think of one. Thank you to Michael Homler, Lauren Jablonski, and Cam Jones, who arrived late to the party but brought all of their care and attention with them. My thanks, also, to Pete Wolverton and Thomas Dunne, for taking a chance on me when chances are in short supply. I’ll forever be grateful.
Many thanks to Christopher Golden, Sarah Pinborough, F. Paul Wilson, and Joe Hill—terrific authors, all—who read advance copies of this book and had nice things to say. Chris, in particular, has been a staunch supporter of my work for many years, and I love him for it. Extra special thanks to Paul and Joe, who offered suggestions in a couple of vital places, and helped add an extra layer of shine.
Love and thanks to Pete and Nicky Crowther, who published several of my earlier works and opened so many doors for me. As did the great Peter Straub, who gave me my first blurb (told you I’d never forget it). Thanks, also, to Sean Daily at Hotchkiss and Associates, who has shown The Forgotten Girl the kind of enthusiasm any author would dream of.
With my first major publication, I would be remiss not to thank the friends who have demonstrated such huge levels of support and encouragement over the years, including but not limited to: Richard and Lisa Buck, Joel Sutherland, Owen King, Mark Morris, Tim Lebbon, Stephen Volk, Brian Keene, Michael Rowe, Ron Eckel, Brett Savory, Sandra Kasturi, Ian Rogers, and Chris Ryall.
The list goes on, believe me.
A huge thank-you to my mother, Lorraine May, who bought me a typewriter (a Brother AX-10—I loved that rackety thing) for my eighteenth birthday (it was all for this, Mum). Also to Sandra and Andrew Marsh, who have been there for nearly every page I’ve written.
And of course, eternal love and thanks to my wife, Emily, and my children, Lily and Charlie, who fill my world with wild, beautiful, essential light. This is the ligh
t I write by. More importantly, it’s the light I live by.
Also by Rio Youers
Westlake Soul
Point Hollow
End Games
About the Author
Rio Youers is the British Fantasy Award–nominated author of End Times and Point Hollow. His short fiction has been published in many notable anthologies, and his novel, Westlake Soul, was nominated for Canada’s prestigious Sunburst Award. Rio lives in southwestern Ontario with his wife, Emily, and their children, Lily and Charlie. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Moment: Baby-Blue Schwinn
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Moment: Human Nature
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Moment: How It Begins
Acknowledgments
Also by Rio Youers
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE FORGOTTEN GIRL. Copyright © 2017 by Rio Youers. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover photograph of tree © Philipp Igumnov/Getty Images
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07239-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-8405-2 (e-book)
eISBN 9781466884052
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First Edition: June 2017