by Alana Terry
Forget Me Now
a novel by Alana Terry
Note: The views of the characters in this novel do not necessarily reflect the views of the author, nor is their behavior necessarily condoned.
The characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form (electronic, audio, print, film, etc.) without the author’s written consent.
Copyright © 2019 Alana Terry
Scriptures quoted from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
www.alanaterry.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 1
Springtime. I’ve always loved the spring. And today’s going to be perfect. It’s the senior trip today. Time to get myself up and out of bed.
Ow.
Wait. Why does my head hurt this much?
A knock on my door. Mom? No, she doesn’t knock that way. Who is it then?
The door cracks open. “Dad?” I squint at him. Maybe it’s because I don’t have my contacts in yet. Is that what’s wrong? He looks different.
“Dad?” I say the word again because I’m not sure it came out right last time.
“Hiya, Mimi.” He’s smiling at me. That cheesy grin. I try to remember the last time he came to my room in the morning. Why isn’t he at work already?
“Hi,” I answer tentatively. My head is swirling with questions, but it’s also swirling with pain. Pain and fog and confusion. I think I’m scared, but it’s hard to remember.
Remember ...
Dad sits on the corner of my bed. He looks smaller. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t done this since I was a little girl, coming into my room like this. There’s something in his eyes. Like he’s embarrassed to tell me something. No, not embarrassed. That’s not quite right. So what is it?
Oh, no. Has something happened to Chris? Is that what he came in here to tell me? What if Mr. Gomez finally got arrested? Or even worse, what if his dad beat him up? I know I promised Chris I wouldn’t tell about his family, but I didn’t know what to do. I had to let somebody know. Did Chris’s dad find out and get so mad at him that he ...
“How you feeling?” Dad asks me, and I honestly have no idea how to answer.
He takes a deep breath, and I prepare myself. It’s Chris. I know it is. I promised when we started dating that I wouldn’t tell anybody about his dad. What could I do? He was crying on my shoulder, just like a terrified little child. And he was blubbering, begging me not to share his secret. So I assured him I wouldn’t. I made him a promise.
And now something terrible has happened.
I should never have told ...
But why does my head hurt so much?
Dad clears his throat. “So, baby, do you know what today is?”
What kind of a question is that? Of course I know what today is. It’s the last Friday in May. It’s senior skip day. Chris and I were planning to ...
I glance at the clock. The time is right. Same time Mom wakes me up every morning. That part hasn’t changed, except it’s Dad here and not Mom. But there’s something else not quite right.
Dad’s got his hand on top of my blanket, holding down my leg. Does he think I’m about to jump up and sprint out the door? Mom couldn’t be having second thoughts about senior skip day, could she? She’s been as excited about our camping trip as I have ...
So it is Chris. I knew it. Something happened. Something terrible. I shiver a little. Dread? Uncertainty?
“Mia.” As soon as Dad says the word, my stomach drops. Mia. Not Princess or Mimi or any of those other pet names that he always uses.
Mia.
I try to sit up, but I’m so dizzy. He takes his other hand to keep me down on the bed. Something’s glistening in the corner of his eye. I refuse to admit it might be a tear. When’s the last time I saw Dad cry? Come to think of it, have I ever seen Dad cry? It must be something else. The bright light shining in from the window, blinding him, making him squint.
Except there’s no bright light shining in from the window. Just that early morning gray.
My brain feels like it’s trying to tell me something. Trying to wake up or recover some missing piece. But I have no idea what I’ve forgotten. No idea why Dad’s looking at me with a tear in the corner of his eye. No idea why he’s the one waking me up instead of Mom.
“Mia, I want you to listen to me very carefully,” he says. I stare into his eyes, looking for comfort or strength. Instead, that tear. That one single sparkling tear.
It must be worse than I thought. What if Chris is dead? What if his dad ...
“You’ve been out of it for a little while,” Dad says. I want to laugh. You have no idea how much I want to laugh. It’s the kind of thing Mom might do. A joke. Like the time she changed my clock then ran into my room and told me I missed my AP psychology test when instead she just wanted to wake me up early so we could go get donuts before she dropped me off at school.
But Dad never jokes. Not like this. And he never gives surprises.
“What do you mean?” I croak.
Dad sighs, and there’s something vaguely familiar about that sigh, like I’ve heard it before. It’s like studying for a calculus exam only to walk into the wrong classroom where the teacher hands you a test in French. The problem is you don’t know French because you’ve been studying Spanish since sixth grade so you can become a doctor and set up a free health clinic along the Mexican border.
In other words, I have no idea what Dad’s saying.
“There was an accident,” he begins, wincing when he gets out the word. “A terrible accident.”
There’s something in the way he says it. Something in his voice, his expression. I’m not entirely convinced this is all about Chris anymore. Because if my boyfriend got into an accident and died, Mom would be the one to tell me, and she’d be crying for real, not just sitting here with one single tear in the corner of her eye. Mom adores Chris. Dad not so much. So if there was some kind of accident, if something happened to my boyfriend, Dad wouldn’t be the one to come in here and tell me about it. Which can only mean ...
I sit up in bed, ignoring the pain in the back of my skull, shaking off the dizziness as best I can. “Where’s Mom?” I demand.
Dad’s holding my shoulders, trying to pin me down. I think I’m crying, but I’m not sure. My throat feels sore, like it wants to let out a sob. “Where’s Mom?” I repeat. “I want to talk to Mom.”
And a strange flash, a sort of deja-vu flits through my head, but only for a fraction of a second. A fraction of a second that throws me totally off balance, makes me stop struggling so h
ard. Because I’ve got this sense I’ve done this before.
Dad opens his mouth.
“Mom can’t be here right now, Mimi. We have to have a talk.”
CHAPTER 2
Dad hands me a cup of coffee in one of his masculine travel mugs. Coffee in bed? Is this my dad or has he been taken over by space aliens?
I glance around for my phone on my nightstand. It’s reflex, really. Wake up. Sit up in bed. Check for text messages. Because I’m certain that sometime between now and last night when Chris and I got off the phone, my boyfriend texted me. He always does.
“Don’t worry about your cell right now,” Dad says. Apparently he’s become a mind reader all of a sudden. “Drink your coffee,” he tells me, and his voice sounds more like him. Controlled. In charge.
I obey but wince. Dad always makes my coffee too sweet. Probably because he’s so used to drinking his black. Except I only drink coffee on special occasions, and he’s never once brought me a drink in bed.
“Too much sugar?” he asks, glancing slightly away.
“It’s perfect.” I give him a smile. At least I try to, but it makes my head hurt even more, and now Dad’s the one to wince.
“Had enough?” he asks. He takes the mug and places it on my end table, picking up a hot-pink zebra print binder I’ve never seen before. “Do you know what this is?”
I shake my head. It looks like something I would have begged Mom for when I was back in second grade. The folder is so over-the-top frilly I’m surprised it doesn’t have unicorns and glitter.
Dad opens up to the first page and shows me a photograph taped to the inside cover. “Do you know who this is?”
I roll my eyes. At least I start to, but a splintering headache makes me stop.
“That’s Chris,” I tell him. What in the world is going on?
Dad nods then turns the page.
“And this?”
“It’s last Christmas,” I answer mechanically. “Mom wanted us to finally get a picture with all four of us in it, except she couldn’t figure out how to use that selfie stick you got her.” It’s a funny memory... except I’m not laughing.
Neither is my dad.
He points to another photo. “Do you know her?”
I blink at the girl with bouncy brown curls. Then blink again. Dad’s pointer finger is covering the bottom corner of the picture. I reach out for my glasses, the pair I keep on the end table, but they only make my headache worse.
“Do you know her?” he asks again.
And again I blink. “Kelsie?” I hear the uncertainty in my own voice. It isn’t because I’ve forgotten my best friend. Kelsie and I have been inseparable since middle school. We do everything together, but that still doesn’t explain this picture. Still doesn’t explain why I’m lying in a strange bed wearing a flowery hospital gown, taking a selfie with Kelsie.
A selfie I don’t remember.
What’s going on?
Dad leans in a little closer. “Do you know when this picture was taken?”
“No,” I whisper. For a minute I wonder if this is some strange photoshop joke. But then I remember that my dad never jokes. Never does anything unexpected.
If this were Mom, she’d be busting a gut laughing by now. Telling me how she paid some graphic design student a few bucks to interpose me and Kelsie into someone else’s hospital photo just to see how confused I’d get. Then she’d tell me breakfast was ready, and she’d laugh about it some more while we ate.
But this isn’t Mom. This is Dad, and Dad never laughs.
He lets out a cough and turns the page. “Do you recognize any of the other people in this picture?” He’s leaning closer to me now. So intent. I feel like I did a few weeks ago when he watched me open my acceptance letter to NYU, his alma mater. I was nervous, not because I have my heart set on going to NYU, but because I knew how disappointed Dad would be if I didn’t get that scholarship I applied for.
“It’s my friends from school,” I answer. And there we are. Me and Kelsie. About a dozen others, some holding balloons, get-well posters, all of us posing for the camera. We’re in the same hospital room. I’m wearing that same ugly gown, trying to smile.
“Do you remember taking this picture?”
There’s an answer Dad’s expecting from me, except I can’t give it to him. I shake my head.
“No,” I tell him, realizing without understanding why that I’m letting him down. But I can’t lie. Not about something like this. My heart is racing faster than normal. Just how strong was that coffee?
“Are you sure?” There’s a squeeze in Dad’s voice, a tension. Which again makes me wonder what all this means or how it is that my answer is hurting him so deeply.
I stare again at the picture. I know these faces. Happy, smiling teens. My friends for years.
But why are we in a hospital room? And why am I dressed in that hideous gown?
Something isn’t right. The lump in my throat, the racing of my pulse, they’re all telling me the same thing. It’s like this is the most important test I’ve ever taken, and I’m failing miserably. But I can’t make up the answers. I shake my head again, look at my dad through these tears I’m trying to blink away, and tell him honestly, “I don’t know when that picture was taken. I don’t remember a thing.”
CHAPTER 3
“It’s okay, Mimi. It’s okay.” Dad is running his hand over my hair, and I can’t remember the last time we’ve had any sort of physical contact like this. Usually it’s a half-second hug before bed. If he’s even home by the time I turn in for the night. I used to like to kiss the scratch of his cheek, but that was when I was younger. I can’t remember the last time I kissed him.
Can’t remember ...
“What was I doing in the hospital?” I’m trying not to get hysterical, but I feel the panic welling up inside me. It’s like I’ve lost something but can’t even remember what it was so I can properly mourn.
“You had an accident, baby.” I hear the strain in his voice, the tension, and yet the words come out so rehearsed. Have I heard them before? “You lost some of your memory.”
I’m crying. Sniffling. Trying hard not to sob. Wiping snot on the sleeves of my pajamas. I don’t understand. This isn’t funny, Dad. That’s what I want to tell him. This isn’t funny, and I want to talk to Mom.
Now.
He points to the picture in the hot-pink album. “This was taken the day after graduation.”
I shake my head, forgetting that each time I move my brain feels like it’s getting slammed into ice picks the size of dinosaur claws. “That’s next week.” I’m desperate to make him understand. Make myself understand. “Graduation is next week,” I repeat. “Today’s the class trip. Chris is supposed to be here ...”
And then I hear it. A sound I’ve never heard from my dad in the eighteen years I’ve been alive. A pained, tortured, tormented sob. “There was an accident,” he repeats. “Mimi, I’m so sorry.”
I can’t take my eyes off the photo. I remember my friends. I know all their names, how long we’ve known each other. I haven’t lost all of my memory. So why don’t I recognize the hospital room?
Dad’s trying hard to keep his composure. I might be mistaken, but I think I feel his body tremble once from the effort. “You were in the hospital for a week.”
“I don’t remember any of that,” I whisper, wishing my dad was lying, wishing he possessed the kind of sick and twisted sense of humor it would take to prank someone in such a grotesque way. But I know my dad. And I know he’s telling me the truth.
An accident? Took my memory? Why do I remember my own name? Why do I remember my room? Why do I remember that I was supposed to go on my senior class trip today?
“I need to call Chris,” I tell him, and immediately I realize I’ve once again said the wrong thing. The thing that makes Dad grimace, that makes the raw pain even more evident in his expression.
“You can’t,” he croaks. I’ve never heard him talk like this.
<
br /> I wonder if someone my age can die of panic. My heart is racing so fast it’s making me even dizzier. I force each gulp of air in deliberately, fearing that if I stop, I’ll forget to breathe entirely.
“What do you mean I can’t?” Why is Dad telling me this? He may not be Chris’s biggest fan in the world, but he knows how much my boyfriend means to me. Knows how much I’d need to talk to him at a time like this. Need to hear his voice.
I have to know what happened. I know Dad’s probably worried about giving me too many details too fast and making me feel overwhelmed, but there’s no way to feel any more confused than I already do. The only thing that’s going to help me now is answers.
Lots of them.
“Tell me what happened,” I beg. My voice is whiny. I can’t mask my terror.
“I think you should get dressed. I’ll make you breakfast.” What’s Dad talking about? Does he seriously think I’d be worrying about my wardrobe or my appetite right now? At the mention of food, my stomach sloshes with nausea. I wonder how fast I can race to my bathroom in my condition if I have to throw up.
“I need to call Chris,” I tell him again, glancing around the room, desperate to locate my phone. Tears streak down my cheeks. I can hardly breathe. Is this what it feels like when your body goes into shock? Is the strain going to give me a heart attack? “Where’s my phone?”
Dad turns his face away. I can’t see his expression. Have no idea what he’s thinking, what he’s going to say next. A terrible question grips me. What if we’ve done this before? What if we’ve had this exact same conversation in the past, only I can’t remember it?
I touch Dad’s arm. We’re not used to being physical with each other. Not in years. But he has to understand what I’m going through. Has to realize that it’s the uncertainty that’s going to kill me, not the truth itself.
“Please,” I repeat, barely able to raise my voice beyond a whisper. “Please tell me what happened. I need to know everything.”
CHAPTER 4
Springtime. I’ve always loved the spring. And today’s going to be perfect. Time to get myself up and out of bed.