I must have fallen asleep because when I wake up, the room is dark and quiet. No light outside my window, no clinking of dishes beyond the door.
My eyes search for the alarm clock, and when I find it, I see that it’s three a.m. I’m tired, but I move to switch on the light. My day is a blur, a pile of unsorted emotions.
I try to swallow, my throat dry, when I see my coat folded over the edge of my bed. Mercy must have brought it in here after dinner.
I jump out of bed and search the pockets frantically. When my fingers close around the journal, I exhale, relieved. But soon that relief is replaced with anxiety. A frightened curiosity.
For years I’ve watched Monroe take notes in this small bound book, never really wondering why. But now I know that it could hold the key to my survival. And that he had it all along.
Taking the book into bed with me, I ease under the covers, holding it tight. I turn to the first page and begin to read.
12/5
Lourdes never showed up for our appointment. When I went to speak with her husband, he didn’t remember her. Looking over my last journal, I can see the pattern. It seems once the Forgotten get toward the end of their life span, they become less memorable. Almost like the people who they touch have short-term memory loss. And their families start to forget little things, little bits of their lives, until they are erased entirely.
During our last visit, Lourdes told me that her husband didn’t remember their honeymoon. He claimed that they never had one. She pressed him and tried to find the pictures to prove it, but they were gone. Instead her husband said they stayed home, although he couldn’t remember exactly what they did. So she stopped going back to her house. She gave up.
The memories will become foggy—like the person never existed. The writings, pictures . . . all gone. It seems that all that’s left behind is space. Empty spaces or the tricks that the mind uses to fill the time. Filling it with familiar things, almost like how you can drive home without ever having to think of where to turn.
Lourdes’s husband asked me if I was some kind of freak when I showed up at their place. He didn’t remember his wife, and I’m just glad they didn’t have children. I’ll miss her.
3/8
Today I went to see Theresa but she was gone. Her room at the hospital was empty and the nurse couldn’t remember ever having treated her. Again, I’m the only one to hold her memories, and it hurts. She was my friend. I feel lost without her.
She never had children, which is another common thread among her kind. They do not reproduce. There’s no one to remember them but me. And eventually they all withdraw from society when the forgetting becomes too painful, until they disappear from it completely.
I’ve asked myself a million times, Why me? Why am I the one who sees them? From all of my research with religions and early societies, I’ve learned that the other Seers throughout history were thought to be clairvoyant, or ill. But I’m no fortune-teller. I’m cursed with knowing ghosts. I wish I could meet another Seer, but they’re hard to find. I have yet to meet someone else like me, even though I know from the scriptures that they’re out there. Searching for their lights to guide. I’m waiting for my last Forgotten. And when he or she comes, the light will be different. Stronger. It will let me go. I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life to be free of this.
I start flipping through the pages, trying to find out where I come in. I find passages about the Forgotten crossing over, the brilliant burst of light as they fall from some high place so that they can scatter. How it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. But I’m starting to hate the word “beautiful.” There’s nothing beautiful about me. And then I find a page that makes me gasp.
8/12
I met her today. Onika Nowak was standing in front of the college when I walked by. As she and I exchanged a glance, a woman in an old Chevy drove up and yelled to her in Russian. She pretended to not hear the woman, but I suspect it’s her mother. I could tell by the way she ignored her. It was kind of cute. Onika is in my class and she’s beautiful and blond, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. She is
The page stops, likes he’s cut off mid-sentence. Like something important had happened, stopping him. I read over the entry again. And then again.
A memory floods back and I can hear Onika tell me that Monroe used to be her Seer. “Oh my God,” I murmur. She didn’t cross over. She’s still here, which means that Monroe does know how to stop this. I start shaking with the first real possibility of it.
My heart pounds wildly in my chest as I turn the page.
8/24
Onika and I are going out tonight. She said she’d eat Italian, Thai, or anything that’s not Russian. I think it’s because of her mother. I don’t blame her. Onika makes me feel normal again. I think I’m falling in love with her.
From there, the journal jumps wildly. Some pages are blank. Some are just one-sentence bits of nonsense. By the next full entry, nearly three months had passed.
11/30
It’s happening. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner, how I didn’t know she was a Forgotten. I can’t lose her like the others. I have to stop this.
My eyes widen. Monroe was so insistent that there was no cure, but he had tried for Onika. It worked, so why not for me? Doesn’t he care about me, too?
The entries turn into formulas, medication combinations, and lists of names. It’s becoming frantic, impersonal. I start blazing through the pages, looking for the result.
1/6
She found me today in the lab. I injected her with vitamin E and collagen. She said it hurts but that it’s working and her skin is staying on. But I think she’s lying to me, and I think she’s been lying a lot.
She’s holding back the impulses. I’ve restrained her the last few times, and it seems to pass, but only with a lot of pain. It’s hard to watch. But she’s going to classes again, trying to be really present in life, which is completely the opposite of how the other Forgotten let their lives go. But something’s wrong. She’s acting different. But I don’t know what to do. She tells me to trust her.
I scan the next few entries, each one becoming more desperate. Monroe isn’t saying what’s happening to Onika, but with each new page, his notes become more clinical. And then, they stop all together. A chunk of about fifteen pages has been torn out, only jagged edges left behind.
What happened to her? I turn back to the beginning to look again for clues.
“Charlotte?”
I jump, startled by my name being called from the kitchen. What? What time—? I glance at the clock and feel completely disoriented. School starts in thirty minutes but it seems that only seconds ago it was nighttime. Behind my bedroom window, the sun is peeking out over Portland. I pick up my phone from the side table and see that I’ve missed four calls. All from Sarah.
I lost a huge piece of time and I want to keep reading, try to figure out the formulas. If anything worked. But just then, I get a text from Sarah.
Need you today. Are you alive?
I look at the journal in my lap, then back at my phone. The smell of bacon is wafting into my room, but I don’t want to get up yet.
Not coming today, I text back.
I’m about to go back to the journal when my bedroom door swings open, scaring the hell out of me.
“Hey,” Alex says, standing there and buttoning his wool coat. “Mercy’s looking for you. You’re going to be late.”
“But . . .” My phone vibrates. I don’t look at it because I know Sarah’s going to cuss me out, or worse, be nice. Sarah uses sweetness as a weapon. The journal is in my lap and I look at Alex.
“That dinner was intense last night, right?” he asks. “I thought Georgia was going to cut you.”
“Thanks for having my back,” I murmur.
He laughs. “I would have gladly backed you up, but I had no idea what you were talking about. I didn’t know you got hit by a car. Not until the next day when I came in here to steal your moisturizer. You need to lay off the weed, sister.”
He’s forgotten seeing me that night. What if he forgets everything? I’m suddenly scared of losing him. “Alex?” I ask, needing some assurance. “Remember that time when we were kids and I accidentally tripped you and you fell down the stairs? You needed like eight stitches in your arm?”
“Yeah, Charlotte. Still have the scar.”
I laugh out loud, thankful. So thankful that he can remember. “Sorry about that.”
“Sure you are. Now are you getting up or not? Mercy made you breakfast.”
Then I realize that if I stay in this room, I won’t be building new memories. I’ll let myself fade away. I can’t fight the Need yet, but I can fight against being forgotten. Maybe that’s what Onika did. Monroe did write that she started going to classes again.
And if I go through the motions—school, going out—I’ll be reinforcing my existence. They can’t forget me if I never leave.
“I’m getting up right now,” I say seriously to Alex. He furrows his brow, possibly confused by the Terminator tone in my voice.
But at least it’s something for him to remember.
I grab my robe off the back of my desk chair and wander out into the hallway after Alex leaves. My stomach growls from the smell of eggs and bacon. When I get to the kitchen, I see Mercy, setting a plate on the counter and scooping eggs out of a pan when she looks up to see me.
“Morning, honey,” she says with a sad smile. “Are you feeling better today? Monroe called earlier and said you might be a little confused because of your head injury.” She tsks, and comes to check on my stitches again.
“He called here?” Somehow it bothers me that he’s checking on me. As if he’s trying to control me. I don’t like it.
“What else did he say?” I ask, putting a forkful of food into my mouth.
“That you were very upset last time he saw you. He didn’t say why. . . .” She pauses. “Are you having problems with Harlin, honey?”
“No.” I resent that Monroe would even put that idea into Mercy’s mind, which I’m sure he did. What better way to explain my depression than a breakup? I want to call him right now and tell him to drop dead, but I know I don’t have time for that. I don’t have time for Monroe, he’ll remember me no matter what. Right now I just have to have a normal day. Reaffirm my existence. I have to live if I want to be remembered.
“Harlin and I are perfect,” I say, even though that may not be exactly true. But I plan to fix that. I plan to be the best girlfriend ever.
“I’m glad. He’s sweet.” Mercy sits down across from me and sips from her coffee. I watch her, pain aching inside me. Mercy is the only mother I’ve ever known. What if she forgets me? What will I do without my mother?
“By the way,” she says, putting another piece of bacon on my plate, “I thought we could go shopping later. Maybe for shoes? I’m tired of seeing you in those scuffed-up thrift-store finds.”
“Oh no. I’m not walking around in chunky heels or strapless leg breakers.”
“Fashion is your friend, Charlotte.”
“You sound like Sarah.”
Mercy playfully rolls her eyes. “Then God help me.” We sit quietly, both smiling as we share a meal but then suddenly, I’m struck with loss.
“I love you, Ma,” I say.
She puts down her coffee cup and beams at me, looking completely surprised. “I love you, too.” Her eyes fill up with tears. “You’re still my little girl, no matter how old you get.” She smiles and wipes quickly to keep from smudging her black eyeliner.
And I try to smile back, but I’m crying too. Because unless I can stop this, I won’t be her little girl anymore. I’ll be no one.
Sarah is waiting for me on the stairs of St. Vincent’s Academy, tapping her black leather shoe. It’s nice seeing her like that, annoyed. It means things are still the same.
“Morning,” I say, jogging up to meet her.
“Morning? What the hell is with the cheerful? And where’s my latte?” She glances at her watch because I’m close to twenty minutes late, which is why I didn’t make the usual coffee stop.
“At least I’m here today, right?” I bat my eyelashes as she grabs me by the elbow and walks me into school.
The halls of St. Vincent’s smell like furniture polish and incense. The ceilings are tall, and dark wood floors stretch ahead of us.
“Here’s the current situation,” Sarah says, applying lip gloss as we walk. “Seth heard I made an unflattering comment about his . . . anatomy and physiology, and he’s not pleased.” She grins anyway. “And now he wants to meet me at lunch.”
I turn to her. “You are not meeting him.”
“I know I shouldn’t,” she says. “But I’m kind of curious, you know? I mean, he could bitch me out anytime, but he wants to meet outside in the courtyard. Alone. I think he feels bad.”
I can’t decide if I’m mishearing her or if she’s stupid. “Sarah, he told everyone that you—”
“I know, thanks for reminding me.” She scrunches her nose and shakes her head. Out of the corner of my eye I see someone point. I look over to see Carver Braun and his buddies snickering as we pass. I take the opportunity to flip him off and then go back to Sarah.
“Look,” I say. “I just can’t understand why you’d put yourself through it. I mean, it’s not like you’re desperate for a date. You could have anyone you want.” The bell overhead rings loudly and I glance up at it before looking at Sarah. When I do, she’s staring at me.
“Really?” she asks. “Name one.”
I run through the student body in my head when I realize . . . there is no one. Sarah has dated most of the normal, a few of the not-so-normal, and all of the bad boys. She might have to start looking at the community college.
“Not all of us have found the guy, Charlotte,” she murmurs, and reaches to adjust the strap of her backpack. I have a guilty feeling, one that occasionally comes when it’s obvious that Harlin and I aren’t like everyone else.
I don’t respond; just start walking toward my class and leave her behind me, not sure how I can make it right.
“Charlotte,” she calls, like she’s ready to apologize. “Meet me before lunch!” she adds just as I turn the corner into physics class.
Ow. I slam face-first into a muscular chest, dropping my bag off my shoulder. “That hurt,” I say, touching my nose and then glancing at my fingers to make sure it’s not bleeding. There’s a husky chuckle and I look up to see Brandon Whaler, resident tool.
“Sorry about that, Charlotte,” he says. “You should have aimed your face a little lower. You know, like your friend.”
I narrow my eyes, my hands balling into fists at my side. “Brandon, you’re just jealous because you know that Sarah would never get within ten feet of your shriveled, little—”
And suddenly it strikes. My vision blurs, my skin catches fire, Brandon is gone. Only this is different from the Need. This is something else.
“You okay?” I hear, but can’t respond. It’s like I don’t have a mouth. It’s like I’m not here.
I’m on the bridge, the night dark and starless around me. It starts to rain and I can feel the splatters on my skin, but when I look down, there is nothing. No rain. No skin. Just glowing light.
I search for Onika, knowing that she’s always here waiting for me. Then from the other side of the bridge someone is running toward me. The wind is strong and it’s then that I notice where I am, standing on the guardrail, holding on to the cables. What am I doing here? Am I going to jump?
“Charlotte!”
I look up but I can’t see who it is. They’re too far away, their voice muffled by the storm. But next to me there’s a laugh. “Beautiful night, huh?”
“What’s happening?” I ask, turning toward Onika. “Why am I here?”
She stands up on the railing, balancing effortlessly even in high-heeled boots. “It’s easier to find you this way—in your visions. Although it was nice to see you in the pharmacy. Too bad about Miles, though. He’s been wanting to kill himself for a long while.”
In the distance I can still see a figure coming toward me and I’m frightened. I don’t know what to think anymore.
“So here’s my offer,” Onika says, reaching over to take my chin and turn me toward her, away from the approaching person. Up close, her beautiful porcelain skin has a tiny crack along her cheekbone. I blink quickly, alarmed by it. “You stay on Earth with me,” she says, “and I’ll give you everything you want.”
“How? How did you keep from bursting into light?”
Her icy blue eyes narrow. “It wasn’t easy. And it’s not for everyone. In fact, I’m not even sure you’re up for it. But I’ve been searching for other Forgotten and they were too weak. But you’re more like me. And wouldn’t it be nice if that meant you didn’t have to dissolve?”
“What do I have to do?” The person coming across the bridge is calling for me again, and I see Onika look toward them, her delicate jaw clenching. When she turns back to me, she tries to smile. The crack in her skin spreads slowly like a spiderweb.
“I’ll let you know when the time is right. I’m just happy to hear you’re game. Now . . .” She lets go of my chin and flips up the hood of her jacket. “It’s time for you to go. But first, a little taste of how blessed you’ll feel if you go into the light.”
And just then she rams her palms into my chest and sends me flying backward off the bridge. I feel myself falling, pain shredding my skin as I scream. I scream until my voice breaks and I squeeze my eyes shut as I wait for the imminent smack against the water. Then suddenly I feel myself being pulled out of my vision.
I open my eyes and Brandon is shaking me, telling me to stop screaming. I hear a loud noise in my ears but it takes a second for me to register my own shrieks. I stop, the sound still echoing in the room. When I look around, the entire class is staring at me, their mouths hanging open. Brandon seems terrified.
“Jesus, Charlotte. It was just a joke. You didn’t have to go all Exorcist on me.”
I’m shaking, every bone in my body feeling hot and out of place. When the teacher comes over and asks if I want to go to the nurse, I say yes and leave.
I walk through the empty halls, fear creeping up my legs and down my arms and I wrap my sweater tightly around me and move a little faster. Off the bridge, that’s how I’ll end—having to leap, just like the people in Monroe’s journal. That’s what happens if I give in to the Need.
But Onika offered a deal. She has a way to stop this, even if Monroe won’t. I’m just not sure if I can trust her. And her face? What happened to cause it to crack?
I shake my head, trying to stay in the moment. I’m losing so much time, time I should be living. So I decide that if that’s my end, falling off a damn bridge, I’m sure as hell not going on one. I have choices still. This is my life.