Remember Me Read online

  “You used me.”

  “Yeah,

  yeah, I did.”

  For the last time

  I give her what she wants.

  The gate slams shut.

  Finished.

  Final.

  Forgotten.

  AUGUST

  I heard it

  from Beatrice,

  from the morning paper,

  from Asher on the other end

  of the phone.

  But I first heard it

  from my mother,

  who said simply

  late last evening,

  “Oh, Jamie, did you hear?

  A couple of hikers

  found a girl in the forest

  dead.

  Erica something—

  oh yeah,

  Sinclair.”

  Today

  I don’t cry

  like I’m supposed to.

  I didn’t cry

  when I first heard that

  Dad passed away too.

  Mom still wipes tears away

  every November 5th,

  but of course she doesn’t

  talk about it.

  She’ll grab her briefcase with the

  intention of leaving for work,

  but she always stops at the

  front door.

  She’ll slump back to her room

  and won’t appear until supper.

  So now

  I feel insensitive.

  My best friend is dead

  but I don’t even

  cry about it?

  What comes out

  of my mom’s mouth

  just doesn’t seem possible.

  It can’t be,

  Erica can’t be…

  Tonight

  is all wrong.

  Ten o’clock

  glares from my clock.

  Tick, tock

  Tick, tock

  The minutes take too long.

  My bed’s no good

  for sleeping in.

  I walk to Mom’s room,

  sneak in her closet,

  and bury myself

  in a nest of blankets,

  curling my arms

  around that old hatbox.

  Some type of poison

  leaks into the night

  that makes me think

  of words like bells

  ringing

  ringing.

  I used to think

  if you want to die,

  just fall asleep.

  Bark and branches

  wrap

  her porcelain

  body

  like a Christmas present.

  Ribbons of blood flow

  between trees.

  Flesh melts

  and decays into

  nobody.

  Skin cold, knife sharp,

  slashes hugging

  her wrists.

  “Jamie. Jamie.”

  Mom nudges me awake.

  My eyes flutter open

  and she comes into focus.

  She reaches for the hatbox

  and takes off its cover.

  I watch in awe

  as she leafs through the photographs.

  “I see you’ve found my secret stash.”

  She sits down beside me.

  Her lips curve

  into a weary smile

  when she spots a particular

  picture.

  “I love this one.”

  She holds the shot of our family—

  our whole family—

  at a county fair in Ohio.

  “I remember that,” I say.

  “It rained on and off the whole day,

  but it was still so much fun.”

  “And I kept saying,

  ‘Richard, honey, let’s leave. It’s freezing.’”

  “But Dad and I refused to go—”

  “—until you rode the Magic Dragon.”

  We grin at each other

  until the moment turns gray.

  Mom looks grief stricken,

  and I can’t help

  but feel the same.

  “Oh God,” Mom says,

  running her hand through her hair.

  “It’s so hard sometimes…”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you stay home today?”

  Sometimes

  speaking

  is as essential

  as breathing

  but far harder.

  It’s tough

  to put emotions

  into neat little sentences.

  But sometimes

  when there’s no pressure,

  there’s no one asking

  “Are you okay?

  Would you like to talk about it?”

  talking

  is just as easy

  as breathing.

  She doesn’t pry.

  I tell her everything.

  The service is held

  in the Greenwood Catholic Church,

  which I’m sure Erica

  would have hated

  but probably anticipated.

  I abandon the azure morning

  and step through the grand double doors

  into a swarm of darkness.

  The black

  of Chris’s stiff suit.

  The black

  of Beatrice’s knee-length dress.

  The black

  of my mom’s stilettos.

  The black

  of Grace’s running mascara.

  The black

  of Asher’s ponytail

  hanging down his neck.

  They stand together,

  Erica placed

  center stage.

  Some part of me thought

  Erica would be by my side

  as if we’d watch another’s funeral.

  I even scan the crowd

  for her eyes, her hair, her voice—anything.

  But she’s not settled with the living;

  she’s ashes in a faux wooden box.

  I feel as if this

  has only now

  proven to be

  real.

  Then

  I dreamt of

  an exclusive connection,

  a special bond,

  a real, public relationship.

  I dreamt of

  being a shoulder to cry on,

  armor to wear.

  Someone to rely on,

  not someone to be tricked.

  Now

  I’ve given up on dreams.

  I simply want

  to survive this death,

  to survive my hurt.

  Survive this feeling

  that I could have done

  something more.

  Right before

  I slide into the passenger’s seat

  of Mom’s Lexus,

  Beatrice tugs at

  my shoulder,

  clutching Erica’s ashes

  in her other arm.

  “I’ve got something for you.”

  I shoot a glance at Mom.

  She turns the ignition off.

  We’re on

  my schedule today.

  Beatrice leads me to her sedan

  and opens the back door.

  “I don’t quite know what to do with this.”

  She stares down at the ashes.

  “I guess I’ll just wait until

  someone from Social Services

  gets in touch with me.”

  “Here.” Beatrice lifts another box

  off the seat,

  one of cardboard and masking tape.

  “I think she wanted you

  to have this.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Mom asks

  on the drive home.

  For once,

  I don’t offer the

  automatic answer,

  the one that’s easy for

  the
person asking

  to endure.

  Enough

  of these questions.

  They splatter like paint,

  and cover up memories

  with a thick layer of

  mystery.

  Enough.

  I can’t stand wondering

  what she was thinking,

  had she been thinking

  about me? Asher? Chris?

  About anyone?

  Anything?

  Did she bring me close,

  then push me away,

  with her thoughts only focused

  on what she would do

  once I left?

  Once she was able to

  do what she wanted.

  The cardboard is so worn that it might as well be

  made of paper. It’s only about eight inches deep but feels

  heavier than a small box should. I tilt it to the side. I’m

  caught off guard when I see her all-caps handwriting

  JAMIE’S.

  I lock myself in my bedroom.

  We have a staring contest, the box and I.

  I’m scared of the unknowingness, yet intrigued

  by another piece of Erica left to be uncovered.

  The box taunts me.

  Enough.

  A half empty pack

  of Marlboros

  is what I see first.

  A symbol of

  the poster girl of smoke.

  My sketch is

  folded into fourths

  and decorated with

  creases and rough edges,

  opened and closed

  repeatedly by her fingers.

  I caress the worn edges.

  Hiding

  beneath

  lies her brown leather

  notebook,

  held together with a sliver

  of thin rope.

  There it is.

  Fifty pages of

  Erica Sinclair.

  She left

  a dot of paint

  on earth’s canvas

  in the most

  immortal way:

  words in ink.

  I guess that’s how

  she planned it.

  Now her soul

  sits in my bedroom.

  What should I do

  with the notebook?

  Did she want me

  to read it?

  Is this my final chance

  to know her?

  What lies in these pages?

  Poems of hardship?

  Stories of death?

  Words holding

  candor

  with a shaky breath?

  Do I want to know?

  I open

  to the first page.

  My heart leaps,

  my fingers quiver.

  I spot nine letters

  jotted together

  with thick black marker.

  Publish Me.

  I take a walk

  but leave my sketchbook

  at home.

  My thoughts are too heavy

  to carry anything else with me.

  Once more,

  even in death,

  Erica does not ask.

  She demands, expects.

  Why should I publish this for her?

  She used me—she hurt me.

  She doesn’t deserve it.

  I keep on walking,

  not sure where

  I’m going

  until I turn around

  and wander into the forest.

  I drop to the ground,

  unable to walk farther.

  I don’t want to see

  what became of that spot

  the place where…

  I lean against

  the rough bark of the nearest tree

  and close my eyes.

  Could I kill the last

  part of her?

  No matter how much

  I love her

  I don’t want

  to be her.

  I don’t want

  to hurt.

  The journal

  Taunts.

  Frowns.

  Glares.

  It

  burns

  a hole

  in my bedroom

  where it sits,

  waiting

  to be read.

  Will its contents

  scar me

  or cure me?

  Leave me

  feeling better

  or worse?

  The infinite possibilities

  make my stomach turn.

  I pick up the journal

  and run my fingers

  down the spine, over the leather,

  then,

  finally,

  through the pages.

  ERICA’S JOURNAL, FIRST POEM

  To Fly

  The world feels like air

  when I escape the pressure of the sun.

  Wide and rich and free.

  At night, fantasy seems to unfold

  and the world is open to interpretation.

  Maybe I’ll become nocturnal.

  I can use the deep night sky

  as the foundation

  for my own world.

  The moon and stars

  will be my scenery

  and the forest

  will shield me from reality.

  I close my eyes and

  feel the cool wind against my skin.

  My mind fills

  with dreams of a sleeping sun,

  not ready to rise.

  Oh please, someone,

  grant me the power to fly.

  I’m curled up in bed,

  back against the wall,

  eyes glued to

  the last stanza.

  To fly…to fly.

  Why do her words sound

  more genuine on paper

  than they did from her mouth?

  She hurt herself far more

  than she ever hurt me.

  She was so jaded, so bitter,

  she let that eat away at her.

  I’m not sure if that’s her fault

  or everybody else’s.

  Everyone who ever bruised her.

  Oh please, someone, grant me the power to fly.

  Maybe

  I can.

  I knock on the front door.

  A young girl answers.

  She looks younger than me—maybe eleven.

  She crosses her arms and

  blows a pink bubble from glossy lips.

  “Who are you?”

  Who are you?

  “Um, my name’s Jamie.

  I’m…I was Erica’s friend. Where’s Beatrice?”

  Bubble gum girl closes the door.

  A minute later, it swings open again.

  Beatrice is in the doorway

  dipping a fork in a takeout carton.

  “Sorry to disturb you during dinner.

  I should have called…”

  Mouth full of white rice, she says,

  “It’s just leftovers. Whatcha here for?”

  “I’ve got something to ask you.”

  My stomach twists. I bite my lip.

  “I want to talk to you about Erica’s ashes.”

  She sticks the fork in the carton.

  “Why don’t you come on in?”

  Beatrice and I walk to the living room.

  We both take a seat on the under-stuffed couch.

  I touch the polyester cushions.

  I’ve never been this close to Erica’s world.

  She never let me.

  “The ashes are apparently my responsibility.

  The state will cover all of the expenses,

  but I need to decide what to do with them.

  If you have an idea, by all means, tell me.”

  I rub my fingers on the fabric.

  “You know that box you gave me.

  Her journal was inside, and as I read par
ts of it

  I felt like…like I was in her head.

  As if for the first time I knew

  exactly what she meant.”

  I stare at Beatrice. She’s tapping her foot, casually eating.

  I don’t want her to decide Erica’s fate,

  she barely cares, for God’s sake.

  “I’d like to spread her ashes in the forest.”

  Beatrice looks at me.

  Why would you want to do that? her eyes ask.

  But it doesn’t really matter.

  She now has the opportunity

  to let Erica go.

  I stand in the forest

  with a backpack strapped

  over my shoulders,

  my flashlight shining

  on the dark earth.

  I don’t have to do this.

  I could scatter her right here.

  That’s all I signed up for.

  But I’ll let her fly—

  not because I have to

  but because I want to

  and having power over that decision

  makes me want to climb.

  My fingers curve along the lowest branch.

  The rough bark cuts my skin.

  Deep breaths...now jump!

  My legs hug the tree trunk.

  I pull myself up, then rest.