Forgotten

Page 29

Skipping the trip to my locker, I settle into my seat in Spanish and watch the door. I’m ready to confront Jamie before class, but the seconds tick by and her desk remains empty. The bell rings, and there’s no Jamie.
Ten minutes later, she’s still not here.
When I’ve decided that she’s ditched class, gone home sick, or left for a doctor’s appointment, I face the fact that there will be no confrontation today. Jamie had the last word, and it was a nasty one. My anger subsides because it has to, and it’s replaced by sadness. I can’t help but feel that my best friend has abandoned me.
And I get it, at least a little. I know she’s upset. I know she’s jealous of Luke. I know she wishes I didn’t disapprove of her boyfriend, if you want to call Mr. Rice that.
But getting it doesn’t make it stop hurting.
Forever, I will share my thoughts and feelings with Jamie. Forever, except for right now. And right now, I really need her.
She should be here to exchange notes about whether or not to forgive Luke. She should be here to whisper with me about my dad. She should calm me—just by being nearby—about things too awful to know. She should willingly partner with me for stupid pronunciation drills.
But I’m alone, not just for pronunciation drills. For everything. Every morning when I wake up and learn this anew, a fresh wound will open—until the day Jamie decides to forgive me.
And then we’ll be fine again.
Because that’s how I remember it.
30
The house line rings twice before my mom answers it. I can hear her muffled voice from the kitchen below my bedroom. A minute later, there’s a quick knock on the door.
“London, are you up?” she whispers through the door.
“Yeah, Mom, I’m awake. Come on in,” I say from my seat at the desk. I’m surprised she didn’t hear me moving around earlier. I’ve been up for hours.
“There’s a woman on the phone for you,” she says.
“Weird,” I say before pushing back in my desk chair and walking to the telephone table in the hallway. I pick up the receiver and wait until my mom makes her way down to the kitchen and hangs up the other extension.
“Hello?”
“London?”
“Yes, this is London. Who’s this?” I say, twirling the phone cord around my index finger.
“This is Abby Brennan. We met a few months ago?”
My mind is blank. I’m silent.
“You came to my house? You were looking for your grandmother, Jo Lane?”
“Oh, yes,” I lie into the phone. I have no clue. This was not in my notes. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” the woman says kindly. I can hear a child’s voice in the background, singing a song about snakes on parade. “Chelsea, Mommy’s on the phone, honey. Sorry about that, London.”
I can’t hear the little girl’s response, but I don’t hear the snake song anymore, either.
“No problem.”
“Anyway, I’m calling because I remembered the name of your grandmother’s retirement home in the city. It’s been driving me crazy for months, and finally this week it came to me.”
My stomach tightens into knots. I’ve been reading notes all morning; how did I miss this?
“Oh, really?” I say to the woman, hoping to sound casual.
“Yes, it’s called Lingering Pines.”
“That’s great,” I say robotically, even as my mind spins out of control.
“Yes, well, I just wanted to let you know. When you speak to her, please tell Jo that the house is being well taken care of. Give her our best.”
“I will,” I say mindlessly before telling the woman good-bye and hanging up the phone.
In the remaining forty-five minutes before school, I carefully dress, apply makeup, and flat-iron my hair, all the while pondering what just happened.
Somehow, I clearly managed to figure out that my grandmother’s name is Jo Lane. Then, apparently I went to Abby Brennan’s house looking for said grandmother. And now, I guess that my grandmother, Jo Lane, is in a nursing home.
Called Lingering Pines.
In the city.
What I don’t get is, why? Why wouldn’t I chronicle all of this for myself?
All I can fathom as I apply a top layer of lip gloss is that when I researched my grandmother, I felt that I’d come up empty. All I can rationalize is that I didn’t want to torture myself with knowing that I failed. All I can figure is that I gave up.
But now I have the name of my grandmother’s nursing home. I can contact her, if I want to. And she might lead me to my father.
Looking in the mirror, I smile at my reflection. I feel powerful with this new information, with my stick-straight hair; long, dark lashes; and fitted black button-down.
And feeling powerful is a good thing, because apparently there’s a boy in my life who needs to be reminded to never, ever wrong me again.
“What are your plans for tonight?” my mom asks hours later at dinner.
“I don’t know,” I say, avoiding direct eye contact. “Maybe I’ll watch a movie.”
Really, I can’t wait to Google Lingering Pines and call to confirm that my grandmother is a resident. After that, who knows?
“I shouldn’t be too late,” Mom says. “It’s only two houses.”
I shrug; she can stay out all night for all I care.
“I bought some popcorn,” Mom offers, trying a little too hard.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, scooping up the last of my peas and wishing she’d leave already, or at least stop watching me eat. I give her a broad, cheesy (fake) smile that, thankfully, she buys. Mom walks across the room, kisses the top of my head, and grabs her keys.
“I guess I’d better get going, then. Have a good night, sweetie. Let’s do something fun tomorrow, just us girls, okay?” She pauses by the door to the garage, waiting.
“Okay, Mom,” I say reassuringly so she’ll leave. Seconds later, it works.
Hastily, I rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher before skipping up the stairs and waking up my computer from sleep mode. In less than a minute, not only do I have the number for Lingering Pines, but I’m halfway through the photo gallery of images of its sweeping grounds, happy residents, and well-maintained facilities. Though I assume that the people in the pictures are models, I carefully inspect each photo just in case, then print the main page and some of the photos for reminders.
I have the jitters as I ponder what I’m about to do. Step one: find Grandma. Step two: find Dad.
Before I have the chance to talk myself out of it, I open my cell phone and dial the main number for Lingering Pines. The tone sounds long and lonely. I picture a dated phone waiting unattended, its shrill call going unnoticed over too-loud TVs shouting from the patients’ rooms.
I wish for a receptionist to pick up the second before she does. Except that it’s a recording telling me that Lingering Pines is closed, and to please call again tomorrow or dial one for the nurse’s station.
Apparently the elderly residents of Lingering Pines Retirement Community are only open for business between the hours of 8:00 AM and 5:00 PM daily.
Feeling that this isn’t earth-shattering enough to disturb a nurse, I hang up. I store the number in my contacts, allowing myself to imagine for a moment what it would be like to have a grandmother to call and visit sometimes.