Forget Me Not. A. M. Taylor

her more, dug deeper, delved further and figured out what—beyond the obvious—was wrong. And I realized then that I’d already accepted it, that I was already thinking of her in the past tense, and the steady pounding of guilt and grief began to build and build until it filled up the whole room.

      Eventually, Ange looked down at her phone, which she’d been passing from hand to hand, twirling it distractedly between her fingers. “I need to call work,” she said, her voice strained, and I realized I needed to do the same.

      “To tell them you won’t be coming in?”

      “To tell them … to tell them about this.”

      I don’t know why I was so shocked. She was a reporter after all, but still I could feel my eyes involuntarily widen, and watched as Ange bit down on her lower lip, maintaining my gaze.

      “This is big, Mads. This is going to be really, really big.”

      “You mean for your career?” I said, wishing as soon as the words had come out that I could take them back.

      Ange slammed her phone down onto the table. “You know that’s not what I meant. Jesus Christ, Mads, could you at least give me some credit?”

      “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

      Ange looked at me warily. “You meant it a little.”

      “No. I didn’t. I think after everything that happened with Nora with the press, my natural instincts kicked in, that’s all.”

      Ange took a deep breath, and sighed heavily, weighing down the air between us. “If I don’t call in about this, I’ll be made to look like just about the worst, most inefficient reporter of all time. We’re talking about the younger sister of Nora Altman being found dead ten years to the day, and in the same spot that Nora’s car was abandoned.”

      “I know, Ange,” I said nodding, really trying to mean it.

      “And if I’m writing about it, then maybe it could be just that little bit better this time?” she said, although it came out sounding like a question, as if she herself didn’t quite believe it.

      “It’s possible,” I said slowly, although I too didn’t believe it. When Ange first told me she was going to major in journalism I couldn’t help but see it as a kind of reaction to everything that happened when Nora went missing.

      The first time a reporter knocked on my door Nora had been missing for just under a week. The local paper had been covering the disappearance since the beginning, but it took a while for a bigger paper to take notice. But once they did, they didn’t let go. Not for a long time. She’d been a reporter for a Madison daily—Ange worked for its rival now—and she’d tried to get out of me whatever it was the Altmans had refused to give her. When I too had refused to talk, she’d described me as “pained and pale” and had questioned why it was that Nora’s best friends weren’t willing to talk about her disappearance. What were we hiding? What did we know? Didn’t we want to help spread the word about our missing friend?

      It would be worse this time: I already knew that much. Ten years was a long time and not only would there be reporters and well-meaning chat show hosts pondering over this sad, tragic mystery, but now anyone with an internet connection could join in the fun too.

      I wondered if Elle’s family knew yet, if their day of remembrance had been interrupted by something so familiar the remnants of it were still strewn around their lives. I didn’t even have to imagine their faces as they were told the worst; I’d seen it before. The image of Nate with red-rimmed, sleepless eyes, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably reared up at me and I looked down at my phone, almost convinced that, despite everything, there would be a message from him, but there was nothing. I could hear the hollow knock at their front door as the Chief stood outside in the gently falling snow and could see as Nate answered, already knowing the worst from Leo and yet still unable to quite believe it. Katherine would be in her bathrobe still, knuckles white as she gripped the hallway bannister, refusing to break down, unable to speak, her wide brown eyes drowned in exhaustion, all color drained. The only one I couldn’t see in all of it was Noah. It was only in his mind that the memory of Nora’s disappearance wouldn’t be playing in full technicolor, reliving the same moments again and again, trying to make sense of how it was all happening again.

      My heart clenched, a cold, iron fist squeezing tight, the shock of it no less bright, no less big because I’d felt it before. We’d all been there before and yet familiarity doesn’t always mean comfort. Sometimes what we fear the most is the unknown. But other times, knowing what’s coming, the shape of it, the taste, the smell, is so much worse. How it sets the world on edge, blurs the edges of your vision, peels back layers of skin only to reveal more and more of the same damn thing. Sometimes, knowing what’s coming doesn’t save you, it just sets your heart pounding as you teeter on the edge, waiting for that rush of air before the earth rises up to greet you.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      I didn’t make it back to Madison of course. I went to bed early, not because I thought I’d be able to sleep the day away but because retreat has always been my first and last form of defense. I chose something on Netflix that I’d watched a thousand times before and didn’t have to think about at all, so that when my phone gently buzzed beside me I was only dimly aware of what Lorelai and Rory Gilmore were saying to one another. You would have thought that upon seeing it was Nate texting me I would have read and replied to the message immediately, but instead it stilled me, froze me even, and I had to wait a few minutes before shoring up enough courage to read it in full.

       You awake?

      he wrote.

      My thumb hovered over the keyboard for a few seconds before I replied:

       Yeah.

      A few more seconds passed and then my phone started ringing in my hand. I didn’t answer immediately, I couldn’t. I just stared as his name lit up my phone screen and desperately tried to think of something to say when I picked up.

      “Maddie?” Nate said, as soon as I answered, not waiting for me to say anything.

      “Hi, Nate.” There was a pause and I looked around at my room, squeezing my eyes shut in an attempt to block everything out. I got the feeling, even from down a phone line, that Nate was figuring out what to say too, how to speak. I took a deep breath and did the decent thing and spoke for him.

      “I heard about Elle,” I said, practically whispering in the dim bedroom light. “I’m so sorry.”

      I could hear his breath catch, words getting caught in his throat. Words were always getting caught, trapped, in my world. There were just some things that couldn’t be said, couldn’t be heard out loud, not because that would make them more real but because sometimes sharing certain pieces of you makes them less real. Or maybe it was a combination of the two, I don’t know. I just know that there are times when language is made impotent.

      “Nate,” I said, “is there anything I can do? To help?”

      I heard that catch of his breath again and then the release. “Yeah. Yes, thanks. We have to go down to the station tomorrow, to the police station, but Mom doesn’t want Noah to come with us. Could you come round to sit with him?”

      “Of course.”

      “Thanks … thank you, Maddie.” There was another short pause before he added a little stiffly, “I know my mom will appreciate it.”

      If I hadn’t already been stunned into submission by Elle’s death, I would have been heartbroken over the formality of Nate’s request. It was better, although only marginally, than the outright hostility I’d gotten from him the day before; but Nate talking to me as if he barely knew me, as if I barely knew him, was a special kind of heartbreak. The kind that had already begun to heal years before. It was like brushing your fingers