The Forgetting (14 page)

Nate took my hands in his and rubbed them. “Are you okay?”

No. No, I was not okay. What memory had I just lost? “I'm just glad she'll have a place to sleep tonight,” I said, nodding toward the door where the girl had just left. “And that we got more information.” But I couldn't swallow the hot lump in my throat, and not just because of the memory. All these girls, following some phantom dream, only to be smashed. To find themselves standing on a lonely street, waiting for a stranger to pick them up in a silver sports car. Like this girl, like Char.

Like Annabel.

That night, I lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling. What the hell was the Warehouse? And why didn't I get the memory of it when the redheaded girl mentioned it? Instead I got a memory of buying strawberries in winter. Where the hell was that going to get me?

“If you're going to screw with my brain,” I said aloud to the shadows on the wall, “at least give me something I can work with.”

The only answer I got was the clacking of bare branches on the tree outside my window.

I sighed and rolled over toward my nightstand. I flipped on the light and slid my journal onto the bed. It fell right open to the page with all my scribbling on it. The memories-lost and memories-gained map was as inscrutable as ever. I stared at it until the lines blurred, hoping that something useful would pop out the longer I contemplated it. Finally I grabbed my pen. I added the Warehouse at the bottom of the page.

Whatever went on at the Warehouse, it couldn't be good. Maybe Annabel had found out about it, and it was so bad that she'd rather commit suicide than face it. That was the biggest thing I'd gleaned from our conversation with the skinny redheaded girl.

I laid the pen in the crease of the journal and ran my finger down the list of memories I'd gained. What did it all mean? Why were these memories imprinted on Annabel's heart? What were they leading me to?

As I touched the indentations of my writing, the tip of my finger tingled. They
did
make sense.

They were in order.

They were in chronological order. I was remembering her memories in the order that they happened. I was living her life over again, gaining each memory when the heart wanted to reveal it to me.

Or
when
it
was
provoked.
The memory of Nate had come to me as soon as I'd met him. Annabel's kingdom by the sea had been stirred up by Nate reading the poem. All of the memories so far had occurred
before
she'd learned about the Warehouse or been there.

I rolled onto my back and gazed at the small circle of light my nightstand lamp made on the ceiling. If this was true—if the heart only gave me each memory in the order they happened—then I wouldn't know why Annabel had committed suicide until the heart revealed all the memories that preceded it. I laid my hand on my chest, heartbeats reverberating against my palm. I was powerless against this organ, completely at the mercy of its will. I just had to believe that when I reached the end of her memories, when I figured out who she was and why she jumped from that balcony, it would all end and I could go back to normal.

Whatever normal looked like now.

I shoved my journal in my nightstand drawer and brought my laptop back into bed. The covers pooled around my waist as I pulled up the Department of Children and Families website again. Maybe just staring at it would magically make Annabel's file appear. I clicked on every link I could but it was like the big hedge maze at Tanglewood. Everything kept leading me to a dead end.

“Dammit,” I muttered and clicked on the “Fostering Kids, Fostering Futures” headline again. It took me back to a page spouting some bullshit about how invested they were in every child's future potential. Yeah, they sure hadn't been in Annabel's. I ran the mouse down all the links below the banner and stopped at something called the Teen Crisis Line that I hadn't clicked on before. The link opened to a new page.

Well. I sat back and stared at the little square box advertising for volunteers. My insides jittered like I'd had too much coffee. It wasn't Annabel's file, but it was a way in the door.

• • •

The Department of Children and Families offices in Downtown Crossing were in a tall building made of glass and steel that badly needed cleaning. The windows were grimed up and the silver door handles had long since lost their shine. I stopped at the reception desk. The receptionist's hair flew in all different directions and half-covered the headset she wore over one ear. She held up a finger without looking at me, pressed about a dozen buttons on the huge dashboard-like phone that took up half her desk, and answered one of the blinking buttons. “Please hold.”

She tilted her chin up to me. “Can I help you?”

“Department of Children and Families—”

“Which department?”

“Children and Families—”

“Which department in the Department of Children and Families?” Her words practically tripped over one another in her rush. “Who are you here to see?”

“Oh, um, I don't have a name—”

“I can't help you without a name.” She pressed the blinking button again and transferred the caller, who apparently did have a name.

“I'm here to apply to volunteer for the Teen Crisis Line,” I said in one breath before she pressed another button.

“You want the Adolescent Office,” she said, slapping a Visitor tag on the desk. “Fourth floor.”

“Thanks,” I offered, but her head was already down, focused on the blinking dashboard in front of her.

I expected to encounter another receptionist when I got off the elevator on the fourth floor, but instead I found an open office space filled with endless cubicles. File boxes were stacked up in every available corner. The sound of ringing phones filled the air. I peeked into the first cubicle I came to. It was empty except for a half-drunk cup of coffee. At the next one, I found a woman hunched over her phone, and even though I stood in front of her for a good three minutes, she never looked up.

I moved on to the third, fourth, and fifth cubicles, where I finally found a squat little man typing at his computer with only his two forefingers. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah?”

“Um, I'm here to apply for the Teen Crisis Line? To volunteer?”

“Good for you.” He pointed down the length of cubicles. “Sally Klein. Second cubicle from the end.”

“Thank you,” I said very pointedly. He didn't get it.

I found Sally Klein's cubicle. It was empty, but there was a half-eaten bagel by the keyboard that indicated she had just stepped away. A box hung on the side wall with a sign that read, “If you are here to apply for volunteering, please fill this out.” An arrow pointed down into the box.

I drew out one of the applications, grabbed a clipboard and pen from Sally's desk, and looked for a place to sit down. The only other available chair besides the desk chair was piled high with files. Carefully, I moved them to the floor and sat in the chair. On impulse, I bent over the stack of files, looking at the tabs.

“Can I help you?”

I straightened so fast my neck cricked. “Hi—I'm here to apply.” It was idiotic to think Annabel's file would just be sitting there, waiting for me to find it.

“For the Teen Crisis Line? That's great.” She slid into her chair. “We need more teen volunteers. Studies show that kids are more likely to talk to other kids about their problems rather than adults.”

“I'd—love to help out,” I said weakly. I'd memorized a whole spiel about how I wanted to give back to the community, but the script disappeared from my brain. On this gray floor filled with gray cubicles, Sally was the only one with some color. For some reason, I didn't want to disappoint her.

“Just fill that out and then we'll chat.” She picked up her bagel and took a bite.

The application was pretty straightforward. I handed it to her when I was done. Sally looked it over and raised an eyebrow. “The Hillcoate Academy? That's very impressive.”

“Thanks. I have a copy of my last report card if you want to see it.” I drew it out of my bag and handed it to her.

Sally looked it over for a minute and then back at my application. “You're a senior?”

“That's right.”

“And you…”—her eyes scanned the paper—“play the oboe?”

“Yes.”

She peered at me over the clipboard. “What are your plans for college?”

“I'm auditioning for Juilliard.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened with surprise. “That must be very competitive.”

“It is. Only two or three get in every year. If that.” I tightened my fingers in my lap. “Last year, they didn't let any in.”

“Wow. Any backups?”

“Eastman, New England Conservatory, Manhattan School of Music. And well, Curtis, but that one is so hard to get into that you don't even pay tuition.” I half smiled at her. “But my dream has always been Juilliard.”

“Well, you're not afraid of a challenge. That's obvious.” Sally set my application and report card down on her desk. “And you'll have no shortage of challenges working the Teen Line.”

“What sort of calls do you get?”

“Oh, everything from ‘My boyfriend dumped me and I'm sad' to ‘I'm standing here with a razor and want to slit my wrists.' It can get intense.”

I wondered what would've happened if Annabel had called the Teen Line before she jumped off the balcony. Would she still be alive? And if she was still alive, would I be dead? I shivered.

“So, Georgiana—”

“Oh, please call me Georgie.” I wrinkled my nose. “Georgiana sounds way too British.”

Sally laughed. “Okay, Georgie. Tell me, why does a senior like you want to do this? You've obviously got your future figured out, and your grades are excellent. You've already sent in your applications so you don't need this for a good extracurricular activity. You're probably spending all your free time practicing for your auditions. Why do this?”

“Because—” I stopped. I swung my gaze around the depressing gray walls. Had Annabel come here to meet with her case worker? Was this another place I was walking in her footsteps? “Because—” The lies I'd prepared died on my lips. “Because I knew a girl.”

Sally crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back. Her chair creaked.

“I knew a girl who committed suicide. And I just think that maybe if she'd called a crisis line like this, if she'd talked to me, I could've stopped her.”

“Jeez.” Sally sighed, shaking her head. “I'm really sorry. I like to think that we could've prevented that from happening too.”

“There are so many kids out there who need help,” I said, thinking of Char, of the skinny redheaded girl with track marks on her arms. I wasn't lying anymore, giving Sally a bullshit line to get what I wanted. These girls really did need help, and I could do it. “And they believe they have no one to turn to, no one who can help them. If they could know that there are people out there who can help, who
care…
”

Sally nodded, her bobbed salt-and-pepper hair shaking in front of her face. “Yes, exactly. That's why I created the Teen Crisis Line to begin with.”

“You created it? Wow.” I glanced around her chaotic cubicle. She was clearly overworked and understaffed—I mean, she had to get volunteers for a crisis line that should be staffed by certified counselors—but she still cared enough to get a project off the ground to help more kids.

All of a sudden, I really, really wanted to do this. Yes, I wanted Annabel's file, but I also wanted to stop the next Annabel from jumping off her balcony. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“The girl I knew—who killed herself—she was a foster kid. Well, she had been. She was eighteen, so she'd aged out of the system. Right? When kids turn eighteen, they're no longer your—I mean, the Department's responsibility?”

“Yeah.” Sally's face screwed up and she let out a long sigh. “It's such bullcrap—pardon my French.” I shook my head to let her know she wasn't offending me in the least, and she went on. “I mean, these kids clearly need our help past their eighteenth birthday, but the State just cuts them off. We have a couple of programs in place to track them, but only if they're receiving a grant or tuition aid or something like that.” She clenched her jaw. “It's
ridiculous
.”

“Right? It is!” I threw my hands in the air. “I'm practically eighteen and I'm not nearly ready to be on my own. My mother still does my laundry, and I couldn't even tell you what button turns the washer on. How can the State expect these kids to just fend for themselves?”

“You have no idea how much this issue means to me,” Sally said. She sat up straighter and set her shoulders. “I actually tried to petition the State to get the law changed to keep kids in the foster system until they're twenty, but it went nowhere.” She pointed her finger at me. “It is very astute of you to recognize this problem. We need people like you around here.”

“Does that mean—I have the job?”

“Yes. I know you must be busy with your auditions, so whatever time you can give us would be great.”

“Thank you!” I smiled and danced a little in my chair. “I just have to talk to my parents about my schedule. It might have to wait until after my Juilliard audition, but that's only next month.” My stomach squirmed. Less than a month before the audition. Somehow, I hadn't been as obsessed with it the past few days.

“That's great. Just give me a call and let me know when you can start.” Sally handed me her card and stood. “I'll walk you to the elevator.”

It was only when we arrived at the elevator bank that I remembered I'd come here for an entirely different purpose. While Sally pressed the down button, I scanned the directory on the wall. “RECORDS, 10TH FLOOR,” it said.

Crap. That was up. The elevator dinged.
Please
don't get on with me
, I thought feverishly at Sally.