The Forgetting (5 page)

“Well, I would think that she'd still feel lucky to be alive. It doesn't matter how the donor died.”

“Still…
suicide
… It's so sad.”

I stumbled back, thankful for the carpeted hallway to hide my footsteps. My ears buzzed. Somehow I made it back to my chair and collapsed into it a moment before the door swung open and a nurse entered, carrying a tray with a needle and four vials.

“Hi, Georgie,” she said, and I recognized the same voice that had just uttered the word “suicide.” I stared dumbly as she inserted the needle into my arm. My blood flowed into the vials, one after another, its dark red stain proof that I was alive.
Suicide
. I had life because Jane Doe had taken hers.

From the research I had done, I knew that a transplanted heart had to be the same size as the recipient's. That meant that my donor had been my age, or close to. She had been young. And she had been so hopeless as to take her own life. Tears leaked out of the corner of my eyes. I blinked fast to keep them from falling on my face.

“Almost done,” the nurse said cheerily as she swapped the third vial for the fourth. I wanted to slap her. When she was done, she taped a piece of gauze to the needle-prick site and folded my arm up. “Just sit still for a minute before you leave.”

“Okay.” It came out a little strangled. I kept my head turned from her as she left. As soon as the door closed, I wrestled my phone from my jeans pocket and brought up Google. I typed in “Boston suicide teenage Jane Doe” and waited for the page to load.

How could no one know who she was? What kind of life had she led that no one had come forward to identify her? Where were her parents? A pang thrummed inside me. Were there really people on this planet that no one cared about?

The page finished loading a number of random, unrelated pages. But at the top, there was a link to a Boston police precinct website, dated the week before I'd gone into the hospital. I tapped it. A short paragraph popped up.

Police are investigating an apparent suicide attempt by an eighteen-year-old female on the night of January 17. Authorities say she jumped off a fifth-story balcony at 826 Emiline Way and lay for several hours before being discovered by a man walking his dog early the next morning. The girl is in critical condition at Massachusetts General Hospital and not expected to live. Police have been unable to identify her. Anyone with any information is asked to call the BPD Hotline at 617-481-5162.

I pressed my palms against the chair to keep my hands from shaking. That had to be her. Same time frame, same hospital. They must have tried to identify her for several days before declaring her brain-dead. I went into the hospital on January 22. My heart failed a day later, and I was bumped to the top of the UNOS list. How lucky that there was a perfectly matching heart just down the hall from me.

Still, I didn't get it. If she committed suicide—if she had wanted to die—why was she still holding on to life?
My
life? Why were her memories still present? Shouldn't she—and her memories—be off floating in some afterlife-y fourth dimension or something?

Mom popped her head in the room, a harassed look on her face. “I think I finally got that straightened out,” she said. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” I slid off the vinyl chair and followed her out of the office, out of the hospital, down to the parking garage, and into the car. Night was falling as we emerged onto the street, the lights of the Boston skyline twinkling against the dusky gray sky. Was Jane Doe haunting me? I pressed my hand to my chest. Was I possessed?

Beneath my palm, my heartbeat alternated with the Catch. Somehow that didn't seem right. I didn't think I was possessed. But Jane Doe
was
in there, her memories imprinted on her heart that now beat in my chest. And maybe the Catch was an echo of her, a reminder that this lost girl who had killed herself, all alone, had existed.

I curled my hand into a fist against my heart. All I wanted was to get on with my life. Play my oboe, go to school, and be normal again. But it seemed like Jane Doe had other plans for me.

And if that was the case, then I needed to know who the hell she was. Because no one but me controlled my life. No one.

How did one find a lost girl? I wasn't even sure she wanted to be found. I was working purely on guesswork in a territory I had never known existed. But I had to do something before I lost another memory. And I did have one solid piece of information.

I had an address.

826 Emiline Way. As soon as we got home, I went up to my room, closed the door, and sat on my bed. I pulled up the police website on my phone again and tapped the blue-highlighted address. Google Maps launched and clocked 826 Emiline Way at five miles away. So close.

But in a city like Boston, with its twisty streets, you could never just go from Point A to Point B. You had to go to Points C, D, and E first. I would have to take two buses and then the T to travel the five miles from my house to 826 Emiline Way. I couldn't drive; that wasn't allowed until my chest was fully healed. Two buses and a T ride wasn't a hop, skip, and a jump. It was like a long and winding hike over two valleys and a river. I couldn't climb the stairs without my chest hurting, so I wasn't sure I could travel that far without serious pain.

Not to mention I'd have to come up with a really good excuse for why I was leaving the house at all. Also, there was no way my parents would ever let me go to Mattapan without an armed escort. There was a reason its local nickname was Murderpan.

My brain clicked and whirred all through dinner and the Hearts tournament that Colt insisted on playing afterward. I lost spectacularly, finally calling it a night after Colt had shot the moon for the third time.

“I've got nothing more to teach you,” I said, slamming my cards down. “The pupil has become the master.”

Colt punched the air with his fist. I laughed and headed upstairs, my smile disappearing the moment I was out of sight of the kitchen. I closed my bedroom door and leaned on it for a moment, taking shallow breaths until the ache in my sternum eased.

I could ask one of my friends to drive me to 826 Emiline Way, I thought as I changed into my pajamas. But if I told them why, they'd think I was crazy. This was so far out of the realm of things I could trust them with. As I pulled my shirt off, I caught sight of my bare chest in the mirror, the ugly red scar bisecting my body. That scar was like a wall between me and everything that made me who I was. The instant they'd removed my old heart, they'd disconnected me from my life.

I tugged my tank top over my head, the scar just peeking out from the neckline. Maybe my friends could still be useful, even if I didn't tell them what was going on. As I crawled into bed, I began to formulate a plan to get me across those five miles to 826 Emiline Way.

• • •

“You're sure Ella can drive you home?” Mom asked as she steered the car to the curb in front of the Roslindale Community Center.

“Yes.” I unbuckled my seat belt and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Don't be such a worrywart.”

“Fat chance.” She peered over my shoulder at the building. “Are you sure about this? You should be at home resting—”

“Going out of my mind is more like it,” I said. “I'm just going to sit and listen. Nothing strenuous.”

“And what time does the rehearsal end?”

“Nine.”

Mom pressed her lips together. “I don't know—”

“If I start to feel tired, I'll call you to come pick me up. Okay?”

It was the right thing to say. She settled back into her seat. “Okay.”

I slid out of the car and shut the door. Conscious that she was watching me, I climbed the steps to the hall very slowly. When I reached the top, I turned and waved, backing toward the entrance. She waved back and drove off. For a moment, I stood on the threshold to the community center, listening through the open door.

The orchestra was warming up, a violinist practicing scales, a cello sighing out the thematic through line of Tchaikovsky's Fourth Symphony. I could just forget this whole thing and go inside. That was where I belonged, not tracking down some unknown girl at some godforsaken address in a bad neighborhood. A bassoon joined the cello, their voices in perfect synchronicity. I should be with them. I should be playing my oboe right now. That was my life.

A gust of wind blew the door shut, cutting me off from the orchestral sounds inside. I hugged myself. I couldn't go back to that life until I figured out what was happening to me. What if the next memory I lost was of my oboe? I dug out my cell phone and dialed the number of the car service I'd stored in my contacts earlier.

“Are you sure this is the right address, honey?” the driver asked fifteen minutes later, twisting around in the front seat.

“Yes,” I said, but looking out the back window, I wasn't so sure. The street was desolate, lit only by a dim street lamp that flickered on and off. The building at 826 Emiline Way was dingy, with a crumbling facade and a couple of boarded-up windows.

“You want me to wait?”

“No, that's okay.” I handed him the fare through the window and opened the door. The cold wrapped itself around me like an icy blanket. I walked away from the car without looking back, but he didn't pull away until I was at the stoop.

There wasn't one light on in the whole building. I tilted my head back, counting floors. At the fifth-floor level, a bright piece of yellow tape caught my eye. It dangled from a small wrought-iron balcony, flapping in the wind. With an inward punch, my breath left me. That was where she'd jumped.

I stumbled backward, my feet tripping over each other on the ground where she must have landed. And lain for several hours, her life bleeding out of her, until someone found her. Bile rose in my throat. I doubled over, retching on the sparse patch of weeds next to the stoop. Pain arced across my chest until I heaved out everything that had been inside me.

Panting, I dropped down to sit on the stoop and fished in my bag for the bottle of water I always had on me. I rinsed my mouth out, then swallowed half the water in the bottle. Closing my eyes, I forced myself to take long, even breaths.

I wasn't cut out for this. I should've stayed at the community center. The streets I existed on were leafy and clean, well lit and full of people. I had never been in a place that felt lonelier. I placed my hands over my heart and circled them.
Sweetness
, I thought.
Sweetness
. No warmth came this time. The cold concrete seeped under my skin, chilling me to the bone. I should just go home. Did I really need to know who this girl was?

The answer shattered through me so hard my eyes flew open.
Yes
. I had to know. I didn't care what Maureen or Grandma or anyone said. I couldn't move forward until I knew whose heart this had been. The Catch whispered in my ears, like Jane Doe's voice guiding me.
If
you
want
me
to
belong
to
you
, it seemed to say,
you
have
to
know
who
I
used
to
be
.

I picked myself up and stood for a moment, hugging myself against the cold. I wanted my life back. And if I had to visit the loneliest corner of the city to get it, then that's what I'd do.

Outside the door was a row of mailboxes and an intercom. I buzzed next to the stuck-on label reading “Landlord,” but there was no answer. I glanced up at the windows again. I didn't want to buzz anyone else. Who knew what would come to the door?

I dug through my bag until I found a pen and a piece of paper. I scribbled a vague note asking about vacancies in the building, signed my name and cell number, and shoved it in the landlord's mailbox. I checked my watch. I still had two hours before I was expected home. Shivering, I glanced up and down the street. If Jane Doe had come here to die, it made sense that this was a neighborhood where she hung out. Maybe a little exploration would yield a clue.

At the curb where the cab had dropped me, I looked left and right. Taking a guess, I turned left. The Catch got louder. I turned right at the next corner, then left again. Cold wind blew down the empty sidewalks, skittering a candy wrapper across my path. My footsteps echoed on the pavement. I glanced over my shoulder, but the street here was as lonely as back at 826 Emiline.

My incision started to ache. This was
weird
, knowing exactly where to go in a place I'd never been, moving without thinking. My steps were usually so deliberate and measured, and now my unconscious mind propelled me forward. I rounded the corner onto a long stretch of dark road. Shabby brownstones, practically built on top of each other, lined one side of the street while a tall, wrought-iron fence ran along the other. I peered into the expanse beyond the fence. Rows and rows of uneven headstones dotted the hill that sloped away from the street. I took a step toward the cemetery.

The memory came so strong and fast that the wind was knocked out of me.
A
full
moon
rises
above
the
cemetery
gate, lightening the iron from black to gray. Headlights sweep the potholed street, pooling on the pavement as the car pulls to a stop. The door opens. It's dark in the car, so dark that I can't see who or how many people are in there. No one speaks, but I know that I have to get in. I know I have to…but I don't want to… I don't want to…

Air returned to my lungs. I gulped it in and straightened. My mind spun, trying to wrap around why Jane Doe was here, why the car had come for her. I crossed to the cemetery and pulled at the gate. A chain looped through the iron bars rattled, breaking the stillness of the street. An instant later, light swept across the length of the fence.

I whirled around. A silver sports car had turned onto the street. It slowed as it approached, just like the car in Jane Doe's memory. I pressed myself into the wedge between the gate and the concrete base of the fence. But when the car reached me, it flicked its high beams on and I was blinded by white-hot light.

I threw my hand up to shield my eyes and blinked, trying to see. The driver's window rolled down. I gripped one of the bars behind me, my heart thudding in my chest. I had nothing to protect myself; the sharpest thing I had in my bag was a lip pencil.

Over the soft hum of the car's engine, a disembodied voice floated into the night. “Hey, baby, it's my birthday.”

“What?” Confused, I let go of the gate and took a step toward the car. Out of the bright light, I could see the speaker clearly as he leaned out his open window. Gray hair framed an over-tanned face, his skin the orangey shade that you got from a cheap bottle. The absurd thought that if he drove a car that nice, he should be able to afford a better fake tan flashed through my head. “What did you say?”

The man squinted at me and pulled back a little. “I thought you were someone else. Where's—”

“Yo, birthday boy, wanna surprise?”

I stumbled back, the new voice brash against the dark, still night. High heels clicked on the pavement toward the car and a girl, no older than me, emerged from the shadows across the street. Her tight minidress impeded her strides as she teetered over to us.

Throwing me a malevolent look, she tossed her long, black hair back and bent to lean on the car window. “Hey, sugar.”

The man glanced from the girl to me. “Where's the other one? The blond? I always meet her here.”

The girl spoke in a purr. “She's old news. I'm here for you now.”

His eyes flicked back to me and then fixed themselves on the girl's cleavage. “How much for both of you?”

She straightened, her hip thrust out as she turned to me. “Two-fifty an hour.
Each
.”

My voice finally found itself. “What? I'm not—I don't—
no
way
.” I backed away from the car, my hands in front of me like a shield.

The girl arched her back. “Guess you get me all to yourself,” she told the man in the car.

“I want both. It's my birthday.”

“I thought it was
always
your birthday,” the girl said, giving him a slow wink.

“Well, today it actually is, and I want both of you.”

The girl looked at me, her eyes narrowed. “Come
on
.”

“No!” It came out as a shriek and echoed over the empty street. Nearby, a dog barked.

“Hey, I don't need any drama.” The guy glanced up and down the deserted street. “I'll go somewhere else then.” The car revved to life. Just as he peeled away from the curb, I remembered what he'd said.
Where's the other one?

“Wait!” I called. “What did you mean—” But it was too late. His tires squealed as he took the corner without slowing down and disappeared.

The girl rounded on me, her dark eyes flashing. “What the fuck was that?”

“I—”

“That guy serves himself up on a silver platter and you say
no
?”

“I'm not—”

“Jules is gonna tear you a new asshole when he hears about this.”

“I don't even know who Jules—”

“And Jules told me this was
my
meeting place now.” She stepped right up to me, her nose inches from mine. “It woulda been nice if he'd given me a heads-up about the company.”

I took a step back. “Look,” I said, “I'm really sorry. But there's been a misunderstanding. I'm not—not a—” I stopped. The girl's face pinched up and she put her hands on her hips, daring me to say the word. I swallowed hard. “What did he mean,” I said, jerking my head in the direction the car had sped off, “about the other girl who used to hang out here? The blond?”

The girl surveyed me for a long moment. I forced myself not to look away. Despite her tight skirt and heels, she looked like she could beat me up inside a minute. She planted her hand on her hip. Her nails were bitten down to the quick.