Forgotten

“Yes, Dad,” I say. “Same day next week.”

There is silence for a few seconds, and then:

“I love you, Pumpkin.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

In the middle of the night, the memory rips me from a dead sleep. I switch on the lamp and wait for my eyes to adjust, then throw off the covers and run.

“Mom,” I whisper loudly. She doesn’t stir.

“Mom?” I say in a quiet speaking voice. Nothing.

I move closer and put my hands on her shoulders. I shake her lightly. When that doesn’t work, I shake her harder and raise my voice. “Mom!”

She gasps, shoots upright, and blinks wildly.

“What’s wrong?” she shouts. Her gaze moves from me to the door to the far wall to the window and back again.

“Sorry,” I say, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Nothing’s wrong.”

She checks the digital clock on her nightstand. “Then why are you waking me up at two in the morning?” she asks.

I hold up the photo of Jonas.

“This isn’t exactly what he looks like,” I say as my eyes well up with tears.

>Other stuff:

—Spent all day with Luke… floated on inner tubes at the lake. Made out a little in the water… and in the van… and in my room until Mom came home.

—Jamie’s in L.A. until next week

—Call Dad

Nerves rage through me as I slowly, carefully dial.

This is our third phone call—the third of what I know will be many more. I woke up this morning remembering bits of him, but I know from notes those memories are new.

I hit the last number, and feel like I might throw up at the sound of the first tinny ring. Another sound, and I check the door to make sure it’s shut. A third, and I wonder if he forgot.

Then he’s there.

“Hello?” says a deep, gravelly voice that makes me both happy and sad at the same time. We’re rebuilding our relationship, both in real time and in my memories, but I can’t help but feel his underlying heartache.

“Hi, Dad. How are you?”

“I’m just fine, Pumpkin. What’s new with you?”

He does that, I’ve noticed: diverts the conversation to me. He doesn’t talk about himself; not yet, at least.

But he will.

I rub my fingers over the delicate beetle brooch that was my grandmother’s. A note from last week said that it arrived in the mail shortly after our last phone call. Apparently he wanted me to have something of hers.

He could have just saved it and brought it with him when he visits at the end of the summer. It will be brief, but he’ll come.

He doesn’t know that yet, but I do.