A Need So Beautiful (A Need So Beautiful #1)(34)

“I’m sorry,” I say over and over to Mercy. “I didn’t want to bother you at work.”

“Where did it happen? Who was driving? I’m very upset with you, Charlotte. You were supposed to be home.”

I look over and see Alex widen his eyes like he knows I’m in trouble. He’s the one who told her, I’m sure.

“I’m hungry,” I whine, motioning toward the table. Guilt crosses Mercy’s face.

“Okay. Enough third degree. For now,” she warns. “Sit down and have something to eat.” She puts her arm around me and leads me over; checking my stitches to make sure Monroe did a good job. She says he did.

“Looks delicious,” I say, happy to put a pile of spaghetti on my plate. I’m starving after the pharmacy incident. Too hungry to think of anything else. I immediately begin to shove pasta into my mouth, my other hand grabbing bread. It’s a hunger that I can’t fill. I feel bottomless.

“Still can’t believe the clinic didn’t call me,” Mercy mumbles. “Or one of my children.” She snatches the grated cheese from Alex as he’s shaking it over his plate, and gives him an annoyed look.

“Don’t blame me!” he says. “I didn’t know she was out running the streets. It’s not like she called me, either. I didn’t even see her yesterday.”

“Whatever,” I say to him. “I heard you and Georgia checking out my stitches while I was on the couch.”

Georgia glances up, a puzzled look on her face, but she continues to eat.

“Georgia,” Mercy says, slapping her hand dramatically on the table. “You told me you haven’t talked to her all week.”

“I told her about the accident,” I say. “And we talked about other things.” I smile at Georgia as she takes a drink, letting her know that I won’t tell about her mother or her scar. Like it’s a secret just between us. Instead, Georgia coughs on a sip of her iced tea.

“Did not,” she snaps. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen you in days. Don’t drag me into your lies, Charlotte.”

“Georgia!” Mercy scolds.

I nearly drop my fork. “What?” I murmur.

She’s staring at me, looking completely pissed off. “I didn’t even know you were hurt until Mercy came in all yelling about it.”

“Uh-oh, Ma,” Alex interrupts. “I think Charlotte might be using that wacky tabacky.” He laughs like this a joke. Like my life isn’t ending.

“I heard you last night,” I say to him, feeling desperate. “You don’t remember?”

“Charlotte, I didn’t see you until I found you in your room this morning. There you were with blood in your hair.”

“You had blood in your hair?” Mercy asks, touching her chest in concern. “Poor thing. I wish you had called me. You know I would have taken care of you.”

But her voice is a million miles away. My eyes tear up as I stare between Alex and Georgia, realizing that they don’t remember. They don’t even remember seeing me. The memories are blotting out.

“Are you crying?” Alex asks incredulously. “What the—”

“Excuse me,” I say, pushing back in my chair and tossing my napkin onto the table. I run for my room as Mercy calls after me, but I don’t wait. I burst into my room and collapse on the bed.

I want it to stop. I need it to stop. I sob into my hands, praying, wishing, making deals with whoever will listen. My head pulses with each tear and my bruised thighs still ache, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing will matter if I don’t find a way to stop the Needs.

Because before long, no one will even care. They won’t even remember me.

Chapter 13

I must have fallen asleep because when I wake up, the room is dark and quiet. No light outside my window, no clinking of dishes beyond the door.

My eyes search for the alarm clock, and when I find it, I see that it’s three a.m. I’m tired, but I move to switch on the light. My day is a blur, a pile of unsorted emotions.

I try to swallow, my throat dry, when I see my coat folded over the edge of my bed. Mercy must have brought it in here after dinner.

I jump out of bed and search the pockets frantically. When my fingers close around the journal, I exhale, relieved. But soon that relief is replaced with anxiety. A frightened curiosity.

For years I’ve watched Monroe take notes in this small bound book, never really wondering why. But now I know that it could hold the key to my survival. And that he had it all along.

Taking the book into bed with me, I ease under the covers, holding it tight. I turn to the first page and begin to read.

12/5

Lourdes never showed up for our appointment. When I went to speak with her husband, he didn’t remember her. Looking over my last journal, I can see the pattern. It seems once the Forgotten get toward the end of their life span, they become less memorable. Almost like the people who they touch have short-term memory loss. And their families start to forget little things, little bits of their lives, until they are erased entirely.

During our last visit, Lourdes told me that her husband didn’t remember their honeymoon. He claimed that they never had one. She pressed him and tried to find the pictures to prove it, but they were gone. Instead her husband said they stayed home, although he couldn’t remember exactly what they did. So she stopped going back to her house. She gave up.