Remember to Forget, Revised and Expanded (4 page)

“At least stop walking.”

I don't stop. I walk farther away from him and turn down the street.

I wandered around town for a few hours. I mostly just walked down random streets,
occasionally stopping to look at things. There's not much around here except for
some shops and restaurants. Just a regular town.

I got home around four o'clock, but Dad wasn't home. Typical. He was never around,
and that hasn't changed. And since I don't have any keys, I've been sitting on the
front steps for over an hour. Life is just wonderful right now.

I pull a cigarette out of my pocket and light it, watching the tip spark before burning.
I place it between my lips and take a deep breath. I tilt my head back and let the
smoke out of my lungs, then watch it swirl until it vanishes into the air.

I didn't start smoking until recently, and I don't do it too often. It's more something
to keep my mind off things, just for a little. It allows me to focus on something
other than my sadness.

The neighborhood is quiet at this hour; only a few cars have driven by. I like the
silence. I don't like the bitter cold, though. I definitely wasn't prepared for this.

I place my chin on my hand and continue smoking. I can see the neighbors across the
street in one of their rooms. It looks like a dining room. There are two people sitting
at a table with flowers in the middle. Both are laughing as if something wonderful
happened. I wonder what it's like to be that happy.

“Hey,” I hear someone call. I snap my head in the direction of the voice and see
a boy about my age walking toward me. “Are you Levi?”

I furrow my eyebrows in confusion as he sits down beside me. How does he know who
I am?

“I'm Aiden, nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand for me to shake, but I just
stare at it. I take in a breath of smoke and puff it in his face. “Alrighty then,”
he mumbles, coughing a little bit. He awkwardly places his hand in his lap and takes
a deep breath over his shoulder to avoid my smoke. “So are you Levi? Or are you some
random dude sitting outside this house?”

I get up and start to walk away, not wanting to interact with him.

“Hey, wait up!” Aiden calls, walking in my direction. “I have a spare key!”

I turn around and raise an eyebrow at Aiden. He pulls a key out of his pocket and
holds it between his fingers. I try to snatch it from him, but he pulls it away before
I get to it.

He turns his head and eyes me suspiciously. “
Are
you Levi?”

I roll my eyes and nod, holding out my hand for the key. He obediently gives it to
me, and I walk toward the door to get away from him.

“Dude, at least stop smoking. I can't breathe with that in the air,” he says, following
me.

I toss the cigarette on the sidewalk and squish it beneath my shoe. I was done with
it anyway.

“I work for your dad. You know, helping out with soccer and stuff. You probably call
it football, like your dad does.”

I scowl.

“I also live right down the street. He mentioned something about his son coming,
so I'm guessing that's you. I never even knew he had a son until a few days ago.”

Great to know my dad never mentioned me. Thanks, Dad. Nice to know you care. Seems
absolutely normal
to never mention having a son. That's logical.

I fumble with the key, it doesn't seem to fit very well in the lock. I shove the
door with all my weight but it doesn't budge.

“The cold weather makes the doors hard to open. You're from somewhere warm, right?
Isn't it, like, Australia? Here, let me do it,” Aiden says, opening the door with
ease.

I feel the urge to slap Aiden to get him to stop talking. I already genuinely dislike
him. His extremely fake, goofy smile is getting on my nerves. I clench my teeth through
my frustration.

“Hey, you all right? You don't talk much, do you?” Aiden continues to babble on
about stupid things and follows me inside. I just want to be alone. No one seems
to understand that.

He plops down on the couch, putting his feet on the coffee table. I continue standing,
leaning against the wall with my arms crossed.

“So, Levi, how are you liking it here so far? Maine is pretty dull if you ask me.
I want to move somewhere cool, like Australia or something.”

I roll my eyes at his statement. Australia is most definitely not cool. It's where
dreams go to die.

Maine seems to be where heat goes to turn into a bitter frost.

Aiden looks up at me, waiting for a response. I guess he hasn't found out I don't
talk. Or he knows, but thinks I will actually engage in a conversation with him.

He clears his throat and taps his fingers against the couch. He looks up at the ceiling,
then down at the floor.

“Your dad told me you're amazing at soccer. You should join the team at school. Though
they're pretty bad. I'm even worse. But I don't care, I'm still part of the team,
you know? Just getting to be on the field and everything. You could really help us
out.”

My dad has always had this hope that I'd go back to soccer. But I never will. Not
now, not ever.

I pull out my phone and type quickly. I press speak, and Aiden furrows his eyebrows
when he hears it.

“First things first,” it reads, “I don't talk. Ever. I haven't spoken for six months.
Don't expect me to. Don't ask stupid questions, because I won't answer them. You've
asked more questions than my mind can handle. I feel like I've lost brain cells from
your horrific grammar, you know?” Aiden bites his lip, realizing I'd just quoted
him. “Secondly, yes, I'm Australian. Australia is not cool, but you're welcome to
move there. I don't like you, and I don't like Australia. It's a perfect match. Third,
I will never play football. Don't try to make me think differently. I hate it. Lastly,
please leave before I explode from frustration.”

Aiden looks down and cracks his knuckles. “I'm just trying to be friendly,” he mumbles,
getting up from the couch. “I guess I'll be leaving then. Have a nice night, Levi.
I'll see you around.”

He hangs his head as he walks toward the door. Just as he's about to leave, my dad
walks in.

“Hey, Aiden!” he exclaims. He's more excited to see him than he was to see his own
son after three years. “I see you've met Levi!”

“Yeah, he was locked out. I brought him in. But I'm leaving. I'll see you later,”
Aiden says quietly, darting out the door.

My dad places his bag on the bottom of the stairs and walks up to me.

“Aiden's nice, huh? He's a great guy.”

I shrug and walk past my dad and into my room. My dad seems to care more about Aiden
than me. Not that I care. Why would I care? It's not like I actually like my dad.
I don't like Aiden either. I don't care about either of them.

He didn't even apologize for locking me out. I sat outside for so long, and he doesn't
even acknowledge it. I hate him. I hate him. I
hate
him.

All I care about right now is going to sleep, so that's what I decide to do. It's
not like there's anything else to do. Even though it's only seven thirty, I'm still
on Australian time. My sleeping schedule is completely messed up.

After an endless few minutes of restlessly lying on my bed, I give up on getting
comfortable. I'm way too tall for the tiny mattress. I go into the closet and get
comfortable quickly.

I like the small, open space of silence. It feels large and loud. I don't feel trapped
in here the same way I do everywhere else.

I enjoy being alone like this.

Chapter Four

LEVI

I
step into an all-too-familiar atmosphere at ten in the morning. A few other people
are waiting in chairs, not making a sound. A lady at the front desk types quickly,
which is the only sound in the quiet room. I roll my eyes and walk.

I've only been in Maine for four days, and I'm already at the therapist.

“Hi, how can I help you?” the lady says cheerily. She looks up at me, then at my
dad.

My dad answers all the questions while I lean against the counter. I yawn slowly,
having only woken up a few minutes ago.

The lady—her name is June—hands me a clipboard with some papers attached. The usual
questions that I'm sick of answering.

Do you feel as if you are different from other individuals?

Are you constantly tired?

Have you lost interest in everyday activities?

I scribble down my answers just as I hear my name called.

“Levi Harrison?” a woman with curly red hair asks, grinning widely.

I stand up and cringe. I already dislike her.

“Good luck, bud. Come get me if you need anything,” my dad tells me.

Bud? What am I, five years old?

My dad's been trying. Maybe a little too much. The past four days, I've been ignoring
him most of the time. I don't really want to be around him. I think he realizes that,
but he still tries.

I look at him as if he's crazy, which he is. He smiles meekly, his eyebrows arched
upward. I turn away and follow the doctor.

“Hello, Levi. Nice to meet you. I'm Candace, and I'll be your therapist, okay?” She
reaches out her hand for me to shake, but instead of shaking it, I put the clipboard
in her hand. I don't want to carry it anyway.

She nods her head as if saying yes and closes her lips into a straight line. She
brings me into a room, which is like every other therapy room. There are some games
in the corner, a notepad on the table, a couch against one wall. A picture that looks
like it was done by a seven-year-old is on one of the plain, tan walls. Maybe it's
a panda. Or possibly a whale? Maybe it's half and half. Would that be a whanda or
a pandle?

“Hello? Levi?” Candace says, looking at me.

I must have zoned out while looking at the painting. That happens a lot. I think
so much that I forget about my surroundings. I look over at Candace to see her smiling
widely again. Her teeth are way too white. I bet she's whitened them more than the
directions recommend.

“Okay, there you are. I thought I lost you for a second,” Candace says, forcing a
small laugh. “So, I'm going to start off by asking you a few questions, okay?”

Okay okay okay. Stop saying okay, okay?

“Here's a whiteboard. You can write down all of your answers and thoughts on the
board. Are you ready?”

I shrug and prop my feet up on the small table. Candace peers down at my shoes and
tries not to look disgusted, but I see right through her. The corner of her mouth
twitches as she picks up her notepad.

“All right, question one. When did you stop talking?”

I don't answer. I stare at the milky whiteness of the board. There are some black
smudges on it from previous markers. I rub my thumb over one of the stains, but it's
of no help.

This question is the first thing every therapist asks me. Clearly, I stopped talking
six months ago; it's written in my information. So why does she have to ask?

“Okay, next question then,” she says, “Why did you stop talking?”

And there it is. The follow-up question. The question everyone wants to know the
answer to. Only I know the real reason why I stopped. And I don't plan on sharing
it.

I've been through eleven therapists in six months. None of them could figure me out
because I never answered their stupid questions.

I've heard the therapists and doctors talk to my mom. I hear what they say about
me. All I need is to change my outlook on life and get some medical help. I can be
fixed. There will be a miracle. Don't give up.

My life isn't a Hallmark card or a quilted pillow. Stop telling me useless quotes
you learned when you got your degree.

Candace asks more questions, none of which I answer. I just stare blankly at the
board, never moving. I feel as if I might fall asleep. Sleeping would be nice. I
wouldn't have to deal with Candace's fake perkiness.

Suddenly a girl appears in the doorway carrying a box of manila folders. She knocks
lightly before walking in.

She smiles at me, and I turn my gaze away from her. I look up at the first thing
I see, which is the whanda painting. I wonder who painted it. I wonder what it's
really supposed to be. I fill my mind up with questions to avoid the thoughts creeping
into my head, and to avoid this girl.

“Sorry to bother you, but June wants all of your patient records. She says we're
missing some from the past month,” the girl says, balancing the box on her knee.

“Oh, yes, of course. They are all in the top right drawer of my desk.”

I look from the whanda to the girl, then back again. I bite my fingernails and bounce
my leg without even realizing it.

“Found 'em,” the girl says, putting them in her box. “Thank you.”

“Would you mind shutting the door on your way out, Delilah?” Candace says.

I flinch at her name and freeze in my spot. I need an excuse to leave. I can't stay
here any longer.

I uncap the marker and quickly write something down. Candace waits anxiously, a smile
growing on her face. I lift up the board to show her what I've written.

I need to take a piss.

Her smile falters once she reads what I've written. She excuses me, and I quickly
get up from the couch. In my frenzy to leave, I crash into the girl, who I now know
as Delilah. Her box falls out of her hands and crashes to the floor. I glance quickly
from her to the mess of folders on the floor before quickly running out.

My breathing quickens and the hallway seems to be too small. I need space. I need
air. I need to get out of here.

I run down the hall in search of the bathroom and finally find it. I step inside
one of the stalls and lean against the metal door.