The Art of Forgetting Read Online Free Page B
Author: Julie McLaren
Linda would be back, safe and sound, and my action would be vindicated. I did stay out an hour, but there was no news when I got back and my parents were almost as concerned for the dog as they were for me.
I waited the next day and the next. Each day I was definitely going to tell someone the day after if she didn’t turn up, but then we got the call from the hospital and they had to fetch Paul, with all the trauma that entailed. Also, at about the same time, there was a story in all the papers about a girl who had gone missing and been found in a commune in Wales, and I persuaded myself that Linda would have done something similar. I imagined her in a big old house somewhere, with people who sat around playing guitars into the night. Or maybe she would be in London, sitting on the floor in a squat, listening to someone reading poetry or posing whilst a long-haired man with a beard sketched her half-naked.
As it turned out that wasn’t the case and, looking back, I don’t know why I allowed myself to think any of those things. Linda had never shown the slightest inclination to embrace an alternative lifestyle. She was strictly mainstream, devoted to fashion and looking her best and certainly unlikely to be interested in poetry. But I suppose it must have suited my purpose to believe it at the time, and my parents were so wrapped up in caring for Paul that they hardly mentioned her again so it wasn’t that hard to file it all away.
They were terrible, those first couple of weeks after he came back. The doctor said he was burnt out, studying too hard. Maybe he wasn’t suited to university after all but, slowly, he came out of the dark place he had slipped into and we began to see the old Paul again. Personally, I didn’t think it was studying that had caused him to overdose on painkillers and alcohol though. After all, he’d only been back two or three weeks when we got the call and he certainly hadn’t been doing much studying, or anything else, during the long summer holiday. My parents had complained about this on many an occasion, although they’d had little or no response. He’d get up about lunchtime, go out at about teatime and return in the early hours and I thought he may have got involved in drugs of some kind, as he was very secretive about it all. Anyway, whatever it was, he was well enough to return for the last couple of weeks before Christmas and life returned to normal.
When I say life returned to normal, that is only partly true. I continued to go to work, and Andy and I continued to go out, but
Chapter 2
“Is that it?”
Kelly picks up the pad and examines it, flicking through the pages as if the rest of the story could be hiding somewhere between them, but there really is no more. The last word is at the very end of the bottom line of the final page. Their mother hasn’t written on the cover or the cardboard backing, as she might have if there were only a few more sentences left to write.
“There must be some more, another pad,” she says. “Where did you find this one? Come on, show me. I want to find out what happened to Linda.”
They search for over an hour, rooting through the stack of carrier bags yet to be tackled, pulling open drawers and cupboards, to no avail. Every now and then one of them will stop, momentarily overcome by the contrast between the vibrant young woman their mother was and the person she has become, and then they talk. There are even a few tears, but mostly they are captivated by the narrative. It is as if a new and unknown version of their mother has been lent to them for a while then whisked away again, and they want her back When it becomes clear that there is no sign of a second pad in the bedroom, Kelly even wants to go through all the black bags, but that is when Laura becomes cross with her. They argue, just a little, before Laura sees what is happening and stops it.
“Come on, it’s time to go home. Come with me to pick up the kids – you know
I waited the next day and the next. Each day I was definitely going to tell someone the day after if she didn’t turn up, but then we got the call from the hospital and they had to fetch Paul, with all the trauma that entailed. Also, at about the same time, there was a story in all the papers about a girl who had gone missing and been found in a commune in Wales, and I persuaded myself that Linda would have done something similar. I imagined her in a big old house somewhere, with people who sat around playing guitars into the night. Or maybe she would be in London, sitting on the floor in a squat, listening to someone reading poetry or posing whilst a long-haired man with a beard sketched her half-naked.
As it turned out that wasn’t the case and, looking back, I don’t know why I allowed myself to think any of those things. Linda had never shown the slightest inclination to embrace an alternative lifestyle. She was strictly mainstream, devoted to fashion and looking her best and certainly unlikely to be interested in poetry. But I suppose it must have suited my purpose to believe it at the time, and my parents were so wrapped up in caring for Paul that they hardly mentioned her again so it wasn’t that hard to file it all away.
They were terrible, those first couple of weeks after he came back. The doctor said he was burnt out, studying too hard. Maybe he wasn’t suited to university after all but, slowly, he came out of the dark place he had slipped into and we began to see the old Paul again. Personally, I didn’t think it was studying that had caused him to overdose on painkillers and alcohol though. After all, he’d only been back two or three weeks when we got the call and he certainly hadn’t been doing much studying, or anything else, during the long summer holiday. My parents had complained about this on many an occasion, although they’d had little or no response. He’d get up about lunchtime, go out at about teatime and return in the early hours and I thought he may have got involved in drugs of some kind, as he was very secretive about it all. Anyway, whatever it was, he was well enough to return for the last couple of weeks before Christmas and life returned to normal.
When I say life returned to normal, that is only partly true. I continued to go to work, and Andy and I continued to go out, but
Chapter 2
“Is that it?”
Kelly picks up the pad and examines it, flicking through the pages as if the rest of the story could be hiding somewhere between them, but there really is no more. The last word is at the very end of the bottom line of the final page. Their mother hasn’t written on the cover or the cardboard backing, as she might have if there were only a few more sentences left to write.
“There must be some more, another pad,” she says. “Where did you find this one? Come on, show me. I want to find out what happened to Linda.”
They search for over an hour, rooting through the stack of carrier bags yet to be tackled, pulling open drawers and cupboards, to no avail. Every now and then one of them will stop, momentarily overcome by the contrast between the vibrant young woman their mother was and the person she has become, and then they talk. There are even a few tears, but mostly they are captivated by the narrative. It is as if a new and unknown version of their mother has been lent to them for a while then whisked away again, and they want her back When it becomes clear that there is no sign of a second pad in the bedroom, Kelly even wants to go through all the black bags, but that is when Laura becomes cross with her. They argue, just a little, before Laura sees what is happening and stops it.
“Come on, it’s time to go home. Come with me to pick up the kids – you know
Readers choose
Carolyn G. Keene
Melanie Shawn
Jaimie Roberts
Annabel Lyon
K. J. Hargan
Donna Ball
Jianne Carlo
Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
James M. McPherson