Forget Me Not (The Ceruleans: Book 2) (5 page)

‘Any time. You okay now?’

‘I’m okay now. I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

Only after I’d hung up did I whisper the words I wished I
could say:

‘Don’t let me go. Please.’

Now this is living! All those years stuck at Willake and
Hollythwaite, grey and regimented and dull, dull, dull. Be sensible, Sienna. Be
civilised, Sienna. Be a good little puppet, Sienna. But here, it’s all about
the moment – wind and sea and speed and thrill. GodDAMN I love the surf. And
the surfers. And the part-ays.

And the power! I healed a seagull today. Not because I
care much for them – stupid, annoying, squawking, pooping – but because I
could.

~

My first row with Jude.

Honestly, the fuss he made when I told him about healing
a little girl today! I mean, what was I meant to do, help her up off the
promenade and take her back to her mum with blood oozing out of her knee?
What’s right with that, when with just a little touch I can take away the pain
and the gore? And I made that kid’s day. Now she knows magic’s not just the
stuff of stories.

But even though I did a Good Thing, Jude was all, ‘I told
you not to use the light – you don’t have a clue what you’re doing. And I told
you to keep it a secret.’ Which is true enough. But I hated him yelling at me,
so I yelled back louder. He told me to calm down. So I told him (not very
politely) to go away. So he did. Just like that. One second he was there, in
the garden, looking about ready to explode with anger. The next he was gone. He
out-dramatic-exited me!

I spent the rest of the day focusing really hard on
vanishing like him. All I ended up with was a headache that no painkiller will
shift.

~

He came back.

Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God.

And I don’t even believe in God. Didn’t. Do I now?

Oh hell.

~

I haven’t written for a while. I didn’t know what to
write. I still don’t, but I need to write something, to get all the IMPOSSIBLE
out of my head.

I was so damn happy. It was so different here. Easy.
Real. I knew it couldn’t last forever – the parentals would work out where I
was eventually – but I thought at least until the summer, and then I’d apply
for cruise work.

But then Jude laid it all out – in one massive,
mind-blowing, gut-wrenching, stop-or-I’ll-throw-up hit.

1. He’s a Cerulean. Some kind of not-an-angel who heals
people.

2. I’m a Cerulean. Kind of. I’m actually more human than
Cerulean right now, but I’m Becoming.

3. Becoming is a euphemism for dying. Dying. D.Y.I.N.G.
Since my eighteenth birthday, when I ‘came of age’ (how archaic is that?), I’ve
been dying.

4. Jude is here for me, to take me with him to someplace
called Cerulea when the time comes.

5. The trip is one-way. No coming back.

I didn’t take the news well. I’m ashamed now, when I
think of the things I said to Jude, the things I did. Because this time he
didn’t do a disappearing act. He stayed and he took all the crap I threw at
him. He told me later it was a pretty textbook reaction to grief:

Denial: ‘You’re off your rocker.’

Anger: ‘Go to hell! I won’t let you take me!’

Bargaining: ‘Give me the summer, and then I’ll come
quietly.’

Depression: black, black, black, black.

It’s taken some time, but I’ve got to the end, to the
final stage: acceptance. Because you know what? These past months, I’ve never
felt so alive. And it’s not about the freedom or the partying or the surfing or
the blokes. It’s about the light. I want it. All of it. So what if I have to
die to get it? Dying to live. Works for me.

There’s just one thing still holding me back, hurting me.
Scarlett. I hate the thought of abandoning her alone in this world.

‘Are you here to bring me to life? You’re too late. I’m
already alive. Was it you who made me that way? Was I wood?’

‘Er…’

‘The Blue Fairy – you were always my favourite, dear.’

‘Oh.’

‘Though I like Jiminy too. He has a very nice hat, for
a cricket, don’t you think?’

‘Um. Yes?’

Seemingly satisfied with my answer, the diminutive
white-haired lady across from me took a noisy slurp of her tea and smacked her
lips with satisfaction. I picked up my own cup and took a sip, to give me
something to do, and looked once more towards the door through which Luke had
disappeared what seemed like eons ago.

I had surprised myself in volunteering to visit Luke’s
grandmother with him this afternoon. I wasn’t quite sure what had prompted me
to come. Curiosity about the only other surviving Cavendish? The reassurance
that came with being in Luke’s company? Yes – but it was more than that. It was
about a notebook lying on a bedside table beside a blue rock. It was about
words that bled on the page:
Scarlett… abandoning… alone.

Now I had to reflect that if I was looking for escapism, I
had picked the perfect place. Cara and Luke had both mentioned over the past
weeks that their gran wasn’t quite
compos mentis
– but when Cara had
lovingly said she was ‘away with the fairies’, I hadn’t for a moment thought
she meant literally. She had moments of lucidity, Luke had explained on the
drive over, but generally she lived in a fairytale world. The shelves of the
bookcase in her room were stacked with Disney DVDs and children’s story books,
and on the wall Luke and Cara had stuck up prints of fantasy scenes – unicorns
and castles and cottages nestled in woodland with softly smoking chimneys.

The lady herself, tiny, dimpled and twinkly-eyed, had been
delighted at the arrival of her visitors, especially one of the female
persuasion. Soon after introductions she’d dispatched Luke to find biscuits to
accompany our tea, leaving me to negotiate a twisting and turning conversation.

‘Are you Peter’s friend?’ she asked abruptly. ‘You remind me
of him, Little Blue Fairy. I like that Peter. You know the one?’

‘Um…’ I searched my memory bank for fairytale Peters. ‘Peter
Pan?’

‘No, dear.’

‘Peter from Peter and the Wolf?’

‘No, dear.’

I was grasping at straws now. ‘Beatrix Potter’s Peter?’

She chuckled. ‘That’s silly. He’s a rabbit. How can you be
friends with a rabbit, dear?’

Quite.

‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure which Peter you mean…’ I looked
again at the door. Where was Luke getting the biscuits from, Tesco’s Timbuktu?

‘Peter, dear. The cottage on the cliff.’

I twisted around to meet her gaze. Her eyes were a faded
version of Luke’s and Cara’s.

‘Peter Jones was my grandfather,’ I told her. ‘I’m his
granddaughter. I’m Scarlett.’

‘Scarlett. Your name means red – ruby, crimson, blood.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘But you’re blue – azure, aquamarine, cobalt, cerulean.’

My heart picked up. Was it possible – did she know…

She beamed at me. ‘Blue like a Smurf! My little boy, Ryan –
he loves Smurfs. Now tell me, dear, who are you?’

Was it a moment of clarity? If it was, it had passed already
– she was staring at a painting of the Cinderella castle and merrily humming
‘When You Wish Upon a Star’. I reached over and laid my hand over the thin,
soft skin of her wrinkled old hand. Could I do something for her? Could I heal
her fractured mind? I closed my eyes and focused…

‘Garibaldis!’

I jumped in my chair, my eyes flew open and I dropped the
old lady’s hand.

Luke was striding across the room holding a packet of
biscuits aloft with all the glory of an Olympic torch bearer. He sank into the
seat next to me and tore them open.

‘Gramps used to call these dead-fly biscuits, because he
said the raisins looked like flies – do you remember, Grannie?’

‘I remember, Luke,’ she said. ‘And he called pink wafer
biscuits pink waffers.’

Luke beamed at his grandmother. ‘That’s
right
,
Grannie.’

We all took a biscuit and munched in companionable silence.
Grannie Cavendish got engrossed in brushing crumbs from her dress, and then she
looked up and said:

‘Ryan! Hello, darling!’

Luke’s shoulders slumped, and I reached over and put a hand
on his knee.

He said gently, ‘I’m Luke. Ryan’s son.’

‘Well, where’s Ryan?’

‘He – he couldn’t come to visit today. He’s busy. At work.’

Grannie’s mouth pulled down into a little-girl pout. ‘Will
he come tomorrow?’

‘Yes. Tomorrow. And he sends his love.’

The old lady transferred her gaze to me. ‘Who are you?’

‘This is my girlfriend, Grannie,’ said Luke. ‘Remember? I
just introduced her to you a little while ago.’

Grannie Cavendish clapped delightedly. ‘A girlfriend!
Wonderful. And such a beautiful girl. Well, don’t be shy, dear. What’s your
name?’

‘Scarlett,’ I croaked.

‘Scarlett! That’s a lovely name. It means red, you know.’

I nodded, bracing myself for the next line. But thankfully,
it never came.

‘There was a Rose Red in the Snow White story, you know. But
not the film. Perhaps she ran off with Humbert the Huntsman…’

*

We stayed with Grannie Cavendish for another hour, and right
before we left she asked ‘the Blue Fairy’ to please put on her
Pinocchio
film, so I did.

‘Thanks for coming today,’ said Luke as we made our way,
hand in hand, out of the main doors of the home. ‘She loves visitors.’

‘She’s a pleasure to visit.’

His hand squeezed mine. ‘Thanks. I know she’s a bit…’

‘You don’t have to apologise for her, Luke,’ I said. ‘She’s
a really, really nice lady.’

I thought that would make him smile, but it didn’t. He looked
upset. We were in the gardens between the home and the car park, and I steered
him to a wooden bench next to a little pond.

‘Sit,’ I ordered.

He did, pulling me down onto his lap. He put his arms around
me and leaned his head on my chest. I kissed the top of his head.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Life,’ he said heavily. ‘The way it works. That you can be
a really, really nice lady who spends her whole life looking after other
people, and end your days all alone, your son gone, your husband gone, stuck
living with strangers and waiting for God. She deserves better than that.’

‘She’s not alone. She has you. And Cara.’

‘And we’re selfish – we try to come on alternate days, but
not always. It’s easy to find an excuse. School for Cara, work for me. Too
busy. Too tired. But the truth is, sometimes it’s too hard coming here and
seeing her like this. She’s not the woman she used to be. Lost in her Disney
films.’

I thought about my time alone with Luke’s grandmother. I’d
felt sad for her, like Luke – sad enough to have tried to heal her damaged
mind. But would it have been right to do so? Would it have been fair on her,
what she’d have wanted? Perhaps not, I thought. She seemed content as she was.

‘Maybe that’s not such a terrible way to be,’ I suggested
gently. ‘Her fairytale life is better than her real one.’

He was silent.

I wished I could take it away, all his guilt and worry. Then
he could just be a regular nineteen-year-old – young, free, fun-loving – rather
than a guy struggling under the weight of his responsibility to his family.

My hand under his chin brought his face out of hiding. I
touched a gentle finger to the silvery scar across the bridge of his nose – a
vestige of the accident that had taken his parents from him.

‘I love you,’ I whispered.

It was the only thing I could say, but it was the right
thing. He kissed me, at first gently and then with mounting passion – until a
scraping noise nearby brought us up short. An elderly man was clinging to a walking
frame on the path close by. Very close by.

‘Go on, my son!’ he said to Luke in a wavering voice. ‘Don’t
stop on my account. Gawd, if I were seventy years younger, I’d –’

We made a fast retreat, and managed to hold in the laughter
until we were in Luke’s van. Either the kiss or the voyeuristic geriatric (the
former, I hoped) had restored Luke’s good mood, and he sang along with the
radio as he drove us back to the cove. He had a decent singing voice, like his
grandmother, whom we’d left warbling Pinocchio’s ‘I’ve Got No Strings’. There
was something profoundly moving about her cheerful rendering of the line ‘I’m
as happy as can be’. Ignorance could indeed be bliss. I longed for that myself.
But my sister’s diary was waiting for me at home. Spiky inked words fusing into
a mass of strings to entangle me. No escape.

There’s a new guy in town. Daniel.

We were all on the beach last night – campfire and beers
– and he sat down beside me. I thought he was one of Si’s friends. We got
talking. Just this and that, nothing deep. But then Jude appeared (late, as always)
and it got really weird.

Jude said something like, ‘Get away from her. You have no
claim.’

Daniel was all, ‘We’ll see about that.’

I blew. Don’t get me wrong – Jude jealous is mighty fine,
and two boys rowing over me isn’t to be sniffed at. But no one ‘claims’ me. I’m
a person, not a bloody thing to own.

My bawling them out drew attention from Si and the
others. So Jude told Daniel to leave, and he did. Afterwards, Jude wanted to
talk, but I drank enough beer to make that pointless. Still, I didn’t knock
back enough to forget two things:

1. The promise in Daniel’s goodbye – ‘Later’.

2. The way he left the beach, one moment in the shadows
and the next, gone.

~

Jude caught up with me. Told me to steer clear of Daniel.
Said he’s a Cerulean, but not like him. ‘Not… good’ was all I could get out of
him. Like I couldn’t have worked that out for myself – I mean, that guy had
‘bad boy’ written all over him. Scars. Tats. Muscles. Shaved head. Eyes like a
wolf.

Nice.

~

Woke up on the sofa in Si’s summerhouse. I passed out
there, he said, mid-party, so they left me to sleep it off. One too many
mojitos, I told him. But when I was getting my stuff together I found my mojito
mixer where I’d hidden it, in a nook behind the sofa, and it was almost full.

When Jude came over later, I was grumpy as hell. Told him
I have a hangover. Not too far from the truth – I have the headache of the
century.

~

I keep thinking about an incident when I was a kid.
Throwing a ball at Scarlett, hard, and blood gushing from her nose. Her howling.
Stroking my finger down her nose, over and over, and her calming right down and
saying, ‘Doesn’t hurt so bad now, Enna.’

After the surf today, once we were alone on the beach, I
asked Jude whether I’d always had the power to heal. He said yes, a little. But
that it’s in adulthood that the light is brightest. Which is why it’s killing
me now.

What?

Yeah, my thought exactly. He tried to explain, but I
didn’t understand it all. Something about the incompatibility of humans and
Ceruleans. He said healing’s draining for a Cerulean. Whatever the light is, it
replenishes for him, a full Cerulean, after a little time. But for me, Ms
Becoming, not so much. Bottom line: use the light, die sooner.

‘What do you care?’ I asked him. ‘You’re here for me,
right, to take me, so isn’t sooner better for you?’

‘I want it to be on your terms,’ he said. ‘When you’re
ready.’

Decent of him. Still, the ‘no healing until you’ve
Become’ rule sucks. Scuppers my grand plan to go up to the hospital and do a
Florence Nightingale, healing the hell out of little old ladies and hunky
blokes with broken legs.

~

Daniel turned up at the cottage. Uninvited. Maybe I
should’ve slammed the door in his face, but I didn’t. I invited him in.