Forgotten Read Online Free PDF Page A

over my body. And it wasn’t the middle of the night. Stop being dramatic.” I want to sound angry, but I can’t manage it.
    I don’t feel angry. I just feel sad and beaten down.
    Besides, how can I be mad at her when she’s right? I mean, as far as she can tell, it seems like Cam took me to some isolated woods in Maine and did terrible things to me.
    She’s not acting crazy. She’s acting like a mother. And the worst part of all, the worst part of this whole screwed up situation, is that I can’t even tell her the things I do remember -- the stuff that’s been going on with Raine, the crazy things I’ve been seeing and doing. If she knew exactly what had happened, she would realize Cam’s not a bad guy, that he would never hurt me, that all he wants to do is protect me.
    “You’re not going to see him,” she says. “And that’s that.”
    “What if I get my memory back?”
    “This isn’t up for discussion.” Her hands tighten on the steering wheel.
    “I’m not asking to discuss it,” I say. “I’m just asking what happens if I get my memory back.”
    “If that happens then we’ll talk about it.” Her tone sounds a little dismissive, like she’s already decided that even if my memory comes back, there’s no way I’m going to be allowed to see Cam again. And that does make me angry.
    “You can’t stop me from seeing him, you know.” This time, my tone is bratty.
    A little bit singsong, like I’m almost daring her to tell me that she can. Which, of course, she does.
    “As long as you’re under eighteen, I can.”
    “I’ll sneak out.” It’s a ridiculous stupid, thing to say. But I say it anyway, and in that moment, it feels good.
    “I’ll come after you.”
    I snort, then look back out the window. “In whose car?” I ask. “Yours is gone.
    Although I guess you could always call the police on me, the way you did with Cam.” I can’t remember the last time I talked to my mom like this. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever talked to my mom like this. But if she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it.
    “If that’s what it takes,” she says quietly, “then that’s what I’ll do.”
    I feel my eyes start to fill with tears. A range of emotions flow through my body, all within seconds. Anger, sadness, frustration. And then, before I can stop them, my tears spill over and I start to cry.
    “Natalia,” my mom says. “Honey, please, what’s wrong?”
    But I’m crying too hard to answer. She guides the car off the road at the next rest stop, pulling into a parking space behind a rusty red truck. I keep crying, my shoulders shaking, and my mom releases her seatbelt and pulls me toward her.
    I rest my head on her shoulder, tears sliding down my face.
    “It’s okay,” she says, stroking my hair. “Natalia, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay.”
    She repeats the words over and over, and I let myself, just for a second, believe they’re true. I pretend she can take care of it, the way she used to take care of me when I fell off my bike and scraped my knee, or when I had a bad dream in the middle of the night.
    After a while, my crying gets softer and less intense, and I sit up, wiping at my eyes with my sleeve. My mom reaches over and pulls a napkin out of the glove compartment and hands it to me. I blow my nose and dry my eyes. The napkin is scratchy against my face, but when I’m done, I keep it in my hand just in case I start to cry again.
    My mom doesn’t say anything for a minute, and I take deep breaths, my heart rate gradually slowing, my anxiety ebbing away little by little.
    “Feel better?” she asks.
    “A little,” I admit.
    “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Her voice is soft, and I turn to look at her. I can see the concern and worry in her eyes, and I feel bad for the way I was treating her earlier. I wish I could tell her. I wish I could tell her everything. She’s my mom.
    She’s supposed to know what to do. I might not be a kid,