A Need So Beautiful by Suzanne Young
“But Mommy doesn’t want to—”
“Now,” I say roughly, pushing open the door. The entire room is on a tilt, slowly tipping from one side to the next. The images are fuzzy. The little girl a blur in front of me. An eerie calm comes over me, but just below the surface, I’m scared. Scared that Monroe was right and I might slip away and dissolve right here.
Olivia doesn’t say anything as she leads me into her apartment. The cracked plaster walls are bare. The smell is rancid, like rotting food. I glance toward the kitchen and see a sink of overflowing dishes before my vision starts to fade into darkness. I gasp. This has never happened before, not like this. I’m blind.
From somewhere in the apartment, I can hear moaning. The little girl is holding my hand, and I squeeze it, completely dependent on her for direction.
“She’s on the floor over there,” Olivia whispers and lets go of me. Just then, a weak yellow light surrounding a figure comes into focus. It’s her. My Need.
I stumble toward her, wondering if now all of my Needs will involve glowing light. I hope that my vision will come back after I do what I’m here for. But what if it doesn’t? I swallow hard and push the thought away. My body pulls me toward the edge of the room.
“Are . . . are you okay?” I ask the person lying on the apartment floor, when suddenly my mind is filled with images. Her name is Callie. I first see her as a young girl, her golden blond hair in pigtails. But the man touching her is much older, and it’s as if I am her. I’m being molested.
I cringe, whimpering at the images when the next one flashes by and I’m in high school, injecting heroin into my arm and sighing as I lean back into a dirty couch. There are users and dealers all around me, groping me. But I don’t care. Just as long as I’m not home.
It’s a few years later and my belly is round, but I’m happy. I’ve never been so happy. And then the images change. I can see Callie again, her hair brushed and clean, as she walks hand in hand with a little girl—Olivia. They’re smiling and laughing. I tilt my head, wondering what could have happened since then to make Callie an addict again.
Then I see him, the man who touched Callie when she was younger. He’s older now, bushy mustache, pale blue sweater. He’s standing with a woman who looks like Callie . . . her mother. I suck in a gasp of air. Her stepfather abused her. But her mother doesn’t know. She never told her.
Olivia, close to the age she is now, comes running through the picture to get picked up by the man. He and her grandmother laugh and dote on her. She looks happy. But . . . where’s Callie? Why would she let her daughter go with the man who—
My vision changes and I see Callie on her couch in this apartment just last week, wearing only a dirty tank top and underwear. She’s reading a paper, a court order. She’s lost custody. To them.
The images speed up, a montage of a week of drug-binging on heroin. Callie is afraid to tell her mother about her step-father, afraid it was her fault, afraid no one will believe her. And now . . . now her daughter might suffer the same thing. But she’s denied it for so long, she’s not even sure if it really happened anymore.
But it did. It definitely did. I stifle a cry because I still feel like it happened to me. I feel violated.
I shudder and then the images stop. Instead my vision returns and Callie’s in front of me on the floor, her light flickering. She’s overdosed on her latest batch of heroin. I want to save her—take away the pain. I kneel down, and reach out to brush back her filthy hair; it’s dry and stiff. When I touch the crook of her arm where the needle went in, she gasps and opens her eyes. They go out of focus, staring past me.
I lean close and whisper. “Callie.” My voice is calm. Comforting. “It wasn’t your fault. What he did wasn’t your fault. But you need to get well. You need to protect your daughter.”
“Olivia,” she murmurs.
“Yes.” I squeeze her arm and the drugs run from her vein. Something is causing it, something beyond me. “You need help,” I say. “And you need to tell the police. You need to tell your mother.”
She starts to cry, shaking her head. “I can’t. She’ll hate me.”
I know what I have to say, and it hurts. The thought fills me, compelling me to talk. “She already does.” And it’s unbelievable the lies that her mother has told herself over the years. How she’s always resented Callie for demanding attention, for being on drugs. How even if she was told, her mother would still hate her, call her a liar. Stand by her husband.
My eyes well up as I imagine Callie’s pain, her heart aching for freedom. Olivia is the only thing in her life she’s ever cared about. Olivia is her only piece of love, and she might lose her forever.
“Callie,” I say again, feeling my skin heat up, feeling it burn into hers. “You have to do this. You have to save Olivia.”
Her body jerks away, whether from the burning or from my words, I’m not sure. But in a swaying, barely conscious movement, she holds the wall and tries to sit. She’s sobering up. “Baby?” she calls out.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Olivia streak across the room to her mother, falling into her arms. But the Need doesn’t go away. I feel that even if Callie fights, she’ll lose. She’ll lose her daughter no matter what.
But the Need’s message is changing, coiling up and vibrating through me. When I know what the Need wants me to say, I try to refuse. It’s not right. There has to be justice. I feel like I was the one abused and I want that bastard to pay, to spend his life in prison. But I have to tell Callie to do something different, something illegal. I grit my teeth, holding the message in, but it’s like my stomach is twisting around itself, squeezing me until I groan.
“Run.” The more I try to resist talking, the more constricted I feel. I double over in pain. “You need to run,” I say finally.
There’s immediate relief, but I’m still weak. I can’t believe what I’ve told her to do. I can’t believe that it’s right.
Callie manages to stand up, Olivia in her arms. She leans against the wall briefly before rushing over to the bedrooms. She’s packing. The Need fades until it’s gone.
What have I done?
I try to move, but I’m too weak, too sore. I have to crawl toward the door. I just want my bed. I’m nearly there, when I hear the pattering of feet. I look over my shoulder at Olivia. She’s wearing sneakers and a coat; no longer in her pajamas. Her hair’s been brushed and pulled into a ponytail. I try to summon a vision of their future, but can’t see where they’re running to. My connection to them is gone.
“Thank you,” she says with a little smile. “My mom’s taking me on a vacation.”
I nod, conflicted. Everything in society tells me this is wrong, but I think I’m beginning to see something. That legal justice isn’t always possible. It’s a dismal thought and I swallow it down, trying to stand.
Olivia helps me, holding my elbow. I smile at her, run my hand over her hair. She’ll be safe. In the end, isn’t that all that matters? Aren’t she and Callie saved?
I limp out the front door, using the green wall to support me as I walk down the hallway. Olivia waves to me as I slowly back away. I smile, knowing how completely the Need has changed the course of her life, and how I was a part of it. But what does that make me? An angel? Or something else entirely . . . ?
The apartment door opens wider and Callie is there, holding a small suitcase, a backpack over her shoulder. “Let’s go,” she says. She looks clean. Sober.
She glances at me. Her eyebrows knit together in concern. “You okay?” she asks cautiously, as if she’s seeing me for the first time. I nod, and she puts her hand protectively on Olivia’s shoulder.
She watches me another second, like maybe I remind her of someone, and then she closes her door but doesn’t bother locking it. She won’t be coming back.
“Come on,” she whispers to Olivia and takes her daughter’s hand. As they rush past me the little girl calls out, “Bye!” Her mother pulls her closer.
“Don
It’s then that it occurs to me and I can’t believe I’ve never thought of it before. Whenever I help people, they don’t seem to remember me. I used to think they were in shock, or they didn’t want to admit what they’d been through. But thinking about the Needs, dating all the way back to Max Rothsburg, they didn’t remember me. They forgot me.
My stomach drops. I am a Forgotten.
Chapter 9
I go back into my apartment, ignoring Alex’s questions, and crash in my bed. I’m starving but too drained to do anything about it. Sarah will have to wait. I can’t leave; I’m too weak. I drift off, dreaming of Callie, Francisco . . . all the faces I’ve seen over the years. And then I see a bridge with a woman sitting casually on a railing. It’s the woman in black, and around us the world is quiet. Dead.
“Hello, Charlotte,” she says, picking at the fingers of her leather gloves. “Any of this look familiar to you?”
Standing on the pavement, I feel nauseated. The next moment she discreetly waves her hand and the pain is gone. I’m fine. She looks back at me like she’s waiting for an answer.
“This . . . this is the Rose City Bridge,” I murmur. My voice sounds raspy, like I’m asleep. It occurs to me that maybe I still am.
“Very good.” She watches me for a long moment and I want to ask her so many questions, but I can’t seem to form the words. Everything feels so slow. I can barely move.
“Who are you?” I finally ask. She seems impressed.
“Onika.” She holds out her glove but I’m moving slowly and she pulls away before I can shake it. “You know,” she begins with a smile. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Charlotte. Been following Monroe for . . .” She pauses to think. “At least nine years. Where’ve you been, love?”
“Here. I’ve always been in Portland.” I feel the first drop of water hit my cheek and I look up to see storm clouds gathering above us.
Onika tilts her head, her blond hair cascading over her shoulder. She’s beautiful. “I couldn’t find you,” she sings. “It’s been quite a Forgotten dry spell around here. They must have been hiding you.”
“Who was hiding me?”
“The powers that be, I guess. But they can’t help you.” She hops down from the railing and the nausea returns, but this time Onika does nothing to stop it. “I can.”
“You can help me?”
There’s a crackle of thunder that shakes the bridge. Above us, the clouds part slightly to let down the sunlight. It lands on me and I can’t believe how warm it is. How inviting.
Onika smirks and turns away to walk across the bridge, her boots echoing on the pavement. “Damned sunshine,” she says without looking back. “Seems it’s time for you to wake up.” She snaps her fingers.
I jolt awake, feeling like I’ve just been dropped into my bed. I’m completely disoriented as I try to work through my dream. But it’s fading fast. Was that real? Is Onika real? The handle of my bedroom door starts to turn and I’m frozen in place. Is she here?
Sarah’s head pops in the door and she raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me.
“Wow,” she says, before pushing the door all the way open. I feel like I haven’t seen her in days, weeks. “You look like hell,” she adds.
“Thanks.” My heart rate slows and I try to sit up, the last bits of my dream nearly gone. I touch the stitches in my head. They’re still there. And they still really hurt.
“I waited at Frankie’s forever,” Sarah starts. “Thanks and all. Then I decided that if you were too screwed up to meet me, you must be really bad off. So I had my driver bring me here. Mom took the Beamer today. Oh,” she says, reaching her arm out, clutching a white paper bag, “I brought you a burger. But it’s probably cold by—”
I jump forward and grab it from her hands, tearing into the bag. I’m ravenous. I take out the sandwich and push it into my mouth without saying anything. It’s delicious. When I look up, Sarah’s staring at me like I’m an animal at the zoo. “What?” I say with a full mouth.
“Uh, nothing, tiger. You’re sure tearing into that meat.”
I look down and see ketchup running down my hand, bits of bun and lettuce lying in my lap, on my comforter. “Oh.” I demurely (if it’s possible at this stage) reach into the bag and take out a napkin, dabbing at the corners of my mouth.
“Much better,” she says sarcastically before pulling a chair from my desk and taking a seat next to me. “So are you really okay?” And for the first time, I see that she’s worried. Complete, freaking-out worried.
I nod. “I’ll be fine.” But my words are hollow. I don’t know if I’m okay, but I do know that I need to talk to Monroe again. He has to tell me what he’s holding back. I have to believe that there’s a way to keep me from disappearing into light. “What time is it?” I ask.
Sarah glances down at her delicate silver watch. “Almost three.”
I nod and try to get up. “I have to go by the clinic and talk with Monroe. I think he’s there now.”
“You’re well enough to see him, but not me?”
“He’s my doctor.”
She sighs. “And I’m your best friend. Totally uncool.”
“I have some things I have to do—”
“And I need a friend right now!” Suddenly her eyes begin to well up and I know that I’ve missed something big. Something about last night.
I reach out to grab her sleeve, pulling her over to sit with me on the bed. “What happened?”
She rolls her eyes, as if she doesn’t want to tell me now. “You should have foreseen it,” she murmurs. But I’ve told her before, I’m not psychic. My problems are so much bigger than having a few visions. So much worse.
I wait only a second before Sarah starts talking. “I saw Seth last night.”
“That’s good. I thought that was the whole upside of going to the dinner.”
She pauses, and meets my eyes. “It was. And he was happy to see me. Very happy.” She looks away and I’m confused, but I decide not push it. To let her tell me in her own way.
“Okay.”
“Things started off great,” she says. “He told me I looked beautiful and asked if I’d go outside on the patio. And since the dinner was dull as hell, I said yes. The weather was so nice, we started walking the grounds. I followed him over to the side of the hotel.” Her mouth pulls into a sad smile. “He asked if he could kiss me.”
Normally, this would be a totally squealy moment, but by the way Sarah’s talking, I know it’s not. I know she’s ashamed. And my stomach turns with anxiety.
“I’m not a good girl by any stretch of the imagination,” she says. “So I said yes, pushed him up against the wall, and we started going at it.” She looks at me. “He’s a terrible kisser, by the way.”
“I could’ve guessed that. He’s a mouth breather.” Maybe not really, but she’s my friend and I’ve got her back.
“Anyways . . .” She sighs. “In another ‘what the hell was I thinking’ moment, he asked me to do more. I did. And after we returned to the dinner, I didn’t feel too offended when we separated to opposite sides of the room. I figured he had his obligations. I had mine. But then”—she stops to hold up her finger—“as he’s leaving, he comes over to me, leans in close, and whispers, ‘That was great. Thanks.’”
The joking is gone. All that’s left is humiliation and I feel it for her. It’s not the same knowing that I get with the Need. This knowledge is from being someone’s best friend. From knowing their every insecurity. I wish the Need would have stopped her from going to that dinner last night.
“So today,” she says with a sad smile, “well, today is all about Sarah Sterns, the BJ queen. I should really have business cards made.”
I drop my eyes, ready to cry. At St. Vincent’s your reputation is all you have, both to the other students and the nuns. There’s a chance that Sarah’s mother (or God forbid
“I’ll have Harlin kick his ass,” I say quickly, looking at her. “I’m not sure if he would, but I’m willing to ask.”
She smiles. “No. Besides, Harlin doesn’t really strike fear into the hearts of men, if you know what I mean. He’s more of a lover than a fighter.”
I smile. “True.”
Sarah exhales, tugging on the ends of her hair. “I wish your powers worked for me and not dead strangers.”
“You make me sound like a superhero.”
“Maybe you are. And your secret identity is Charlotte Cassidy—fashion victim. You’re like a hot Peter Parker.”
I laugh, but inside I’m miserable. I want the Need to work for her. For my family. Monroe called this a blessing, but it feels more like a curse.
Sarah wraps her arms around herself and stands up. “The worst part is,” she says, “I thought he liked me. I thought today he’d sit next to me at lunch, carry my books—all that clichéd crap.” Her tears brim over just as I jump up to give her a hug.
“I’m going to knee his balls so hard when I see him,” I murmur into her shoulder.
Sarah straightens and wipes at the mascara under her eyes. “I’m fine,” she says. “That won’t be necessary.”
“No. It really is. He can’t do that to—” A sly smile stretches across Sarah’s lips and I feel my anxiety release a little. “What did you do?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She holds up her hands innocently. “I mean, I may have mentioned to a few people that his you-know-what”—she pinches her fingers together—“was so small, it didn’t really count.”
I burst out laughing, totally proud and ashamed of her all at once. “Did you really?”
“He deserved it,” she says, and brushes her hair over her shoulder. “Now. Are you going to come hang out with me or not? I can’t go back to school today. I figured we could go hang out at my place. Daddy’s in Seattle today.” She grins. “But before we go out in public . . . do you have any hats?”
I touch my stitches softly. “Does it look that bad?”