Too Much to Forget

By Jax Resto

A stand alone sequel to Too Much to Remember, Too Much to Forget takes a more serious turn than its comedic prequel. Though laced with some of the same humor, the story also journeys into the tragic past of the Kovak family. As young Joe Kovak prepares for his eighteenth birthday, he suffers pangs of a recent breakup, mixed emotions about his best friend's girlfriend Julie, and confusion over the odd jealousy he suddenly feels whenever he sees his friend Loki with her new boyfriend. But Joe's normal teenage angst fades into the background, when he begins having hauntingly vivid dreams about his deceased mother. With the return of a man named Robert LeClerc into his family's life, Joe finds himself wondering why it's taken him thirteen years to ask a crucial question. As his dreams become more frequent, and more vivid, Joe suspects that the reason he's never asked his father how his mom died, is because deep in his memories, he's always known, and has fought hard not to remember. But now, the memories of his mom, of how she lived—and how she died, are too much to forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jax Resto
• Release date: Feb 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311490032

Jax Resto

Originally from the Bronx New York, Jax dreamed of a career in performing. But what began as the cliche childhood fantasy of becoming a movie star, quickly took a detour when she landed a job with Ringling Brothers Circus. She started out as a dancing showgirl, but her lust for the spotlight trumped her fear of heights and soon she was performing 30 feet in the air as half of Aerial act Duo Resto. After an 8-year tour, Jax settled in Florida and started a family. Life as a "grownup" led her back to living out fantasies the way she did as a child and teen--through her writing. But her writing, as well as her passion for performing soon led her back to the stage, and another detour. This time she was drummer in an all-female rock band. Eventually, she realized her writing was not restricted to novels, and hooked up with fellow songwriter and musician, Bud Buckley to form BudaRest. Together they wrote a series of songs which technological wizard Susan Burkhart then embedded into Jax's novel Too Much to Remember, creating the first young adult rock ebook. While co-hosting talk show BudaRest Mashup with Buckley, they decided to air excerpts of the book, using teens for the readings. Then Jax took it a step further, adapting the novel to radio theater, casting students from Venice High School. KDWRradio now hosts the only contemporary "old time radio" dramedy series www.kdwradio.com/category/tmtr.

Book preview

One

Welcome to My World

Her warm green eyes. Her soft voice. They always comfort me. But there’s something different about them now. Something I don’t recognize. It scares me. I should tell her I’m here. But she’s with him. Again. How long have I been in this pantry? Watching. Listening to them in the kitchen. It seems like hours. But this will be the last time she sees him. She told me. And now she’s telling him. And I believe her. I always believe her. He’s leaving now. Hopefully for good. I should go to her. But I’m afraid. Why am I afraid? I don’t know. I close my eyes. Hoping. Wishing. Or maybe just—

A loud pop. The gun.

My eyes shoot open. Heart racing, I sit up in bed, close my eyes, and remind myself where I am. My bedroom. Asleep. Well, not anymore. The sheets feel damp under me. Did I piss myself? No. I’m sweating. Profusely.

Sorry, Joe.

I jump and turn toward the voice in the darkness, focusing on the four foot tall silhouette with light colored hair, and big shoulders. Matt?

Matt: My twenty-two-year old brother. College student. Inhabits the room next to mine. Favorite food – Pop Tarts. He’s four years and one month older than me, and not really four feet tall. I squint at him squatting on the floor in his underwear, the only light in the room coming from the bathroom between Matt’s bedroom and mine.

I rub my eyes. What the hell are you doing?

He gathers a pile of papers off the floor. I was looking for the dictionary. He shoves the papers back inside a binder and straightens to six foot three and change. Sorry. Your binder was on the edge. He sets the binder back on my desk. There’s a purpose for those holes in the pages, you know. Sorry I woke you.

I close my eyes, and grunt. What time is it? I open my eyes to look at the clock on my nightstand, but they close before I can see the time.

Quarter to six.

What the hell?

Sorry. Go back to sleep. I hear him start to leave. Stop. You need a ride to school later?

I think about riding my motorcycle, but a clap of thunder interrupts my plans. Jeez, again? The snow ended early this year in upstate New York. Unfortunately, rain—lots of it—has taken its place. I pull the covers over my head. Wake me in an hour.

I close my eyes, listening to my brother’s bare feet pad through the bathroom, back to his room. Cold, I pull the covers up tighter. Still cold, I sit up, peel off my damp tee shirt, wipe my face, and toss the shirt onto the floor. I lie back down under the covers and try to remember what I’d been dreaming about. I can’t. I’m still cold, and now wide awake. Or maybe, I just don’t want to go back to sleep – just in case I might dream again.

I roll out of bed and grab the jeans draped across the back of my chair. Suddenly hungry, I think about the package of Brown Sugar Pop Tarts I hid in the pantry behind the dog treats. Hopefully Matt didn’t find them.

With my mouth watering for sugar and preservatives, I clomp down the stairs in my bare feet, probably making more noise than I should this early in the morning. But, I’m not worried about waking anyone. Dad’s usually up early, and I’m pretty sure my other brother Kevin isn’t home. He allegedly still lives at home, but we hardly ever see him. Now in his residency, he spends most of his time working at the hospital ER.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, our ninety pound German Shepherd Sam, trots over to me.

I pat his head. Hey, Boy. Where’s Dad?

Sam whines, leading the way toward Dad's den. The door is closed, so I press my ear up against it. I can hear Dad talking. Judging by the time and the one sided conversation, I assume he's talking on the phone. He mentions the name Robert LeClerc, then after a pause, he says, I can’t believe that bastard has the balls to come back here. Another pause, then, All right, keep me posted.

I whisper to the dog. What’s going on, Boy? He looks longingly at the door, wanting in. I dunno, Sam. Do you have clearance? Sam whines and jiggles the doorknob with his nose.

I grin. "Okay. I guess you’re allowed in." I reach for the knob, but before I can turn it, the door swings open. I stare at the police captain standing in front of me in his black trousers, crisp white shirt and blue tie. At six three, with dark hair graying at the temples, and intense gray eyes that can pierce right through you, he doesn’t need his blues to look intimidating.

He clips his cell phone to his belt and asks in his cop voice, What are you doing? His tone is brisk, maybe slightly agitated, though I don’t know if it’s a result of his phone call, or of me eavesdropping at the door.

Um— Suddenly feeling shorter than my 6 feet, I do the most logical thing I can think of. Sam wanted in. Blame it on the dog.

The Captain stares at me with his cop eyes. What are you doing up so early?

I—I don’t know, I say, wondering if I should lawyer up. I couldn’t sleep.

Captain Kovak’s cool gray eyes soften, suddenly warmer. Comforting. You feel all right? He lays his hand against my forehead, his paternal side downright motherly. It’s his way, I suppose of trying to fill the void left by Mom’s death thirteen years ago.

I back away from his hand. Yeah, Dad. I’m okay. I mentally chide myself for not saying something that might get me out of going to school. But, it’s too late now. I shrug instead. I was feeling kinda hungry. You have breakfast yet?

Just coffee.

How about some French toast? It’s my specialty. Or maybe just one of the few things I know how to make.

He grins. Who are you and what have you done with my son?

Funny, Dad. So— My brows shoot up. French toast?

He smiles. How could I say no? He unclips his phone from his belt, and puts his hand on the doorknob. I’ll be there in a few minutes.

I stand there a moment, then realize he’s waiting for me to leave. Oh. Okay. I take a couple of steps toward the kitchen, then turn back toward him, mouth open ready to say something. Not sure what. Doesn't matter. He's already shut the door of his den on both me and Sam. The spurned dog cocks his head at me, as if wondering, why’s Dad being so secretive? It’s not like I’m gonna talk.

Welcome to my world, Sam.

Two

French Toast

When Dad enters the kitchen a few minutes later, I’m dipping the slices of bread into my special French toast batter. Dad looks at Sam lying on the floor, under the breakfast bar, chomping on a bread heel. What’s Sam eating?

I glance at the dog, mentally running down the list of things he’s allowed to eat. Doritos, no. Bread, yes. I think.

Bread heel? I say, my voice rising, as I second-guess myself. Dad continues to stare at the dog. I try to divert his attention away from Sam's diet. Do you want some juice?

Dad looks up. Sure, thanks.

I start toward the refrigerator, then turn to ask if he wants orange or apple juice. Dad leans against the breakfast bar, watching Sam, though I’m pretty sure it’s not the bread heel that’s causing the deeper than usual creases in Dad's brow.

Dad?

He looks up, his eyes distant. I ask if something’s wrong. He shakes his head, his hand by his belt, ready like Wyatt Earp’s at the O.K. Corral. His cell phone rings. Kovak.

I forget about the juice, and head for the stove to work on my French toast. I scoop some I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter from its container, plop it into the skillet, and turn on the burner.

Yes, Dad says into the phone. So what about Le— I look up. He glances at me. Hang on. He taps his leg. Come on, Sam. Let’s go outside.

Sam belches, then jumps up and follows Dad out the side door. I smell the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter burning, and return to my chef duties, plopping more of the pseudo butter into the pan, before adding the four pieces of batter-dipped bread.

I grab a spatula from the drawer, realizing it’s been a while since I made French toast for Dad. Last Father’s Day, probably. I always make him breakfast on Father’s Day. I can’t recall when I learned how to make French toast. I just know I’ve made it every Father’s Day for as long as I can remember. It’s nice to be making breakfast for Dad on just a regular day. I’m glad Matt woke me, though I’m not sure it was really Matt who woke me. Maybe it was my dream. I can’t remember much about it, yet somehow, I feel as if I’ve dreamed it before—many times. A familiar queasiness washes over me. I swallow a gob of saliva, and head for the refrigerator. I’m chugging orange juice out of the carton, when I hear the side door open. Sam trots over to his water dish. Apparently he’s thirsty, too.

Glass, I hear Dad say, and realize he’s not talking on the phone—or to Sam.

I stop chugging, set the juice carton on the counter, and grab two glasses from the cupboard.

Dad starts to clip his phone back to his belt, but it rings again. Kovak.

I pour us some juice, while I watch him. He listens to the voice on the other end of his cell, reacting with a slow blink that nearly masks his signature left eye twitch. He's clearly agitated.

His eyes open wide. Shoulders squared, vein on his temple protruding, it's obvious he's about to yell. What! I don’t give a damn!

Though I recognized the warning signs, his outburst still causes me to slosh juice onto the counter. Juice starts to dribble onto the floor. I quickly reach for the roll of paper towels above the counter.

I tug on the roll—too hard. It turns like a washing machine on spin cycle, unraveling a long trail of paper towel. Not missing a beat, I shove the long sheet back onto the holder, and spin it the other way, until only four sheets hang off the roll. Then in a second swift move, I pull on the bottom sheet of paper towel, flicking my wrist this time, so the roll won’t spin again. It doesn’t. This time, it pops completely out of the holder. I try to catch it – miss – knocking it into the puddle of juice on the floor.

I glance at the clock, vowing never again to get up this early. I glance up at Dad, hoping he missed my performance. He didn’t. He blinks, then walks away, as if the scene is too painful to watch. I assume he’s going outside to continue his phone conversation. Instead, he stops at the broom closet.

I squat down, and sop up the rest of the juice puddle with the roll of paper towels. There are still some dry spots left on the roll, so I stand and start soaking up the small juice puddle on the counter.

What? Were you raised by wolves?

I look up, stung by his sarcasm. I hope he’s still talking on the phone—or to Sam. But he’s standing by the broom closet, shaking his head at me, Swiffer Wet Mop in hand.

I’ll get back to you, he says into the phone, then clips it to his belt, heading for the sink. He sets the mop against the counter, and grabs the sponge next to the faucet, wets it, and squirts a drop of dish washing liquid onto it. Then rather than hand the sponge to me, he nudges me out of the way and starts wiping down the counter himself.

I stand there, watching in silence till he's done. "What was that about?"

On his way back to the sink, he replies, You need to use soap and water on a juice spill, otherwise it’ll stay sticky.

What? No. I meant the phone call.

He stares at me – at the Swiffer – back at me. In other words, Get busy. Though Dad’s pretty anal about neatness, I gather his response is less about cleaning the floor, and more about changing the subject. Though I’m used to the fact that he doesn’t share cop stuff with me, it bothers me more than usual this time. I’m not sure why. Something in his eyes. Like whatever this is, it’s more personal than the usual dead body found in a garbage dumpster.

I try to remember the name I heard him say a few minutes ago in the den. Ladue? Laroche? LeClerc. It doesn’t ring a bell, and I don’t want to ask Dad about it, because then he’ll know I was eavesdropping.

I reach for the Swiffer. So, I thought maybe after graduation, I’d join the marines. They could use a few good men. I’m going for reaction. Reminding Dad that I’ll soon be eighteen. A man.

He rinses the sponge, drains it, and sets it back beside the faucet. "You’re not joining the marines.

You’re going to college."

I start mopping the floor. How about the Police Academy? I could be a cop. I stop mopping. Lean on the handle. I’m not sure if the skeptical look he gives me, means he doesn’t believe I’d make a good cop, or that he detects sarcasm in my voice. I continue mopping in the same spot.

Dad scoops up the juice-soaked roll of paper towels I left on the counter, lets out an exasperated sigh, and dumps it into the garbage can by the breakfast bar. He steps back, and looks down at himself. I hold my breath for a moment, wondering if juice splashed on his clean white shirt. I bite my lip as he turns, revealing a spotless shirt. We both sigh—mine of relief, his probably of exasperation. He blinks slowly—probably hoping that when he opens his eyes, I'll be gone. Glad as I would be to accommodate, I have to mop the floor.

Dad, what’s going on?

Nothing. Just work stuff. He forces a smile. Dismissing me. He glances toward the stove, grabs the spatula from the counter, and heads for my French toast.

I prop the mop against the counter, and go to reclaim my spatula. Back away from the stove. There's nothing to see here. The mop falls to the floor. Dad stares at it – at me. Like I’m the one acting strange.

I got this, I say less territorially.

He nods and backs off. I flip the bread over. It’s barely browned. I add more I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, and turn up the heat.

Dad picks up the mop and starts scrubbing the area I just mopped. Irritated, I sigh and start to tell him I already mopped there. But when he looks up, something in his eyes turns my irritation to concern.

Dad, is everything okay? You seem more stressed than usual.

I’m fine, he says – too quickly to be convincing.

Are you sure, Dad, ‘cause you can tell—

Joe. The cop voice. Or the stern dad voice. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. He carries the mop over to the trashcan, and pulls off the dirty wet cloth. End of discussion. Okay?

Okay. My voice lowers to a mumble. Whatever.

I look up in time to catch his glare. I know he hates the term, 'whatever.' That’s why I said it. My eyes wander down to Sam – or the floor – somewhere. I meander toward the pantry– maybe to get the maple syrup, or something—wondering why I’m up this early. An image from my dream flits through my head. A yellow kitchen. A square ceramic sign above the stove. A man. A woman—

I smell something burning. I turn toward the stove, but Dad is already there yanking the smoldering skillet off the burner—our delicious French toast breakfast, blacker than deep space.

I glance toward the pantry. Pop Tart?

He shakes his head. No, thanks.

I look at the floor, wishing I’d stayed in bed.

Thanks anyway, he says, as if he suddenly feels sorry for me. I should probably get going.

I glance at the clock on the microwave. It's not even six thirty.

When I look up again, he's already at the door. Don't be late for school.

Sure, Dad. Sorry about breakfast. Have a great day.

He turns and smiles, before leaving—or, almost smiles anyway. Whatever's bothering him seems to make a genuine smile impossible.

Three

Alcatraz

An hour and a half later, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Matt’s old blue Cadillac, with his physiology notes in my lap, quizzing him on the nervous system. It was pouring when we left for school a few minutes ago, but now it’s barely drizzling.

Matt turns down the wipers. One more question.

Come on. I’m gonna puke from reading in the car.

We're stopped at a light. He looks at the notes. "Skip to the one about preganglionic neurons and axons.

I start snoring. He slaps my shoulder. I open my eyes. Sorry. You lost me at preganglion.

The light changes. He focuses on the road. Come on. I really need to pass this class.

Pass it? How the hell do you stay awake?

Shut up and read.

Okay. I take a deep breath. Which one of the following is not correct? I read all the choices, my eyes glazing over halfway through choice B.

I know that one, he says. Don’t tell me.

I don't even know what I just read.

He repeats all the choices quietly, mulling them over. I open the window and take another deep breath.

Want a hint?

No. I know it. We’re only a block away from my school. It’s um—

Want a hint?

No.

I start humming the Jeopardy tune.

Shut up, he says.

Want a hint?

No. We pull up to the curb in front of my school.

I grab my backpack, and open the door. Give up?

What were the choices again? I stare at him. "Okay, never mind. Is it B?

I look at the answer – at him – grin. Okay. Which one was B?

Sympathetic preganglionic axons pass along the dorsal root of certain spinal nerves.

Wow. I’m impressed and thoroughly bored. I hand him the study notes. Thanks for the ride. I exit the car and sigh as I look up at my high school. In the drizzling rain, the brown brick is about as cheerful as Alcatraz.

I’ll be done with my classes around four, Matt says. In case you need a ride home.

I’ll be okay. I start to shut the door, then lean back into the car. Hey, Matt? Have you ever heard Dad mention someone named LeClerc?

Matt’s reaction is subtle. If I wasn’t looking right at him – if I’d glanced away for just one second – I might have missed it. The blink. The swallow.

A horn honks behind us. I look up and wave at the approaching school bus.

I gotta go, Matt says.

I shut the car door, backing onto the curb. I sling my backpack over my left shoulder, wondering if I just imagined my brother’s reaction. For sure I didn’t imagine Dad’s.

So, maybe this LeClerc person is a serial killer. Or a cop killer. That might explain the uneasy vibe I was getting off Dad this morning. I can’t explain it, but I’ve always been able to intuit Dad’s feelings better than anyone else in the family. It’s something that sets me apart from my brothers—especially Kevin—who Dad seems to confide in most. I know Dad probably just trusts Kevin with more because he’s the oldest, but it still bothers me sometimes. I take solace in knowing that, though Dad tells him more stuff, I can sense more. At least, I think so. Or maybe, that’s just something I tell myself.

A drop of rain hits me in the eye. I blink. The rain starts to come down harder. Faster. I clutch my backpack up higher on my shoulder, and sprint toward Alcatraz.

Four

Draw!

Time flies when you’re having fun—and apparently also when you’re sleeping through your morning classes. I can’t say I walked away from today’s English, History, and Physics any smarter. Just more rested, maybe. And hungry.

I spend my lunch period in the usual place—the music room with my best friend, Loreen Kibowitz, who prefers her nickname, Loki. She and I have been friends since the seventh grade, though admittedly it’s only during the last few weeks that I’ve been devoting my lunch periods to her exclusively. Keeping a low profile, as far as anyone else is concerned. Okay, the truth is, I’m avoiding my ex-girlfriend Kristy. We broke up about a month ago—for the second time. As if muddling through first love once wasn’t torturous enough. I must enjoy getting my heart ripped out, driven over then backed over again, just in case it's still beating.

Loki and I sit in row five of the music room, feet up, no one to complain we're kicking the backs of their chairs. She unzips a navy blue cooler with an AIG emblem on it. Ham and cheddar, or turkey and Swiss?

Ham? What happened to pastrami and liverwurst?

She taps the silver cross that dangles from around her neck. It’s all part of the teenage rebellion thing.

I grin, though admittedly, I’m disappointed, since I actually like liverwurst. I’ll take the ham.

She hands me a Ziploc baggie with a sandwich cut in triangle halves. Potato chips, or Fritos?

Fritos.

She passes me the corn chips, then holds up two juice boxes. Yoohoo or Juicy Juice?

Yoohoo.

Her bottom lip protrudes, a trademark pout that looks especially funny on Loki, whose naturally plump lips could make the cover of any lip augmentation catalog. I roll my eyes, grabbing the Juicy Juice.

We’re silent for a few seconds, as we bite into our sandwiches. Then, in unison, we set our sandwiches down in our laps, shake our drinks, and eye each other sideways.

I snarl. This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.

You yella bellied, lily livered, no account, mutton punchin’—

Mutton punch—?

Draw! Loki rips the straw off her drink box, half a second ahead of me, but before she can pop her straw out of its plastic wrap, I've got mine drawn. A simultaneous pop. We’re tied. We jab our straws into our drink boxes. I squeeze too hard. Juice squirts out through the straw, costing me half a second. Loki slurps her Yoohoo – the winner of this drink box draw.

It was better when we had to drink the whole thing to win, I say like a sore loser. "Whose idea was it to change the rules?

Yours.

Why? I was winning.

Yeah, but then you complained you didn’t have anything to drink with your sandwich.

Oh, yeah.

She sets her drink in her lap – tears off a bite-sized piece of her turkey sandwich – pops it into her mouth. So, how much longer you grounded for?

Huh? I stare at her a moment, then remember I told her I was grounded. A stupid lie