The Memory Key (4 page)

When we get home, I say a bleary good night to my father and stumble upstairs to bed. I'm almost asleep when I realize I'm making a rumpled mess of the peach silk. I force myself up, remove the dress, hang it in the closet, and put on my pajamas. Then I go downstairs for a drink of water.

The kitchen light is on. I blink, trying to adjust my eyes to the brightness. My mother is sitting at the counter, one arm across her chest, the other arm folded up so her fingers can gently tap against her cheek. She looks worried. Before I can go to her, there is a knock on the back door. She gets up to answer it. I step backward into the shadowy hall. The door opens. Two strangers stand on the step, a man and a woman, their faces half in shadow.

You have to come with us
, says the man.

I know
. My mother's voice is soft but steady.

Let's go then
, says the woman. A blue-sleeved arm reaches out and takes hold of my mother's elbow. They pull her outside.

I leap forward and wrench open the back door. “Mom!” I shout, peering into the blackness of the backyard. “Mom!”

There's no one there. Of course there's no one there. My mother, those two strangers, they were only a memory. I close the door. Lock it. Pour myself a glass of water. Drink most of it
down. Turn off the light. Go back to bed.

But I don't sleep. Because I can't sleep. Though my body feels almost feverish with exhaustion, my mind is restless. I go over it a hundred times, trying to make sense of what I saw that night. I go over it a hundred times, and it still makes no sense.

All I know is that I was wrong before, when I thought the last time I saw her was when she kissed me good night and gave me the peach dress. This was the last time, truly: in the middle of the night, I stood in the hallway and watched as my mother was taken from our home by two strangers.

THE PHONE IS RINGING. I ANSWER, BUT NOBODY IS THERE. THE
phone is still ringing. I answer again, and still, nobody is there. Hello, hello? The phone is still ringing. I sit up, abruptly awake, twisted up in the bedsheets. The real phone is really ringing.

“Hello?” I cough.

“Are you still sleeping? It's noon!” says Wendy.

“I had a bad night,” I say.

“A bad night? Why? Are you okay?”

“It's nothing. I'm fine now.”

“Tim and I are going to the lake. Come with us?”

“Well . . .” I tell her I can't because I have to clean my room and help my father organize the attic and something or other. My excuses are lame, and I can tell Wendy thinks so too. I'm not sure why I don't tell the truth, why I don't tell her what I've remembered and that I can't go to the lake until I figure out what it means. Maybe I'm afraid she'll say I must have imagined it or that I better get to the doctor. Maybe I'm afraid she will sigh in her sincerely sympathetic way and inform me, as
she's done before, that I'm still traumatized by the loss of my mother.

“Have fun! I'll call you later,” I say, and hang up the phone.

My head hurts. I take a pain pill, and one more. Then I get into the shower and wash my hair, careful around the tender place at the back of my skull, rinse off, towel off, and return to my room. In my closet, the peach dress flutters on its hanger. I touch the soft fabric. It glides through my fingers like a promise.

The phone rings again. I don't answer; I don't want to make any more fake excuses to Wendy. But when the machine comes on, it's not her. I stand silently as I listen, as though the caller might hear if I make any sound whatsoever.

“This message is for Lora Mint. My name is Debra and I'm calling from Keep Corp to let you know our systems have registered a problem with your memory key. Please call us back immediately at CALL-KEEP, extension twenty-two. Thank you and have a nice day.”

Debra has a shrilly trilling voice. I imagine her as a little girl with big eyes—the girl from that Keep Corp commercial—wagging a disapproving finger, her pointy teeth bared. The line clicks off. I exhale.

I'm surprised: I didn't know Keep Corp was able to track each individual memory key in this way. I'm unnerved: it's sort of disturbing that Keep Corp is able to track each individual memory key in this way. So the secret I thought was mine alone is actually a secret I'm sharing with a huge corporation.

Nonetheless, I can't let them repair my key. Not yet. I delete the message.

Then I go to the library because there are certain facts I need to check. I go because it's too hot to stay home, because I'm too antsy to stay home, because at home I feel the memories leaning close, breathing into my ear. I get on my bicycle and go. It's downhill all the way downtown; still I arrive sweaty.

Cynthia waves to me from behind the reference desk. She's my favorite librarian, the cheerful librarian, with an elaborate hairdo of ringlets and curls that's a different color every year. Last year was orange. This year it's red. Red is a real improvement.

“Lora! Is it summer already?” she says in an exclamatory whisper. As a professional, she can express even the loudest emotions quietly.

“Doesn't it feel like summer?” I say.

“I can't tell with all this air-conditioning.” She shudders dramatically.

I ask about her family. Cynthia has a grown-up daughter who now lives on the east coast, a husband who loves bowling, and a little dog named Gouda. She talks more about Gouda than she talks about her grown-up daughter and bowling husband—combined.

“Everyone's fine. My daughter moved home a few months ago.”

“That's great,” I say.

“Yes,” she says, but her smile sags. “Actually, Kira got laid
off and couldn't find a new job out there, so she came back to Middleton. She's already had several interviews, and another scheduled for this week, so I'm sure something will work out.”

“I'm sure.” I nod enthusiastically, so enthusiastically my head starts throbbing and I have to stop mid-nod. “How's Gouda?” I ask.

“She's such a smart dog. The other day, I was looking everywhere for one of my sandals. Under the couch. Under the table. Then Gouda comes and drops something at my feet. And you know what it was?” Cynthia beams with pride.

“Your sandal?”

“It was my sandal! A little chewed up, but nothing noticeable once I had it back on my foot. My Gouda is a treasure.”

“She sure is,” I say.

“You come back to work next week, right? I can't wait. No one can organize the periodicals like you can,” she says. This is a big compliment around here. I blush as I thank her.

At the back of the library, the computers are arranged in three rows, and it's not too crowded, but I go to the farthest end for extra privacy. There's no one next to me, but two seats down a boy looks over as I settle into my chair. Then he keeps looking. I stare at my screen.

“Hey,” he says.

I stare at my screen.

“It's Lora, right?”

I turn reluctantly around. I do know him. But how do I know him?

“I'm Raul. We met yesterday?”

“Ms. Pearl's assistant.” I blink and remember: Ms. Pearl is in a floral smock. Her face is pale. Her skin creased. Raul comes and takes Ms. Pearl's arm. He wears a blue jacket and black pants.

It's strange how my broken key works; the connection to the past is not always immediate, but once I have the memory in my mind, I'm right there. Here. Raul's arm is firm around my back as he lifts me from the ground. My head throbs. He smells of mint and musk.

“You're not wearing your jacket,” I tell library Raul, who is in a red T-shirt faded pink. And I'm immediately embarrassed. Of course he's not wearing his jacket; it's a zillion degrees out. Then again, it was a zillion degrees yesterday too.

“That's my uniform.” He explains that he works at the facility where Ms. Pearl lives.

“She lives in a nursing home now?” I don't know why I'm surprised. She
is
very old.

“Not a nursing home. A retirement home,” he says.

“Right, a retirement home.” Still, I'm surprised and kind of upset. Ms. Pearl seemed invincible when she was our teacher. “Why does she have to live there?”

“Her memory is failing.”

“Does she have Vergets disease? What about her memory key?”

“She doesn't have Vergets, but she doesn't have a key, either,” says Raul. “It's just ordinary old age.”

“She doesn't have a key?” I'm surprised again. Everyone has a memory key.

“You know how some people are weird about medical technology,” he says. “Like those religious groups who say it's unnatural, that it's affecting our humanity or whatever. Turning us into machines.”

“Is that what
you
think?” I don't bother keeping the skepticism from my voice. I know it's illogical, but it feels as if he's insulting my mother. At the time of her death she was one of the most senior scientists in the memory key division of Keep Corp.

“No, not at all,” he says quickly.

“And Ms. Pearl isn't religious, is she?”

“I don't think so.”

“Then why doesn't she have a key?” I frown. My mother was committed to her work. Every year, she would drag my dad to the big fund-raising dinner even though he hated those fancy events. But she insisted they support the cause: the dinner raised money to make memory key technology accessible to all in need. Mom said that in the past, not everyone could afford a key, especially if they didn't have health insurance.

Raul smiles apologetically. But I want him to argue with me, not smile at me, not talk in such reasonable tones. He says: “I'm not sure why Ms. Pearl doesn't have one. I should ask her.”

“Do you have a memory key?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says.

“Okay.” I know I've no reason to be mad at him, not even
on my mom's behalf.

“Okay,” he says, smiling again. He has a nice smile: crinkly eyes, dimpled cheeks. Wendy was right; Raul
is
cute. I realize I'm smiling back. I realize we are smiling at each other.

And as soon as I realize it, I get awkward. I tell Raul I have to get to work, and I turn to my computer, straighten my spine, settle my fingers on the keyboard, fix my eyes on the screen, and try not to think about how hideously awkward I am. Because I really do have to get to work.

I type in my mother's name. There are five million results, many of which refer to other Jeanette Mints. I refine the search by narrowing it to articles published in the past ten years.

The first article is about a Jeanette Mint who is, apparently, a model and musician of international fame (though I've never heard of her); the second article is my mother's obituary. I read it closely, even though there isn't anything here I don't already know, even though it makes me feel sort of sick.

Jeanette Mint, a senior scientist at Keep Corp, was killed in a car accident . . . Her research helped refine the data functionality of the memory key . . . She is survived by her husband, Dr. Kenneth Mint, Professor of Literature at Middleton University; her daughter, Lora; and her sister, Congresswoman Austin Lee . . . In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be sent to the Memory Key Fund.

The next article is about the car accident. I had always avoided learning the details, but now I want to know everything. According to this account, at approximately six thirty on a stormy morning, Jeanette Mint, scientist at Keep Corp, was
on her way to work when she lost control of her car while driving across the bridge at the city's northern border. Her vehicle crashed through the guardrail and went over the side of the bridge. Witnesses notified the authorities, but the search was impeded by the poor visibility. After two hours of searching, Ms. Mint's body was recovered a mile down the river.

There is no mention of the two people who came to our house the night before, no indication of anything unusual about her daily routine, no question that the accident was more than just a horribly tragic accident caused by bad weather.

I read the article again. Then again. Then again and again, until I am gagging on the words. Until I'm just gagging. I clap my hand over my mouth. I'm hunched in my chair, staring at the gleaming box. The casket is closed, so I can't see her there myself, so I can't believe it, so I don't believe it. It is only when I see my father's expression, his whole face drawn down with grief, his red eyes spilling tears, that I begin to understand it's true. I have never before seen my father cry, and seeing it now makes me cry.

“Are you all right?” asks a voice from somewhere close. There is the pressure of a hand on my shoulder. The sensation brings me back to the present, where I find myself at the library, in front of a computer, with Raul next to me.

“I'm fine.” I rub my eyes. My head is throbbing.

“You sure?” His forehead wrinkles in concern.

“I'm sure.”

His warm palm slides down my cold arm and I shiver.
“Goose bumps,” he says. “Let's go outside and get some fresh air. I could use some fresh air, how about you?”

We sit on the steps in front of the library with cans of soda from the vending machine, and Raul tells me about his research project. In the fall, he's starting the marine biology program at Middleton University, where one of the professors will be taking a few students on a trip to the Green Islands next year. Raul is working on a paper about the cetaceans of the region, in hopes of being selected for the trip.

“Cetaceans?” I ask.

“Marine mammals. Like whales and porpoises.”

“And dolphins?”

“Yes, dolphins.” He smiles.

I tell him I'm also going to Middleton University in the fall. “But I don't know what I want to study yet,” I say.

“That's normal.” Raul smiles again. Or maybe he's still smiling. Either way, he really does have an excellent smile, the kind of smile that forces you to smile back. I smile back. It's nice to be sitting out here with him, chatting in the sunshine, drinking our fizzy drinks.

“Do you like working at the nursing home?” I ask him.

“It's a
retirement
home—sorry—it's just that if I don't correct you, I'll start calling it a nursing home, and they really hate that.” He says he does like working there, though it sometimes gets depressing. He asks what I'm doing this summer and I tell him about my job at the library.

“Well, good. I'm here all the time,” he says, and explains he can't get much work done at home with his two little brothers around. “And they're always around.”

“How old—” I say, but then I'm interrupted by someone shouting my name.

“Lora? Lora!” Wendy is standing on the sidewalk. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn't go to the lake?” I say.

“Tim had to work. His boss called just as we were leaving.”

“That's too bad,” says Raul.

“You remember Raul, right? From yesterday?” I say to her.

“Of course I remember.” She comes to sit with us on the steps, careful because she is wearing a short dress. She pulls the lacy fabric down to cover her knees, then extends her long, long legs.

“Which lake were you going to?” Raul asks, and they talk awhile about the various local lakes. His interest in marine biology apparently extends to aquatic recreation. Wendy tells him she's working on a series of lake paintings. He tells her about his research trip hopes. He smiles his nice smile at her. She smiles back. I sip my soda. I fiddle with the tab on the can until it breaks off.

Wendy tells her windsurfing story while Raul laughs in all the right places. I'm used to the way she takes over conversations, and I don't mind it, not usually. But as she goes on and on and on, I start getting restless. I think about the car accident in which my mother died. Then I try not to think about it.