The Memory Key (5 page)

When there finally comes a pause in their conversation, I say, “I have to go,” simple as that. And I stand up and go, simple as that. Even though I hear Raul telling me to wait, hold on, come back. Even though I hear Wendy asking me what's the hurry, is something wrong? I unlock my bicycle from the rack, get on, and pedal fast.

My father will be home soon. And I want to be there when he arrives.

I WAIT IN THE DEN. I HAD CONSIDERED WAITING IN THE KITCHEN,
but decided I'd first let my dad arrive home, drink a drink, wash his face, and change out of his suit. I'd let him get comfortable. Then, when he comes in to watch the evening news, I will be right here and ready. Such conniving is necessary because he doesn't like talking about her, and I know if he gets a second to reflect, he'll leave out anything he thinks would upset me.

The front door thuds. The locks rattle. A moment later, there is a rush of water flowing from the kitchen sink, then the taps squawk shut. The refrigerator hums and a can pops open. The stairs creak. A minute passes. I shift on the couch. There is a slight ache at the base of my skull. I consider going to my room for the pain pills, but decide not to; he will be coming soon.

Finally, the stairs creak again.

“Hey, Dad,” I say as he comes into the room.

He yelps in surprise. “I didn't know you were home. What
are you doing so quietly in here?” he says as he plunks into his usual chair.

“Can I ask you something?” I lean forward so that I'm looking directly at him. “Did anything strange happen the night before Mom died?”

His expression does not change. This is not unexpected: after years of teaching my father has perfected his poker face so as not to give anything away when his students say the right thing or the wrong thing or the offensive thing. But his posture shifts. I notice only because I'm watching for it. His shoulders, formerly slouched against the cushions, are rigid. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. Did anything strange happen that night?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The night before she died she gave me her peach dress. Isn't that weird?”

“Did she? How interesting. Why do
you
think she gave the dress to you that night?” He is in full professor mode now, nodding thoughtfully, turning my questions for him into his questions for me. Mom always teased him when he employed this strategy with her, but I'm less amused. I just want a straight answer.

“Don't you think that's odd?” I say with a little more force.

“Do you?” he asks.

“Don't
you
?” I ask.

“Perhaps,” he says, and I know he knows something
because he will not meet my gaze. What isn't he telling me? It occurs to me he
must
have known something was wrong; even the absentminded professor can't be that absentminded. For if my mother was out with two strangers, then she wasn't in the bed she shared with him.

“What happened that night?” I ask, and I'm startled to find I'm shouting.

He also seems startled. “Calm down, Lora.”

“I'm calm!” I yell. “Just answer me!”

“I know it's hard. I miss her every day, and I know you do too.”

“Dad . . .”

The telephone rings. My father hurries to the kitchen. I sit still, staring at nothing. I had hoped he would explain away my strange memory, but all he has done is confirm my suspicion that there was something more to what happened that night, more than what he told me, perhaps more than he told anyone. My head is hurting again.

“Lora! Will you please come here!”

I walk slowly down the hall to where my dad is propped against the kitchen counter, the phone receiver tucked between his ear and shoulder. “Is there something wrong with your memory key?” he asks me.

“What?”

“It's Keep Corp calling. Their system has registered a malfunction with your key. Have you noticed a problem?”

“No, it's fine.” I turn so he can't see my face.

“She says it's fine,” he says into the phone.

I get a cup from the cabinet, pour myself some orange juice, and drink it down.

“Lora, they want you to go see a med-tech, just in case.”

“There's nothing wrong. I don't need to go,” I say.

“Ten o'clock tomorrow?” he asks.

“I don't need to go!”

“Yes, ten o'clock tomorrow morning, thank you,” my father says into the phone as he scribbles a note down on the notepad. He hangs up.

“Dad, I told you I'm fine.” My head hurts.

“You'll need the car. I can probably get a ride from Edgar,” he muses to himself.

“I don't need to go.” My head hurts.

“They said you have to go, so you have to go.” He hands me the paper with the appointment information scrawled on it. Reluctantly, I take it. I know he's right. Or rather, he would be right under normal circumstances.

“You take your car. I'll get Wendy to drive me,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure . . . Dad, that night before the accident—”

“I did not notice anything strange,” he says calmly. “Now, I've had a very long day and the news is on. Please let me watch in peace.”

I go to my bedroom and shut the door. My head hurts, and it hurts more as I consider the possible scenarios. Either my father didn't wake up when my mother got up, or he did. Either
he didn't know she left the house with two strangers, or he did. Either he told me the truth, or he lied.

After dinner, I bike over to Wendy's house, and of course it's Tim who answers the door. “Well, if it isn't my favorite Lora,” he says, jolly as ever, but there is a gleam in his eyes that makes me want to look away, even though I know it's just a trick of moonlight and starlight and shadow.

“I'm the only Lora you know,” I say, not looking away because looking away would mean I've learned nothing from the past. This time he'll have to look away first.

But he doesn't. “Wrong,” he says, his gaze steady. “There was a Lora in my Micro-Tech class last semester. She was sort of stuck-up. I like you much better. But now that I think about it, maybe her name was Brittany.” And still he doesn't look away. He grins. He grins and becomes the Tim of three years ago: slightly skinnier, hair shorter, but with that same mischievous grin.

I'm here to meet Wendy so we can study for our math exam, but Tim informs me she went to the store.
She'll be back in a minute
.
Come in, I'll entertain you till then
.

Great!
I say in a bright voice that sounds nothing like my actual voice. I know what I'm feeling is puppy love—silly and unrequited—still I feel it all the same. I haven't told anyone about my crush, not even Wendy. Especially not Wendy.

We sit on the couch. It's only the beginning of the school year, but it's Tim's senior year so I ask what he's doing when he
graduates, and he tells me he wants to study medical technology at the university. Then he asks me about my classes and I describe the project I'm working on: a series of dioramas illustrating the births of selected historical personages.

So I'm not only showing the circumstances into which these people were born, but also the medical practices and religious customs of their times
, I explain.
As a bonus, Wendy thinks it's totally disgusting.

He laughs and I'm thrilled to have made him laugh. And although he is too good-looking and too popular and too much older (two years older) and I have no hope, I hope anyway.

I blink.

“Come on in,” says Tim.

“Thanks.” I've returned to the present where I'm merely chatting with my best friend's brother. So why does my heart feel violent inside my chest?

“Wendy's in her room.” Tim scrubs his hand across his head, messing his messy hair even messier. He is still grinning. I look away and go upstairs.

Wendy is sitting on her bed, sketchbook propped on her knees.

“Perfect,” I say. “Can you do me a favor?”

She glances up from her work. And glares.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“What's wrong? I asked you to come to the lake, and you said you couldn't because you had to help your dad, but then I found you hanging out with Raul, and when I sat down you left. You just left. Maybe I should be asking
you
what's wrong.” Her
lips twist down in sadness, her eyebrows straighten in anger, and the combination is perfectly tragic. This time it works on me because I know she's right.

“I'm sorry. I can explain.”

“All right, then. Explain.”

I take a deep breath. Then I tell her about my damaged memory key and remembering my mother and the two strangers who came to our house in the middle of the night. I tell her about how Keep Corp wants to fix my key. “I'm sorry I was being weird. I'm a little freaked out about this.”

She nods. “It's okay. I'm sorry I was mad at you,” she says. Only Wendy would apologize for being justifiably upset.

“I should have told you. I just couldn't believe it,” I say. It's a relief to have confided in her. It's a relief she doesn't think I'm delusional. It's such a relief that I laugh a little. She laughs, too. Wendy knows; she always knows.

“So how can I help?” She scoots over to make room for me on her bed.

I tell her my dad made an appointment for me to see a med-tech tomorrow morning, and I'm worried I won't remember anything after they fix my key. “I thought maybe I could describe those strangers to you, and you could make a sketch of their faces,” I say.

“Like a police sketch?”

“Exactly,” I say. “And I was also hoping you could give me a ride to Keep Corp, if you're not busy. I'd rather not go by myself.”

“Of course,” says Wendy. “But what if you don't?”

“Don't what?”

“Don't go to your appointment.”

“My dad would be so mad,” I say.

“I'm not saying you never go. I'm just saying you wait a day or two. It's so incredible that you can remember everything! If we were still in school, you'd ace every test with just the slightest bit of studying.” Wendy sighs with dramatic longing.

I giggle. I hadn't even thought about that. Though I doubt it would work since I don't seem to have much control over when or what I remember. But I tell her she's right. “I guess I don't
have
to go tomorrow.”

“Good. But we'll still draw the sketches, right?”

“Right.” I lean against the headboard and close my eyes. But all I find is a hazy image of two people in blue coats. I squint, trying to focus the picture into clarity, but it remains a useless blur. I open my eyes.

Wendy looks expectantly at me.

“It's not working,” I say.

“Try again,” she says calmly.

I try again. And again. And again.

“I can't do it. I can't remember,” I moan.

“What if you start with something you
can
remember?” says Wendy.

I close my eyes again. This time, instead of trying to visualize those two strangers, I imagine myself walking down the hallway, toward the light in the kitchen. I imagine my mother
getting up from her chair to answer the door.

And I'm there, suddenly there, bare feet on cold tile, tugging at my pajama pants twisted uncomfortably up my leg, as the man and woman come into the room. Although their faces are half in shadow, I can make out her high forehead and narrow lips. I can make out his thick eyebrows and the bold curve of his nose.

I describe.

Wendy draws.

I describe.

Wendy draws.

It takes a while to get each portrait right. But then they're exactly right. Wendy is really talented. “They're perfect,” I tell her. “Do you recognize them?”

She shakes her head. We gaze at the penciled faces. Then I sigh, then she sighs, then I sigh again. “Are you okay? You look kind of pale,” she says.

“I'm just tired,” I say. And my head is aching.

Wendy perks up. “I forgot to tell you! I gave Raul your phone number.” She beams. She is so pleased with herself.

“Why'd you do that?”

“He asked for it.”

“He didn't.”

“He did, I swear.” Wendy solemnly places hand over heart. “He said something about how you two were talking about the library and something and he meant to ask you something, and so something. Then he asked me for your number. You know
what that means, right?”

“Yeah, it means nothing.” My head is really aching.

“Lora, he's cute and nice. Don't be grumpy.”

“I'm not being grumpy,” I say. Although she's right: I'm being grumpy. Although she's right: Raul is cute and nice. But I thought Wendy was the one he was interested in. Wendy is the one guys are always interested in.

“Just give him a chance,” she says.

“Can we focus on what's important? How are we going to figure out who these people are?” I tap the spiral binding of her sketchbook.

“Let's photocopy the pictures and post them around town. Maybe someone will recognize them,” says Wendy.

“If someone recognizes them, he'll probably tell them, not us, then they'll come looking for us.” I slouch down in her bed, resting my cheek on the pillow. My head is really aching, aching, aching.

“Then we can ask them what they were doing with your mom.”

“But . . . What if they were involved in the accident?” I say, and I say it tentatively, as if this isn't what I'd been thinking all along, though of course it's what I'd been thinking all along. But to say it aloud makes the possibility feel real, terrifyingly real, in a way it hadn't before.

Wendy is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Should we tell your dad?”

“I tried. He won't talk about it.”

“Should we go to the police?”

“I don't know,” I say. “I'm worried they won't take us seriously.”

“Then we'll wait. We'll wait until we have more information.” She nods with conviction, as though it is certain fact that we will soon have more information.

I nod too, and hope she's right.