The Memory Key (17 page)

“Just relax,” that someone says.

But how can I relax with all these voices shouting from memory?

He was struck by this incredible pain, the worst pain in his life.
They had to cut the key out of his brain . . . The body can reject the memory key. It happens very rarely, but it does happen . . . Now he can't remember much of anything because he'd been so reliant on his key.

“Please, you need to relax,” that someone says.

But how can I relax when I'm terrified of what will happen if I do?

“Don't worry, you won't feel a thing,” that someone says. A mask clamps over my nose and mouth. I try not to breathe. I try not to breathe. I have to breathe.

I breathe and realize I'm about to lose everything.

THE WORLD IS WHITE. I RUB MY EYES, CERTAIN I'M MISTAKEN.
I'm not mistaken. Everything is white. There's a white curtain on both my left side and my right, a white wall in front of me, and a thin white sheet covering my body. I look up and the ceiling is white. I turn over to look at the floor. The floor is blue. For some reason, this is comforting.

I realize I'm no longer strapped into place, so I sit up carefully. My head is tender, but not painfully so. I crawl my hand through my hair, searching for the sore spot. My fingers snag on the bandage at the base of my skull.

“Don't touch!” A man emerges from the whiteness, tall in his lab coat, clipboard in hand. “I'm Dr. Trent. It's a good thing you came to us when you did. Your memory key was severely damaged. Have you been getting headaches?”

“Where am I?” I ask.

“Keep Corp's Memory Key Center. Don't you remember?” Dr. Trent is a thin man with salt-and-pepper curls and a narrow face.

“What did you do to my key?” I ask.

“We transferred your data onto a new one. It's the same model as the one you had, so all should be back to normal. If you notice anything out of the ordinary, you'd better let us know right away. The procedure might not be as simple next time.”

“You can't just change my key on me!”

“Shush, you'll disturb the other patients,” he says.

I look around for the other patients, but all I see is white.

“You signed the consent form.” He shows me a sheet of paper.

“I didn't,” I say, but then vaguely recall holding a pen.

“You'll feel better after you eat something,” says the doctor. He drops a package of crackers and a carton of juice on the table beside me. “Now tell me, have you been getting headaches?”

I think. Yes, I do remember getting headaches. I nod.

“Do you remember how often?”

I think. Yes, I do remember how often. “A couple times a day,” I say. And I'm so relieved to remember that I smile at him while he makes a note on his clipboard.

“How long did each headache last, on average?”

“An hour maybe? They'd go away after I took pain pills,” I say. And I'm so relieved to remember I tell him I was scared. I tell him I thought my body had rejected my key, and I was going to lose all of my memories.

“You didn't have to worry. Key rejection is extremely rare,” he says.

“How rare?” I ask, thinking of my mother. Remembering my mother. All I can remember, however, is the sketchiest sketch of a woman in a peach dress. I feel a pang of loss, a sharpness in my stomach.

But she's back. I remind myself that I've got her back. Remember?

I remember. I try to focus on what Dr. Trent is telling me.

“Rejection occurs in fewer than one in a hundred million patients,” he says.

“That
is
extremely rare.” I frown.

“Is something wrong?”

I shake my head. “No. I'm just wondering . . . Why didn't I get the newest kind of memory key?”

“Your insurance wouldn't cover the upgrade. Anyway, it's better to reinstall the key you're accustomed to. You don't want things to get too mixed up in your head.” He eyes me accusingly, as if he knows exactly how mixed up my head has been.

I take a sip of juice. “What features does the new one have?”

“The MK-545, which came out six years ago, has a data backup system and upgraded filters. Other than that, it's more or less the same as yours, the 485.”

“But isn't there a new one coming out soon? What does that one do?”

“Not public yet.” Dr. Trent flips through the pages clipped to his clipboard. “If you'll just answer a few questions we'll
make sure everything is in order,” he says.

“But how did you get the data from my old key onto my new one? Since mine didn't have a backup system?”

“It's a simple procedure. Fortunately, despite the damage, we were able to download the data from your key into our systems, so we could upload it onto a new key,” he says. “Now please, let me ask my questions.”

“Sorry, go ahead.”

“Your name?” Dr. Trent glances at the clipboard. Then he looks abruptly at me.

“Lora Mint,” I say, and at the same time, he says, “
Lora Mint?
”

“If you knew, why'd you have to ask?” I smile.

He does not smile back. Slowly and carefully, as if he's weighing each syllable on his tongue, he says, “You wouldn't happen to be related to Jeanette Mint, would you?”

I consider lying, but I don't think I could get away with it. I nod.

“You're Jeanette's daughter, aren't you?”

I nod again.

“I'm so sorry for your loss. Your mother was a wonderful person and a great scientist. We worked together.” He looks sad, terribly sad.

“Yes.” My eyes are glistening. I am the very image of a girl who has lost her mother. And I'm not even trying.

Dr. Trent shakes his head slightly. Then he clears his throat and asks me a series of questions to make sure my memory
is intact. He inquires about things like my first pet, my third grade teacher's name, a positive experience I had in middle school, my emotions upon graduating high school, and what I ate for lunch today. Finally, he makes a note on his clipboard and says, “Good as new. Do you have any questions for me?”

“If someone has their memory key removed, but later changes their mind, can they get a new key put in?” I ask.

His narrow face puckers. “You want to have your key removed?”

“No, no. Hypothetically.”

“Do you have any questions about
your
memory key?”

“I know this guy who had his key removed years ago because he didn't like having one. But now he's been diagnosed with Vergets. So can he get a new key?”

Dr. Trent scowls. “I have to say, that is extremely irresponsible behavior. And without examining the patient, I can give you no definitive answer. However, if the area is not too damaged, if there is no inflammation or excess scar tissue, it would be possible.”

“That's comforting to know.” I grin, ignoring his scowl.

But the doctor has moved his disapproving expression past me. “Can I help you?” he says, and I turn to see who he's talking to. It's Tim. I stop grinning.

“I'm here for the patient. Not that
Lora's
patient. I mean, she
is
the patient.” Tim laughs at his own stupid pun. I do not.

Neither does Dr. Trent. “You're not allowed back here,” he says.

“It's okay. I work here.” Tim brandishes his badge.

“All right,” the doctor says begrudgingly. Then he looks back to me. “Well, Miss Mint, it was nice to meet you. Let us know if you have any problems with your new key.”

And before I can ask another question, or even just thank him, he's gone.

“How are you doing?” Tim comes to stand beside me.

I glare at him.

“Come on, Lora!” he says. “You were practically passed out at the library. What was I supposed to do? And don't you feel better now? You look better.”

“But it wasn't my memory key. It was just these painkillers I needed to—”

“Will you listen to what you're saying?
Just these painkillers?
Once you're drugging yourself, it's probably time to admit something's wrong.”

“It's not like that,” I say. Then I realize it's exactly like that.

Tim sighs. “Let's go. I'll drive you home.”

We walk through a maze of hallways: white walls, blue floors, and Keep Corp's octagonal logo everywhere. I keep my eyes on the blue floors and say nothing. I am a bit unsteady, but when Tim offers his arm I refuse. He asks if I can manage stairs and I shake my head. As we approach the elevators, the doors open.

“Timmy! I thought you'd left already!” The girl pounces on him. She is cute, wearing a cute striped dress, tossing her cute long hair. They hug.

“I brought my friend to get her key fixed,” he says. “Becky, this is Lora. Lora, Becky. Becky is another one of the interns here.”

I say hello and fake-smile. I do a bad job, but Becky doesn't seem to notice, so involved is she with Tim. It's high school all over again, when I would watch him flirt with girl after girl after girl. My breath catches; I'm afraid I might have summoned the memory.

Then I remember my key has been replaced so I no longer have to worry about the past. The realization feels peculiar, not disappointment, but something akin to disappointment. I relax my shoulders and invite the memory to come. I dare it to come. I insist that it come. But I'm stuck in the present, in this slowly descending elevator with chattering Tim and Becky.

“My friend is having a party tonight,” she says to him.

“Sounds fun,” he says to her.

“I'll call you later,” she says to him.

The elevator chimes, the doors slide open.

“This is us,” Tim tells me.

“Bye!” Becky waves cutely. “Nice meeting you, Lauren!”

I give her a fake smile, faker than the first, and follow Tim down the corridor, into the parking garage, and back to his car.

“Want to go to that party tonight?” He opens the passenger door for me. But then he stands in the way so I can't get in.

I just glare.

“Lora, give me a break. Stop being such a jerk.”

I try to push him aside so I can get into the car. He won't move. So I try to wrestle him out of the way, and somehow my arms get twisted up with his arms, and our bodies smash together, and then we're kissing, kissing so fiercely it's like a battle with desperate stakes, and after a minute, our limbs unknot and rearrange so we're holding each other tight, as tightly as we can, but still struggling to get closer. Mouths open. Tongues tangle. Hot hands on hot skin. We're greedy, we're both so greedy; the more we touch, the more we want to touch.

Then a car drives by and honks. “Get a room!” shouts the driver, and I'm positive Tim is going to pull away, this is where he always pulls away, except he doesn't, not this time. This time he kisses me harder. But . . .

Now I've started thinking. And I have to stop.

Even though to move away from him—to step out of his arms, to separate our lips—takes almost more strength than I have. “I—I can't do this,” I say.

“Why not?” Tim leans over and kisses my neck.

“I can't.” I push him away. I force myself.

“Because of that guy, what's-his-name? Ralph?”

“Raul. And, yeah, because there's Raul.”

I say this even though I had not thought of Raul until this moment. But Raul is a reason that can be easily explained and easily understood. The passenger door is still open so I climb into the car. Tim walks around and slides into the driver's seat.

“You don't
really
like that guy, do you?” he asks.

“I do,” I say, which is true. Raul is so nice.

“Good for you, then.” Tim grins. It is the poorest imitation of his usual grin. Yet this false smile convinces me in a way that his kiss did not.

“But I like you too,” I say, which is also true. I'm tired of pretending otherwise.

“Well, the feeling's mutual.” He reaches then—not for me, but for my seat belt. He pulls it across my chest and buckles me in safe, and it's the sweetness of this gesture, even more than his declaration, that crushes my heart.

“If things were different—” I say.

“Why can't they be different?” he interrupts.

“Like I said, there's Raul, and—”

“Look, I'm sure Ronald is an okay dude, but . . . you need to get rid of him,” he says with his typical self-assurance.

I'm annoyed. Tim is so certain of himself, and of me. So certain I will do anything to be with him. But that's not true, not now. Even with my key fixed, I haven't quite forgotten.

“Maybe I don't want to get rid of him,” I say, sharpening the edge of every word. I wait for his snappy retort, but he doesn't retort; he just turns on the engine and starts driving. Then I wish I could take it back. One small sentence should be easy enough to take back. But I don't. I can't. Even with my key fixed, I haven't quite forgiven.

So I change the subject. “What were you doing at the library?”

“I thought you should know,” he says, staring straight out at the road.

“Know what?”

“Wendy told your dad you still haven't gotten your memory key fixed.”

I HAVE FIVE NEW VOICE MAILS. TWO ARE FROM MY FATHER, AND
both of these are shouted. One is from Jon, asking when I'll arrive. One is from Aunt Austin, saying she'll be returning the day after tomorrow and would like to see me soon. The last is from Raul. He wants to know what I'm doing tonight, if I still want to hang out.

I gaze out the windshield, trying to figure out who I should call, where I should go, but then I flinch when I notice where I already am. And I forget my dad's rage. I forget Jon and my aunt, I forget Raul's niceness and Tim's annoyance. I forget everything other than my fear. The car is speeding toward the entrance of the bridge that spans the river that runs along the northern edge of Middleton. The bridge where my mother died.

“No,” I say.

“What?” says Tim, and the needle in his voice stings me, stings me enough to remember that she didn't die. Stings me enough to realize we must have crossed this bridge on our way here, so I shouldn't be as frantic as I am. Still, I am very frantic.

“I can't go this way. I can't. Can we go the other way?”

He doesn't answer but he does change lanes, and takes the last exit before the bridge. Which means he has to drive an extra twenty minutes to get back to the city.

“Are you okay?” he says, voice rough, eyes forward.

“I'm okay,” I say, voice soft, eyes down.

When we get to Middleton, I ask Tim if he'll drop me off at Jon's house, and when he grumbles agreement, I give him directions. That is the extent of our conversation for the rest of the drive. There is not much traffic, so even with the detour it doesn't take long to get there.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him. “And for taking me to get my key fixed.”

“Yeah,” says Tim, and as soon as my bicycle and I have been removed from his car, he zooms away. For a moment I just stand there, alone in the middle of the street, and try to remember the exact feeling of his mouth on my mouth. But I can't remember. Not anymore.

It's for the best. Because the two of us together is obviously impossible: first he hurts me, now I hurt him; first I'm angry with him, now he's angry with me—the cycle seems doomed to repeat itself over and over and over forever. It makes me sad, though I have no reason to be sad. My mother is waiting for me.

Except she's not. Jon Harmon lets me into his home, guides me to the living room, tells me to take a seat, and takes a seat himself. Immediately a little girl leaps from the floor to his lap.
“This is my daughter, Ginny,” he says.

I say hello, but I'm anxious. “Where is she?” I ask.

“I'm here.” Ginny stares at me. She has curly hair and a cute freckled face and a very intense stare.

“I know. I meant . . .”

“Don't worry, everything's fine,” says Jon. “I'll explain after I put Ginny to bed. It's bedtime now, isn't that right, Gin?”

“I'm four,” she tells me. “Almost five.”

“Great! When's your birthday?” I ask.

“Today,” she says.

“No, honey, your birthday isn't today,” says Jon.

Ginny laughs uproariously.

“Yup, it's definitely bedtime.” Her father stands, lifting her up with him, swinging her to his chest as she flings her arms around his neck, lays her head upon his shoulder, and he carries her away, their routine movements graceful as choreography.

Jon is gone a long time. And the longer he is gone, the more anxious I get. When he returns downstairs, before he can even sit back down, I start with the questions: Where is she? How is she? When can I see her?

“We'll go right now.” He explains that Darren's sister is away on business so they've settled my mother in her apartment, just a few blocks away. He takes me into his kitchen and out the back door. “Just to be safe,” he says.

We walk silently through the dark night, across the yard and down the alleyway behind his house. And even though
he told me where she is, and he assured me she's fine, and now he's taking me to see her, I'm still anxious. I keep imagining that when I get to where she's supposed to be, she'll be gone.

But then Jon knocks a particular rhythm on a particular door—one long tap, two short—and the door opens, and there she is.

As soon as I see her, I feel better. I smile and reach out for a hug, and in my arms she feels so delicate I'm afraid I might break her if I hold on too tightly, so I'm gentle as I let go. “I'm sorry I'm late,” I say.

“It's all right. I've kept busy.” She steps aside to let us in, but Jon excuses himself and says he has some things to do at home, and he'll come back to join us later.

So it's just me and my mother. She gives me a tour of the apartment. It's one bedroom, one bathroom, a narrow kitchen, and a square-shaped living room that she has already transformed into her office: the coffee table made of books, the sofa upholstered in notepaper.

Mom clears a small space for us to sit and asks me how I am. I tell her I'm fine. I ask how she is. She tells me she's good. I ask about her day and she says it was productive, a lot of reading, a lot of writing. She asks about my day and I tell her it was okay, just a normal day working at the library.

Then I can't stand the small talk any longer. “Have you remembered more about Keep Corp?” I ask her. “About why they would put you in that home?”

“I'm afraid not.” She stoops to pick a stray paper from the floor.

I frown. Then un-frown before she sees. “What about a silver sedan?”

She shifts upright again. “A silver sedan?”

“You told me it was your coworker's car.”

“I'm sorry. I don't remember.”

“Do you remember Carlos Cruz? He's a journalist and your . . . friend?”

“Carlos Cruz? I don't think so.” She tilts her head thoughtfully.

And there's something in the thoughtful tilt of her head that I don't like, so my next question comes out harsher than it should. “Don't you remember
anything
?” I say.

She looks at her coffee table of books. “I'm very sorry, Lora.”

“No, I didn't mean . . . It's not your fault.”

My mother stands up. “I should have asked before, are you hungry? Can I fix you something to eat? Or drink?”

“Sure,” I say, though I'm not particularly hungry. “Thanks.”

Five years away and her cooking has not improved at all. She makes a grilled cheese sandwich and somehow the bread burns without the cheese melting. “Is it okay? You can tell me if it isn't,” she says. “I'll make you another one.”

“It's perfect,” I say. And it is. Because how miraculous it is to be sitting here with my mother, eating a sandwich she
burned for me. Perhaps she thinks so too: she watches me chewing with a bemused expression.

But no, it turns out she's thinking about something else. Someone else. “I thought Kenneth might have come with you tonight,” she says.

“Um. I haven't told Dad yet. There hasn't been a good time.” My excuse is so bad, I wait for her to tell me how bad.

She nods.

There's a knock on the door—one long tap, two short—and Jon Harmon is back. He comes into the kitchen holding an enormous shopping bag, carrying it against his chest with his arms wrapped round, the same way he carried his daughter earlier. He eyes my charred sandwich.

“You know what would go perfectly with that? I brought over some vegetable soup. Would you like some soup?” He takes a plastic container out of his shopping bag and ladles its green contents into a bowl. This is one thing he and my aunt still have in common: they both love to feed people.

Jon puts the soup bowl in front of me, and a spoon, and a paper napkin folded neatly into a rectangle, and urges me to eat.

I don't eat. I just look at him.

“What are we going to do?” I ask.

Jon doesn't answer immediately. He puts away the groceries in his shopping bag. He sits down. He sighs. Then he says: “Well, your mom can stay here till the end of the week, when Darren's sister gets back. After that, we'll have to find
somewhere for her to go. The farther from Middleton, the better. Perhaps abroad.”

“You want to send her away?” There is an ugly taste in my mouth, a bitter taste. The burnt bread of the sandwich, I think.

“There aren't a lot of options. We don't know what Jeanette found out about the new keys. We don't have any leverage against Keep Corp. But someone went to a lot of trouble to make her disappear, so our priority has to be her safety.”

“But if we don't do anything she'll never be safe. She'll spend her whole life away in hiding,” I say.
Away from me
, I don't say.

I glance at my mother to see her reaction, her indignation, her steadfast refusal. But she doesn't even seem to be following our conversation. She is staring at the wall, and her eyes are far away. How well I know those faraway eyes.

“Lora,” says Jon. “You promised you'd let me handle things.”

“Except you're not handling things, you're avoiding them!” I say. Then instantly wish I hadn't. Jon has been so helpful, so supportive, and even now he is looking at me with sympathy, not annoyance. With understanding.

“I'm sorry,” I tell him. “I didn't mean that.”

“I know. It's a frustrating situation.”

“What if we went to the police?” I say.

He shakes his head. “When I . . . When they . . .” He clears his throat and tries again. “After I was attacked, the police
arrested the two suspects I identified in a lineup. But then the charges were dropped out of nowhere. The company we'd been investigating made it happen through their contacts and influence. Everyone knew it, but there was nothing we could do.”

“That's awful,” I say. “But this is a different situation.”

“The main problem is the same. We don't have solid evidence, something they can't ignore or hush up. Don't underestimate Keep Corp's power.”

“Well, what if my mom got a new memory key?” I say.

“She can't. Her body rejected her key,” he says.

“I did some research and rejection is extremely rare. Maybe they lied about it or misdiagnosed her case. A new key might help her remember what happened.”

“But how would we get it implanted? Not at Keep Corp.”

“Why not? She probably still has friends there,” I say.

“Friends who think she's dead,” he says.

“Excuse me,” says my mother.

We look at her, startled.

“Would you mind not talking about me as if I weren't here?” she says, and now there is nothing faraway in her eyes. Her gaze is sharp and so is her voice, and it's a familiar sharpness. I realize it's
her
I'm recognizing; she seems suddenly like her old self.

“Sorry,” Jon and I say, sheepishly, together.

“It's all right. My memory has its weaknesses, but my brain still functions. I'm still capable of making my own decisions,” she says.

“So would you consider getting a new key?” I ask.

“I'd need more information before deciding, of course, but at this point, my natural memory has developed to the extent where I'm not certain the benefits of a new key would offset the risks involved.”

“Oh. Okay. Then would you leave Middleton? Go abroad?”

“Yes. If necessary.”

“Oh. Okay.” I stare down at my forgotten food.

“It's not that I want to leave—you understand, don't you, Lora?”

“Sure.” I pick up my spoon and start eating again. I don't stop until I've eaten it all, the cold soup and the burnt sandwich, the crumbling black crusts.

Jon Harmon yawns. He yawns with his whole body: shoulders curling as his head falls backward. The sound is loud and long. He apologizes, smiling sleepily. “I should go,” he says. “But, Lora, you should stay longer if you'd like. Darren or I can drive you home later. Just give us a call.”

I glance cautiously at my mom. “Do you mind? I have something to show you.”

“Of course I don't mind,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say gratefully. Then I'm embarrassed for sounding so grateful, as if I had expected her to say no.

My mother carefully uncovers the couch, collecting her papers in some particular but inexplicable order, then we sit next to each other in the square-shaped living room to look at the
photo album I brought from home. I place the book in her lap. Slowly, she lifts back the cover.

And there she is with my father, arms linked in front of the bedecked tree. There's little me dressed as an elf. There's the three of us standing in the snow. I wait for my mother to comment on the garish sweaters or my crooked pigtails, but she says nothing. She scrutinizes every picture, and turns the page.

There's Aunt Austin cutting into a chocolate cake. There's me with my mouth smeared with chocolate frosting. There's the two sisters looking at each other and laughing. And there are my parents, leaning sleepily against each other on the sofa.

Still she says nothing. She scrutinizes every picture, and turns the page.

It takes a long time for my mother to get through the album. When she comes to the end, I shift around in my seat so that I can see her face. I am not sure what to expect: maybe sadness or contentment or nostalgia. Maybe tears. But when I see her face there is nothing at all. Her face is blank. I panic.

“Mom? Don't you remember
any
of it?”

She looks at me, notices me looking at her, and her expression immediately transforms into an expression. But still it's not sadness or contentment or nostalgia or frustration.

It's apology.

“I think I do,” she says. “A little.”

“What little?”

“My sister, have you talked to her? Have you told her?”

“Not yet. She's out of town, but I can call her for you,” I say.