The Memory Key (10 page)

WHEN MY ALARM CLOCK STARTS BEEPING, I GROAN AND COVER
my face with my blanket. Beep. My head hurts. Beep. It really hurts.
Beep
. But I have to get to work.
Beep
. So I heave myself out of bed.
Beep
. And smack my alarm clock into silence.

Oh, beautiful silence.

I take five pain pills. Then one more.

Dad is in the kitchen, drinking his coffee and reading the
Tribune
. He says good morning without lifting his eyes from the newspaper. I wonder if he's still mad at me. If so, how unreasonable: he saw the document that said I went to a medical technician.

Except I actually didn't.

Shame momentarily overcomes pain.

Lora, it takes a lot to get your father angry, but once he's angry, he stays angry for a while
, says my mother.
He's stubborn.

I look up, expecting to find her sitting across from me at the table. Of course, there's no one there. My head throbs. One good thing about Dad's annoyed silence is I don't have to make
an effort to keep up conversation; I focus on eating my cereal. My skull thunders as I chew.

Then I'm off to the library, pedaling so slowly my bicycle keeps tipping off balance. When I get there, I ask Cynthia if I can work at the circulation desk. I need to sit down. She frowns. “You don't look so good. Maybe you should go home.”

“It's only a little headache. I'll be fine.”

“All right. But if you start feeling any worse, you better tell me.”

I slump at the circulation desk. A kid comes over and tells me this long story about visiting his grandma, and missing the train, and missing the bus, and that's why his books are late. He asks if I'll waive the overdue fees. I say no. He asks again. I snarl in response, and he leaves teary-eyed.

Maybe I shouldn't have snarled quite so ferociously.

Maybe I shouldn't be working the circulation desk.

Maybe I shouldn't be here after all.

Fortunately, the pills kick in by lunchtime. I get a sandwich from the deli and hurry back to the library, to the computer area. I sit at the end of the row, at my usual machine in the corner, and look up the Grand Gardens retirement home.

According to its website, the building was recently constructed and features all the modern conveniences; the grounds are extensive with delightful walking trails and a small fish pond. Residents rave about the food and the staff and the activities. There is a waiting list. All in all, Grand Gardens sounds like a lovely place. Nothing fishy other than that fish pond.

Until I find the article about Grand Gardens' annual benefit dinner.

For the past seven years, the event has been cosponsored by a major corporation, a corporation known for its wholesome values, exemplified by its charitable giving to programs for the community. The article speculates that this corporation will soon be known as much for its philanthropy as for its innovations in medical technology.

This corporation is, of course, Keep Corp.

In the afternoon, when my shift is almost-but-not-quite over, I sneak outside to call Wendy and tell her about the article. “I think Keep Corp was involved in my mom's car accident,” I say.

“Wait, Lora, slow down. Maybe those people in the blue jackets took your mother away during the night, but she must have come home in between that time and the time of the accident because she was driving to work when it happened, right? So first of all, the blue jackets are from the nursing home—”

“Retirement home.”

“—not Keep Corp. And second, there's no definite connection between the blue jackets and the crash,” she says.

“Except the jackets came just six hours before the crash. Six hours before is a definite connection,” I say.

Then Wendy says nothing; she lets the line go to silence, lets the fizzy phone silence express her skepticism.

“They could have threatened her or drugged her or did something else that caused the accident. My mom was a
very careful driver,” I say.

“But what about the in-between time?”

“It doesn't matter,” I say, and try to believe it.

“Why not?” she asks.

“Those two strangers are connected to the retirement home, and the retirement home is connected to Keep Corp. That can't be a coincidence,” I insist.

Wendy sighs. “Are you at the library? Come over when you get off work.”

“I'll come now,” I say.

Mrs. Laskey lets me into the house and directs me upstairs, where Wendy is reclined on her bed, sketchbook propped in her lap, nibbling on a pencil. I close her bedroom door behind me. I wonder if Tim is home. Not that I care if he's home.

“What are you drawing?” I ask Wendy.

“I'm not drawing, I'm thinking. I think better with a sketchbook.”

“Right. So, what are you thinking?” I sit down next to her.

“We should go to the police,” she says.

I shake my head. Five years ago the police had their chance to properly investigate my mother's death, and they failed.

“Then you should tell your dad. I'd feel better if he knew,” she says.

“Let's wait until after we go to Grand Gardens. I'm afraid he'll freak out. He's been in such a horrible mood lately,” I say, and although this is true, the words feel false—not a lie, but not
the whole truth, either.

“Fine. We'll wait a day.” Wendy nods. Then she asks about Raul.

“He's good,” I say.

“Come on, tell me everything. Sharing is caring.”

“When they say sharing is caring, they don't mean that kind of sharing.”

“No changing the subject,” she says.

I tell her because it's the only way to stop her. I tell her we went to the movies and I bought the tickets and he bought the snacks. I tell her he drove me home and there might have been a few minutes of kissing in his car.

Wendy pinches my cheek. “My little girl is growing up!”

I swat her hand away. “Stop that, my head hurts,” I say, and as soon as I say it, I wish I hadn't. I know what comes next.

“Your . . . head hurts?” She peers at me, as if a hurting head is something that can be observed. Then she taps my arm with her chewed-up pencil. “Lora, now that we know those strangers worked at that nursing-retirement home, you should probably get your key fixed. I'll take you.”

“I'm fine,” I say.

“But what if it's eating your brains?”

“I've figured out how to control it. I can stop the memories when I want, or make them happen when I want. It's pretty convenient.”

“Really.” She squishes her face, doubting. I've always disliked this about Wendy, and I dislike it now: how she constantly
questions what I tell her, poking hole after hole until my words shrivel down like deflated balloons.

It's even worse when she's right.

“Really.” I stand up and tell her I have to go.

Then I go.

During dinner, I watch the absentminded professor from across the table. He is taking too-large bites, the food falling from his fork. He gobbles his glass of water. He slops butter on his bread. Then he looks at me. “Aren't you hungry?” he asks.

“Why did Mom go into medical technology?”

If he is surprised by my question, he doesn't show it. “Your mother always had a gift for the sciences. She won first prize in her grade school science fair, did she ever tell you about that?” He smiles a small smile, the smallest smile.

I shake my head.

“She built a three-dimensional model of the human heart using macaroni. Impressive for a nine-year-old, don't you think? She wanted to be a doctor one day, a surgeon.”

“What changed her mind?” I ask.

“She always said she got interested in medical technology at the university, but I think it also had to do with her grandfather. You know he had Vergets disease, don't you? She was in high school when his memory began failing. Jeanette deferred going to college for two years so she could help take care of him.”

“She did? I didn't know that,” I say.

“There was no one else who could stay with him during the day. Her mother worked long hours, and Austin was already away at school. They didn't have the money to hire help, and they didn't want to put him in a nursing home. But her grandfather was in bad shape. He'd wander away if you stopped paying attention for a second. Once the hospital called to say he'd fallen in the street. He was all right, just scratched up and disoriented. But none of them had even realized he left the house. They thought he was napping in his room.

“After that, your mom decided she would stay home with him. Her mother and sister argued, but you know how your mom is once she makes a decision. There's no changing her mind.” My father sighs as he adjusts his eyeglasses. He doesn't seem to notice he's spoken about her in the present tense.

“Her grandfather didn't have a memory key? Why didn't they get him a key? There were memory keys by then, right?” I ask.

“She didn't know why her mother didn't consider that option,” he says. “She thought it might have been because her grandfather's decline was too fast; he was so far gone by the time they realized the breadth of the problem.”

“Still,” I say. “They should have tried.”

“That's what your mom thought as well. I think that's why she ended up majoring in medical technology, and why she went to work at Keep Corp,” he says.

“So she only had to defer two years?”

“That's when her grandfather passed away.”

I don't know what else to say. I feel like I've learned more about my family history in the past several days than I have in the previous seventeen years, and this new knowledge sits heavily on my shoulders. “Oh,” I say, finally.

“Yes,” my father says, returning his attention to his dinner.

“Dad, are you sure there was nothing unusual about the night before the accident?” The words spill from my mouth. I spent the afternoon practicing this question in my head, trying to get the phrasing and intonation just right—nonchalant yet sympathetic. But it comes out clumsily accusing. A statement, not a query.

“Pardon?” His fork hovers halfway between mouth and plate.

“I know something happened that night. What happened?”

He looks not at me, but at my plate of uneaten food. “I don't know what you're talking about. Eat your dinner.”

“Don't lie to me, Dad. You got so mad at me for lying to you, how could you lie to me now?” My voice is shaking from the effort to keep from crying, shaking from the effort to keep from screaming.

My father sets his fork down on his plate. The clock on the wall ticks louder and louder to fill the silence. In the distance, a woman laughs.

Finally, he says, “It doesn't concern you.”

“But it does. It's about my mother.”

“Lora,” he says.

“My mother,” I say again.

“That doesn't entitle you to know everything.”

“Why not?” I demand.

“It's for your own good.” He is calm. I hate how calm he is.

“I don't understand why you should be the one to decide that.”

“I'm your father. I'm protecting you.”

“You're not protecting me. You're protecting yourself!” I shout.

Then I turn away, I run away, I go up to my room and slam the door. My head is beating, blasting; my head burns as if it's made of fire. I gulp down pain pills, one after the other, not bothering to count out the total, and sit down on the hard edge of my bed.

She was my age when she decided to give up college to take care of her grandfather. How selflessly mature she was. How selfishly immature I am. Yet how can I help it when my father insists on treating me like a child?

Why won't he tell me the truth? What is the truth?

Whatever it is, I won't stop until I know.

I promise myself.

I promise her.

THE HORN HONKS AWAY THE MORNING CALM. I GATHER MY
notebook and keys and pill bottle and wallet and phone, and stick my head out the window and yell: “Be right there!” Then I race downstairs and outside, to the car parked in the middle of the street, where it would block traffic if there was any traffic to be blocked. The passenger door opens.

“Ready for adventure?” Wendy asks from the driver's seat.

“I guess so.” I duck into the car.

“Me too!” someone says behind me.

I twist around to look at the backseat. I untwist to look at Wendy.

“He insisted. What could I do?” she says.

“You could have told him no,” I say.

“I'm right here,” says Tim. “I can hear you both.”

“So?” I glare at him.

“So what?” He glares at me.

“Children, if you can't behave I'm sending both of you home,” Wendy says in her most mature tone of voice, the one
she uses on strangers and teachers.

“How could I resist a visit with Ms. Pearl?” says Tim.

“Doesn't Keep Corp need you?” I say.

“It's my day off.” He shrugs.

I frown at Wendy. We were supposed to plan our strategy on the drive over. She gives me an I-know-and-I'm-sorry shrug followed by a we-could-just-let-him-into-our-plot raise of the eyebrows. I shake my head.

“Did you bring the papers?” I ask, referring to her sketches of the strangers.

“Sure did,” she says.

“Great.” I begin planning our strategy in my head. We'll start with Ms. Pearl; I think it will be safe to show her the sketches. And I'm sure she'd be happy to fill us in on any oddness about the place. But—

“Lora,” says Tim. “I understand we get to meet your
boyfriend
today?”

“He's not my boyfriend,” I say, without turning around.

Wendy smiles an I'm-really-really-really-sorry smile.

We arrive just before noon. The building is wide, not high, with two rectangular wings jutting out from the circular center. The exterior is made of a stony white material and looks expensive. The windows are large and clean and look expensive. The lawn is neat and lush and looks expensive. Grand Gardens is, appropriately, grand.

When we come into the lobby, Tim sidles up to the reception
desk and tries flirting with the lady behind it, an older woman with a silver halo of hair and a face drawn on with makeup. Tim compliments her necklace, a roping chain that also looks expensive, and she glares suspiciously at him, as if he's about to yank the necklace right off her neck.

It's nice seeing someone immune to Tim's charm.

Wendy intervenes. “Sorry, ma'am, is this boy bothering you?”

“Yes,” the woman says, and it's unclear whether she is answering the question or inquiring about our intentions.

“We're here to visit Ms. Pearl,” I say.

“Visiting hours begin at noon. You may return at that time.”

I glance at the ornate clock on the wall behind her. It's less than ten minutes till twelve. “Is Raul working today? We know Raul.”

“Visiting hours begin at noon,” the woman says again. Her gaze shifts to her computer. Clearly, we've been dismissed. We go outside to wait.

“What did you do to offend that woman?” Wendy admonishes her brother.

“Nothing! I was being my normal friendly self.”

“That explains it,” I say.

“Why don't you call Raul?” says Wendy.

“Yeah, why don't you call
Raul
?” says Tim.

I call, but the line goes to voice mail. I leave a message informing him that we're here. “He didn't answer,” I tell them.

“Guess he doesn't like you that much after all,” says Tim.

I shove him. Hard. “What's your problem?”

“What's
your
problem?” he mutters, rubbing his shoulder.

Wendy rolls her eyes. “Children, it's noon. Shall we try again?”

This time, the lady condescends to let us enter and directs us to the recreation room. We walk down a very long hallway, turn left, down another very long hallway, and through a set of double doors. Despite the casual name—suggesting Ping-Pong tables in basements, battered couches, and video games—this recreation room is as grand as the rest of the place. Bright light falls through the large windows onto thick rugs. The walls are a warm yellow. Elegant furniture is arranged in perfect conversational clusters.

Ms. Pearl is installed in one such cluster, between two elderly men on a brocade-upholstered sofa. We make our way toward her, heads turning as we pass. We are the youngest people there by several decades.

“Ms. Pearl!” says Tim.

“Timothy Laskey, what are you doing here?”

“We came to visit you,” he says.

Ms. Pearl dimples and claps and invites us to sit down. “I'm sorry, young ladies, please remind me of your names again. I'm afraid my memory is not what it used to be.” I'm slightly offended that she remembers Tim's name and not mine, when I was the one to rescue her from a speeding car just last week.

Though I shouldn't be surprised. Obviously, unfortunately, Tim is unforgettable.

But Ms. Pearl is so happy to see us, I can't stay resentful. She introduces us to her gentlemen friends, Earl and Henry, and asks us the standard questions about what we're doing with our lives. Wendy tells her about her art, and working at the summer camp. Tim tells her about his med-tech studies and internship. I tell her about my job at the library, and that I'm not sure what I'm going to study when I get to college.

“You know, Lora, I still remember your essay about P. B. Fishman, the memory key inventor. That was an excellently researched paper. Far beyond sixth grade work.”

“You remember
that
?” I'm shocked she remembers, and shocked she thought it was excellently researched, and shocked she remembers thinking it was excellently researched. I am also embarrassingly pleased.

She nods, but her gaze drifts past me. “Look who it is,” she says.

We all turn around to watch as Raul approaches. He is wearing his blue jacket. The sight of it makes me not like him, and I don't want to not like him, so I concentrate on his cheery face as I grin and wave and call out his name. I am very aware of the fact that Tim is sitting just three feet away.

“I was hoping you'd visit today.” Raul smiles his nice smile at us. At me.

“Of course,” I say, smiling nicely right back.

“Hey, Raul. This is my brother Tim,” says Wendy, and the two of them grip hands—half handshake, half high five, as guys do—and it makes me feel funny. Weird-funny, yes. But a
little ha-ha funny, too.

We make plans to meet for lunch in the dining room. Then Raul has to go back to work. But before he leaves he sets his hand on my shoulder. “See you later,” he says.

I glance at Tim. He is looking at me. Our eyes meet. Tim glances away.

“Raul is such a nice young man,” says Ms. Pearl. “Isn't he a nice young man?”

The gentlemen friends, Earl and Henry, grunt in agreement.

I nod at Wendy. She takes out a folder from her bag. “Ms. Pearl, do you know these people? We think they might work here,” she says.

Ms. Pearl lifts her glasses from her chest, where they hang on a thick gold chain, and sets them on her nose. She examines the sketches while Earl and Henry peek over her shoulder. Tim is so unperturbed I wonder what Wendy has told him. I look inquiringly at her, but her gaze is conveniently steady on the old folk.

Earl, who has been dozing on and off during our conversation, becomes animated. He points excitedly at the sketch of the woman. “That young lady is familiar.”

“She works here?” I lean forward in my chair.

“No, I don't think so.” Earl slumps back into the sofa. “I believe I knew her a long time ago. I'm sorry, my memory isn't so good.”

Ms. Pearl pats him consolingly on the knee. “Girls, I'm
afraid I don't recognize either of these people. Are you sure they work here?”

“Five years ago they worked here, maybe,” I say.

“I wasn't here then, but Henry was,” she says. “What do you think, Henry?”

Henry strokes the few hairs he has left on his head. “No, I've never seen these two before. I'm sure of it. Absolutely sure.”

“Absolutely sure?” I remember Raul telling me one of the men has a mild case of Vergets, and neither of them, like Ms. Pearl, have memory keys. I'm trying to figure out which man is which, but perhaps it doesn't matter because they seem similarly incapacitated. It makes me angry. It's irresponsible of them not to have keys.
An essential, preventative measure
, I hear my mother say.

“Absolutely sure?” says Henry, sounding less absolutely sure than before.

“May I ask why you don't have memory keys?” someone says in a loud voice. “After all, your memories are your most precious belongings; they make up your sense of self. Memory keys preserve that, they keep you
you
. And you're not the only one who benefits, it benefits those around you, all your loved ones.”

It's my mother. It's my mother's words, it's my mother's voice, but when I look for her I don't see her. I decide it was an aural memory.

Then I notice everyone is staring at me.

Because it was me. I was the one speaking her words, in her voice.

Ms. Pearl smiles gently. I know that look. It's the look she would give a student who tried hard but ultimately gave the wrong answer. “You make some good points, Lora, but I must admit it can be nice to forget a few things every once in a while and just live in the present,” she says. Her gentlemen friends grunt in agreement.

“I'm sure that's true.” I am mortified by my outburst.

“So you haven't seen these people here before?” Wendy points everyone's attention back to the sketches, and I'm grateful.

“Perhaps they worked in the south wing,” says Ms. Pearl.

“There's different staff for each wing?” asks Tim.

“Oh, yes. In the south wing, everything is different.”

“How so?” asks Wendy.

Ms. Pearl glances at Henry, who glances at Earl, who glances at Ms. Pearl, who glances back at Henry. Then Ms. Pearl speaks. “People go there when they're gone.”

Wendy gasps. “You mean, like, dead?”

“No, no. When they're very sick. Or the Vergets advances to the point that they need more care.” Ms. Pearl gently clears her throat. “Children, you must excuse us. We have a lunch engagement. But perhaps we could meet here later for a game of cards? Yes?”

“Yes, Ms. Pearl,” we say in unison.

She rises, and is followed by her two gentlemen. When Earl turns, I notice the broad scar on the back of his hairless head. It's curved like a smile, a painful, red smile. So Earl is the one
who had to get his key removed because his body rejected it. And Henry is the one who has Vergets.

Wendy sighs. “That was disappointing.”

“You'll probably have better luck asking the staff,” says Tim.

“Raul might know who to talk to, don't you think?” says Wendy.

“How much did you tell your brother?” I ask her.

“She didn't tell me anything,” says Tim. “But it doesn't take a genius to figure out the two of you are up to no good. So fill me in already.”

“It's none of your business,” I say.

“Come on. Don't you trust me?” he asks.

I blink. There's Tim with his new girlfriend, their arms around each other, their faces so close together they might as well be kissing, and the sight hurts so much that when I turn away and glimpse my reflection in the hallway mirror, I'm shocked that I'm not bloody, I'm not bruised; I'm shocked that I can appear so normal on the outside when I'm breaking on the inside.

I blink. There's Tim on the porch swing, his lips against mine, his mouth slightly beery, but not unpleasantly so, and I cannot believe this is happening,
finally
happening; I am feverish with happiness, I feel it sparkling in my cheeks and chest and fingers and toes, I feel it in my lips against his lips, and I'm so happy.

I blink and there's Tim, opening the door for me, grinning.

I blink and there's Tim, scowling because I laughed at his haircut.

I blink and there's Tim, waving his water gun as I run away shrieking.

I blink. There's Tim gazing at me, his eyes steady, his face hopeful as he apologizes for hurting me, saying that it was just bad timing . . .

And I feel as if I'm about to shatter into pieces, cracked apart by all my contradictory feelings for him. My hand slips into my pocket, fingers curl around cool plastic, and I close my fist, clutching so tightly to the bottle of pain pills that my nails cut into my palms. I compose myself. Then I look at him.

There is Tim, sitting in a brocade-upholstered chair in the recreation room at Grand Gardens, looking at me inquisitively. He asked me a question, I remind myself, and now he's waiting for the answer.

What did he ask? He asked if I trust him.

“No,” I say. “I don't.”

“But Lora . . .” says Wendy, smiling a concerned smile.

This time, I sense it coming and I grit my teeth. I straighten my shoulders.

But I can't push back the past; the memories are too strong.

Wendy is smiling a concerned smile. But also frowning in frustration. But also pointing a nagging finger at me. Wendy is rolling her eyes while I'm talking. I'm mid-sentence and she walks away.

I blink.

Wendy bangs on the door, then comes into my room scolding:
Why aren't you coming, Lora? You promised you'd come!
She says it with such outrage, as if I've heartlessly betrayed her, instead of merely canceling the double date we had planned with her singer boyfriend and his drummer friend.

I'm sorry. I'm tired
, I say.