The Memory Key (13 page)

RAUL DRIVES ME HOME AND ALL THE WAY THERE I'M THINKING
that I don't know how I'm going to face my father, but when we pull up in front of the house the windows are dark and the driveway is empty, and I cannot believe that after all my dreading he is not even there.

“Don't you think so?” asks Raul.

“I guess so,” I say. I have no idea what he's talking about.

“Finally! Someone agrees with me!”

“Um, yeah.”

Raul smiles his nice smile. Then I let him kiss me. His lips are gentle. He touches my waist, and his hands are gentle too. I try to forget myself as I kiss him back, but I can't. I can't forget anything.

And I'm tired of this, of him, of everything. I'm so tired. I lean away from his mouth and out of his arms. I thank him for the ride.

“Let's hang out soon?” he says.

I say yes because yes is easier to say. And I am so, so tired.

Inside the house, there's a note on the kitchen counter, the usual note-leaving-place.
Lora, there's a work dinner tonight. Sorry for the late notice. There are leftovers in the fridge, but here's some money if you want to order in.

Under the page is a twenty-dollar bill. I leave the cash and replace the note on top of it. I check the messages on our answering machine. There's only one, and it's Keep Corp demanding I come in for a checkup. “We're registering increased levels of damage from your memory key,” scolds the technician. I tap the delete button.

Then I take the incriminating photo out of my backpack. In the picture, the two strangers are not wearing blue jackets but formal wear: the man in an immaculate suit, the woman in a sequined gown. It doesn't matter. I know their faces. I remember them exactly.

I call Aunt Austin, hoping she might be able to provide explanation or context or something or
anything
. The line goes straight to voice mail. She must still be on the plane. I slam down the phone.

Alone in the gloom of the kitchen, I feel so . . . so . . .

I grit my teeth. But it's too late. I'm in my bed crying. My pillow mushy with tears. Then it's the next night and I'm in my bed crying. Then it's the next night and I'm in my bed crying. Night after night after night, it's the same. My pillow mushy with tears. She's gone. She can't be gone. She's gone. It's the next night and I'm in my bed crying. She can't be gone, but she's gone. Night after night after night, it's all the same. My
pillow mushy with tears.

Until my father comes. He sits on the side of my bed, like
she
always did, and the mattress bends under his weight. Though it's dark in my room and my tears blur my eyes, I can tell he's tired. He doesn't sleep much either, I know.

He pats my head. His hand is stiff. But as he continues patting, his touch gets smoother. And somehow, after some time, I stop sobbing and sleep. I don't wake until the morning, and when I do, my father is snoring in the chair by my desk. The sun is dazzling through the window, bright against the white walls, and warm on our faces.

I grit my teeth and I'm alone in the gloom of the kitchen.

We had managed it together, Dad and I, we had rebuilt ourselves a normal, everyday life. We were teammates. We were pals. We were all we had left. But now? Now I don't know what we are.

The doorbell rings and I move automatically toward the sound. I've already unlocked the door before I remember to ask who it is.

“It's Carlos Cruz,” answers the sexy voice.

I stumble backward. But it's too late to pretend no one is home, so I fix on a frown and yank open the door. “What are you doing here?”

“Lora Mint, how nice to see you again,” he says. “I was in the neighborhood so I thought I'd stop by to see how your article is coming along.”

“My article?”

“How different generations have different attitudes about memory keys.”

“You know we're not actually writing that article,” I say.

“I'm just teasing.” Carlos chuckles. He's dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, formfitting jeans and formfitting T-shirt, and if Wendy were here she'd surely be swooning. Stupid Wendy.

“Why are you in the neighborhood?” I ask, not swooning.

“I was at that used bookstore, the one on Pine Street? The one Jeanette—your mom—went to all the time. You know which one I'm talking about?”

“Of course,” I say because I do know that bookstore, even if I did not know that my mother went there all the time.

“It's where she bought all her lousy romance novels,” he says.

I glare. What did he know about my mother's reading habits?

“I'd always tell her a scientist had no business reading such garbage.” His smile doesn't seem to be directed toward me, but inward, toward some part of his own self. “But Jeanette was a romantic at heart,” he says.

I glare. What did he know about my mother's heart?

I tell him I have to go. By that I mean
he
has to go.

But he acts as if I've invited him in: Carlos Cruz steps forward and I have to force myself not to step back. I hadn't before noticed how tall he is. He looms over me now.

Then he pounces so quickly I don't realize he's snatched
the photo from my hand until I see it in
his
hand. The photograph of my father and the two strangers. I had forgotten I was still holding it.

“What's this?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I grab for the picture but he lifts it too high for me to reach. “Give it to me. Give it back!” I shout.

“Sorry, here you go,” he says, and taps the photo down onto my open palm. His apology is undermined by the laughter in his voice.

I am mortified by his amusement; he makes me feel as if I were the one behaving inappropriately, not him. I move to shut the door, crash it right on him, but then Carlos speaks again, seriously this time, and his words stop me.

“You're so much like your mother,” he says.

My fingers freeze on the brass knob. “I am? How?”

Instead of answering my questions, he asks his own: “That's your dad in the photo, and the others are from your sketches, right? Who are they?” His tone is easy, friendly, but the gleam in his eyes is hard and sharp as a blade.

I shake my head. I tell him again that I have to go.

“All right, Lora Mint. I'll see you next time.” He arranges his handsome features into a smile, but that gleam in his eyes does not change.

I close the door.

I lock the door.

Then I look at the photograph crumpled in my fist. As I smooth it flat, I remember Wendy speculating that Carlos Cruz
was in love with my mother. She says,
A tragically doomed love. I wonder if they
—I blink.

Standing at the window, I'm confused to see my mom emerge from a car driven by an unfamiliar man, but when she comes into the house she assures me it was only her coworker, a kind friend. She nods at me with her lips twined, her cheeks pink.

Lying in my bed, I'm startled awake by thunder, and startled more when I realize that thunder is actually my dad shouting. I suppose he must be shouting at my mother, but why would he be shouting at her? I try to listen to what he's saying, but all I can hear is
You
. . .
You . . . You . . .

Standing at the door, I grip the doorknob as Carlos Cruz speaks of my mother's habits and her heart. He smiles tenderly and it's a true expression on his handsome face, perhaps the only true expression I've seen on his handsome face.

I blink. I grit my teeth.

Then I go get my bag from the hallway and cram the photograph back into the inside pocket. The zipper sticks. As I tug it free, a torn sheet of paper flutters to the floor. It's the list of Jon Harmon phone numbers, the one Wendy printed out.

An idea occurs to me.

I return to the kitchen and open the small drawer that holds our odds and ends. Extra keys. A flashlight. Broken pencils. Batteries used and unused. My skin is poked and jabbed as I sift through the mixture. Finally, my fingers brush smoothness. That's it. I pull out the little leather book.

After my mother died, my father packed up the contents of her closets, along with whatever was left in her study after those solemn men claimed her papers for Keep Corp, and moved all of it up to the attic. But her address book, stored in the communal drawer, stayed.

I flip through the yellowed pages, staring at my mother's print, small and meticulous and so familiar. It hurts to see her handwriting. But I rub my eyes clear and turn to the
H
section. Han, Harvey, Hockey, but no Harmon. I frown. My mother was fastidious about proper classification—she was a scientist, after all—but perhaps a former member of the family merits an exemption.

I turn to the
J
section. And there I find him.

EVERY FEW MINUTES I TURN TO GLANCE AT THE CLOCK ON THE
wall behind me, until Cynthia the librarian comes by and asks if there's something wrong with my neck, have I strained a muscle? I tell her I'm sorry, I tell her I'm fine. “How's Gouda?” I ask, hoping to distract her from my distraction with dog talk. This strategy always works.

“You can take your lunch break now,” she says, and returns to the reference area. Apparently, the dog talk strategy does
not
always work. Maybe I'd feel guilty if I weren't so anxious about meeting Jon Harmon in just four hours and twelve minutes.

I go outside to eat my lunch. When I'm done, I pull the bottle of pain pills from my pocket and take two tablets—it's a minor headache, nothing worth thinking about, probably just jitters. Then I get out my phone and check my voice mail.

There's a message from my father asking where I've been; he says he feels as if he hasn't seen me in days. This is more or less accurate. I call him back because I know he's teaching a class at this exact moment, so the line will go to
his
voice mail.
When it does, I tell him I won't be home till late. I tell him not to wait up.

There's also a message from Wendy, the third message in the past twenty-four hours. I didn't listen to the earlier ones, and I don't listen to this one. Maybe I'm being unreasonable. Wendy would say I'm being unreasonable because she always says I'm being unreasonable. She would say I'm overreacting because she always says I'm overreacting. She would say, Lora, this isn't you, this is your memory key.

What Wendy doesn't understand is that my memory key
is
me.

When my shift finally ends, I go to the back room to gather my things together. Cynthia is in her office. “I know it's tough out there,” she says and I think she's talking to me before I realize she's actually on the phone.

After a pause: “Kira, it's not a good idea,” she says.

After a longer pause: “That's ridiculous. I'm not censoring you!” she says.

I don't mean to listen, I don't want to listen, but here I am, listening. For I can't help being curious: at the library, censorship is enemy number one. It makes no sense that Kira is accusing her librarian mother of censorship.

“I only want what's best for you.” Cynthia says this so quietly I have to strain to hear her. Then I realize that I'm straining to hear her, so I grab my backpack and tiptoe out of the room, catching the door and easing it shut behind me.

It takes twelve minutes to get to the coffee shop, and another minute to lock up my bike, and another minute to unknot my knotty nerves. The place is small. Inside there are fewer than a dozen tables. I search for a tall, thin man with dark hair and glasses. My gaze climbs around the room. Is he late? Has he changed his mind and decided not to come?

A stout man in a blue polo shirt comes toward me. “Lora?” he says.

I stare at him. He couldn't possibly be Jon Harmon.

“I'm Jon Harmon,” he says, chuckling. “You know you have your mother's frown?”

I would never have recognized him. Whereas he once was strikingly skinny, he is now strikingly round. Whereas he once had a thick tangle of dark hair, he is now completely bald. He's not even wearing glasses. It's hard to believe he is the man in those wedding photographs. “You look different from the pictures I've seen,” I say.

“I bet.” He pats his belly.

“I mean, I didn't mean. I'm sorry if . . .”

“Don't worry. If I saw those old photos, I bet I wouldn't recognize myself.” He chuckles again, and this time I do too.

We find a tiny table in the corner. The coffee shop—with its exposed brick walls and flickering candlelight—seems slightly romantic, which makes me uncomfortable about being here with a stranger, even if he is my former, future uncle. For a moment, I wish Wendy were here, so we could exchange glances over the absurdity of it all. The moment passes.

“Last time I saw you, you had just started walking,” says Jon Harmon.

“I thought you and Austin divorced before I was born,” I say, and instantly regret it, for it seems rude to remind him about his divorce first thing.

But he doesn't appear offended. He nods. “Your mom and I were still friendly. We'd run into each other once in a while, reminisce about the old days.”

The waitress comes over and greets Jon Harmon with an exclamation and a kiss on each cheek. He introduces us, and I try not to get impatient while they swap neighborhood gossip and banter about the weather. She asks what we'd like. I order an iced tea, he orders a coffee and a plate of cookies. Then she goes, and as soon as she goes I say to Jon Harmon, “You must be wondering why I called.”

He needs no further prompting; he bursts effortlessly into story: “Yes, I'm glad you called. Let me start by giving you some background—I don't know how much you know about me and your aunt. Now that was a marriage doomed from the start. Not that Austi isn't great, because she is. She was my first love. We worked together in the governor's office, and the two of us would have the most exciting debates all day long. Can you imagine?” he asks.

I tell him I can, though I can't. Neither can I believe he calls her “Austi.” No wonder it didn't work out.

“But after a while, I began losing faith in the political machine. Eventually I decided I wanted to work outside the
system. Austi thought I was throwing my career away, all the things we worked so hard for. I thought she was being naïve. Still, I hoped we might get back together, but then she filed the papers. Austi had her path.”

“She still does,” I say, sad for him. And for my aunt.

“She's done well for herself, and she'll go even further. She has what it takes.”

I nod. My father says the same things about Aunt Austin.

“About your mother,” he says, and I lean forward in my chair. But then the waitress interrupts us with my iced tea, Jon's coffee, and a tiny plate of tiny cookies.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asks.

Jon asks for a glass of water. Then he nudges the plate of cookies toward me, so I take one. He takes one too, and hums approval as he eats it. “These are my favorite,” he says. “Coconut.”

“Yum,” I say, my cookie still in my hand. “Mr. Harmon, about my mother—”

“Mr. Harmon! Please call me Jon. Unless you want to call me Uncle Jon. You can call me Uncle Jon, if you'd like.”

“Jon,” I say firmly. “What were you saying about my mom?”

He chews. He swallows. He coughs his throat clear. It occurs to me I might not be the only one who's nervous. Finally, he speaks. “I know you have questions about your mother. I also have questions.”

“What questions?” I ask.

“About what happened. About how she died,” he says.

I sit still. My heart is jerking around inside my chest, but I sit very still. I'm excited to have found someone else with questions about my mother's death; I'm excited that that someone is willing to talk to me about his questions; yet my excitement feels a little like fear. My voice trembles as I ask him to explain.

Flourishes and digressions aside, Jon Harmon's story is this: a few days before the car accident, my mom came to see him. This was unusual. Although they'd bump into each other here and there, and phone occasionally if there was a specific reason (such as when she put him in touch with Carlos Cruz, handsomely creepy journalist), they never spent much time together. After all, Jon was Austin's ex-husband, and Jeanette's loyalties were clearly and completely with her sister.

So he was surprised to see her, but welcomed her into his house. He made coffee, they exchanged personal updates, and then she told him the reason for her visit. My mother had come across a set of unusual structural definitions in a line of memory keys in development at Keep Corp. She didn't get specific about the science, but told him she was worried there was something inappropriate going on. She asked him for advice.

“Why'd she go to you?” I say.

“My old firm worked to expose corporate corruption and compensate the victims. We won more than a few lawsuits over the years,” says Jon. “So I told her I'd help her. I'd even come out of retirement if she needed.”

“You're retired?” I ask. He seems young to be retired.

“More or less.” His round face is pink, but I don't know if he's blushing or it's the candlelight. “The work was hard: long hours, sad stories. And these companies would go to any length to stop us. The tires of my car were slashed, the windows of my house broken, and . . .”

“And what?”

Jon stares at the lemon in his glass of water. “I was assaulted one night, coming home from the office. They broke both my arms. It could have been a lot worse; they were only delivering a message, they didn't want to kill me. But I started having panic attacks. Insomnia. My partner said I'd better quit before I had a total breakdown. The timing was right: we wanted to start a family. So now I'm a stay-at-home dad. We have two kids, a boy and a girl, seven and four. Best decision I ever made, though I still get the occasional nightmare. Still keep my phone number unlisted.”

“I'm so sorry,” I say, wishing I had something better to say.

“It was awful. But it's over.”

“And you've remarried?”

“Technically, no. Gay marriage isn't legal in our state.”

I stare at him, and he stares right back. I forcibly loosen my tongue in my mouth. “Yeah, it's really unfair,” I say, and I mean it, though I can't help thinking about Aunt Austin and what this means for
her.
But I remain focused on what's important. “What else did you say to my mother?” I ask.

“I told her to collect all the information she could without drawing attention, so we could evaluate whether to go public,
or to the authorities, or directly to the corporation.”

“Then what happened?”

“I didn't hear from her again. A few days later I found out about the accident.”

I am suddenly furious.

“Why didn't you tell anyone about this?”

“I tried. After the funeral, I called your father. But he was so distraught, I don't think he understood. I considered talking to your aunt, but we hadn't been on speaking terms in years. I thought about going to the police, but I had no evidence, barely any information at all.”

“So you did nothing,” I say.

“I hate to make excuses, but I was a mess. My panic attacks started up again. I knew how companies like Keep Corp worked, I knew they'd be brutal and relentless. I had no leverage against them.”

“Except that they murdered my mother.”

“It could have really been just an accident,” he says unconvincingly.

We sit there in silence. We sit there in silence for a long time.

“I wanted to forget. I told myself I was better off forgetting. But of course I couldn't,” Jon says eventually.

“I know the feeling.” I almost laugh.

I take out the photograph and ask if he recognizes the people in it. He moves it closer to the flickering candle. “That's your dad, right? I don't know the others. Who are they?”

“I was hoping you'd tell me.”

“I'm sorry, I don't know.” He hands the picture back. “Lora, I want to be very clear about something. I told you about my conversation with your mother because you deserve to know. But under no circumstances should you go after Keep Corp yourself, do you understand? There's nothing we can do for Jeanette now.”

I look at him. He gazes back sternly. But that doesn't make his expression any less sad. Maybe it's his anguish that makes me tell him, or maybe it's the challenge in his words. Maybe it's because Jon Harmon was the one my mother confided in years ago, or maybe it's simply because I need a ride to Grand Gardens.

“I think she's alive,” I say.

Then I tell him about the two strangers and their blue jackets, blue jackets that are the uniform at a certain retirement home. I tell him that at this certain retirement home I saw—from afar—a woman who looked exactly,
exactly
, like my mother. It's possible I exaggerate, but I'll say almost anything to smooth the skeptical arch of his eyebrows.

“Have you talked to your dad about this?” he asks.

“Not yet.” I stare at the tiny plate of tiny cookies, now a tiny plate of crumbs. “I don't want to get his hopes up if it turns out to be nothing.”

“You have to tell your dad,” says Jon.

“But what if I'm wrong? I can't do that to him,” I say, and my distress burns my face and shakes my voice, for my distress
is true even if my words are not, and Jon seems to recognize that.

He sighs so heavily the table trembles. “I still think you have to tell him. But you're right that we've got to find out if she's there,” he says.

“So you'll help me?”

He sighs again. “I'll help you.”

We decide we'll go tomorrow. Jon argues we should wait until we're better prepared, but I insist. Because tomorrow I have the day off, and the next day I have to work, and the day after that Jon is busy, and the day after that I have to work. And I cannot,
cannot
, wait another week. He seems to understand. “Well, I'll try my usual contacts, but this may be too short notice,” says Jon.

“I have a friend who works at Grand Gardens,” I say.

He brightens. “All we need is a list of patients. If Jeanette is there she'll be under a false name, but perhaps we can find it by checking out everyone else.”

“Residents,” I say. “They call them residents.”

“Right. We'll need a list of residents, then. Can your friend get that for us?”

“I don't know. I'll ask him,” I say.

We leave the coffee shop and solemnly shake hands—though I think Jon Harmon might have liked a nice uncle-niece sort of hug—and agree to talk in the morning.