The Memory Key (14 page)

I bike home in a daze, past buildings and cars and people and houses, without noticing any of it. And even though
I'm ready-for-bed tired, I don't rush. Because the night air is so fresh on my skin and the road so smooth underneath my wheels. Because I am trying not to hope, but of course I am hoping.

When I come into the house, I am carefully quiet and do not turn on any lights. Yet as I climb up the stairs, my father calls out from his room. “Lora! How was your day? What'd you do? Where'd you go? Who'd you see?”

I pretend I don't hear him and go into my own room. A few minutes later, there is a shuffle of feet in the hallway. I flop down on my bed. There is a soft knock. I shut my eyes. The door inches open. I slow my breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

The ringing telephone wakes me.

It's after ten o'clock and my father is gone. While faking sleep, I had fallen asleep. I'm still dressed in my clothes, my face unwashed, my teeth unbrushed. Disoriented, I reach for the ringing phone.

“Why haven't you called me back?” says Wendy.

I sit up, struggling to clear my bleary head. “I've been busy.”

“Don't give me that crap,” she says.

“What?” I'm taken aback by the wrath in her voice.

“I know things are weird for you right now, but you've been totally unreasonable lately. Abandoning us at the nursing home? Freaking out on our way to Carlos Cruz's? You're being a really bad friend.”

“I'm sorry,” I mumble, ashamed.

“It's your memory key. You've got to get it fixed.”

Instantly, my guilt dissolves. Instantly, I'm wide-awake. “No, you're just upset that for the first time, I'm seeing you for what you really are. Bitch.”

Wendy is quiet for a moment. “You don't mean that. Take it back.”

But I will take nothing back. I have all the evidence I need to support my statement; the memories are organized neatly, color-coded and cross-referenced, in my filing-cabinet brain.

“Listen, if you don't get your key fixed,” she says, her voice hardening.

“What?” I say, my voice just as hard. There's no threat she can make, no warning she could give, that would persuade me to let Keep Corp into my head.

“I'll tell your dad,” she says.

I hang up on her.

ONE BY ONE, THE OTHER CHILDREN LEAVE WITH THEIR PARENTS,
until it's only me, some slobbering boy, and Mrs. Sunny in the classroom.

Then it's just me and Mrs. Sunny.

When Mama finally comes through the door, I run to her and she lifts me up and squashes my cheek against her cheek. I imagine and reimagine the moment, making the memory last long in my mind. I make it last until the throbbing becomes unbearable. Only then do I grit my teeth and open my eyes to morning.

My father has already left for work so I have the house to myself. I go downstairs for a glass of water and a couple of pain pills. Then I call Jon Harmon to tell him I couldn't get the list of Grand Gardens' residents from Raul.

The truth is I didn't ask. Late last night, I lay in bed and imagined asking him for help. I'd have to tell him about my mother. He would be sympathetic; he's a very sympathetic guy. But what if he said no? What if he said he was sorry but he
couldn't risk his job? I imagined my anger. My anger was an inky black, staining our clean new connection.

Jon groans. “That makes everything more complicated. Fortunately I have a friend whose father happens to reside in the south wing of Grand Gardens. What do you think of that?” he says.

“I think we're going to visit him today,” I say.

Jon Harmon's car, a boxy sedan, is old but in fine shape, no dents or dings. The back is slathered with crooked bumper stickers, the wordiest and least catchy bumper stickers I've ever seen:
SUPPORT OUR TROOPS BY ENDING THE WARS
;
YOUR SOCIAL INACTION
IS
SOCIAL ACTION
;
SAVE THE ENVIRONMENT AND THE ENVIRONMENT WILL SAVE YOU
!

“Save the environment and the environment will save you?” I ask.

“Darren and I made those with the kids. Coming up with those slogans is harder than you'd think.” Jon is wearing another polo shirt, but today's shirt is mint green. He stares at me curiously. “Now what do we have here?”

“I had to.” I'm blushing but he probably can't tell. For in order to avoid being identified as that wacky girl who ran all around the south wing the other day, I've put together a disguise. First, a wide-brimmed straw hat with a clump of fake roses affixed to the front. The hat was from a Halloween costume, the year Wendy and I dressed up as old-fashioned-lady zombies (her idea: old-fashioned ladies, my idea: zombies).
Second, a large pair of black sunglasses. Third, on a whim, I slipped on my mother's peach dress. So now I'm that wacky lady in a wacky outfit.

“You look very nice. Mind telling me why you're so fancy?”

“It's a long story,” I say.

“Good thing we've got plenty of time.” He gives me a steely-eyed look he must use quite effectively on his kids, and I tell him. Partly because of that steely-eyed look, mostly because he should be prepared in case they recognize me and throw me out again. I leave out the part where I'm hysterically sobbing in the empty room. I do admit I was escorted from the premises.

He shakes his head. “When we get there, you let me do the talking.”

“Naturally.” I straighten my sunglasses.

Jon whistles at his first glimpse of Grand Gardens, and with good reason: the stone exterior shimmers in the bright sunshine, the windows sparkle, the grass glitters with dew.

We climb out of the car and slowly approach the building. I'm wearing a pair of high heels, which was a dumb decision. My ankles are shaking in my impractical shoes. Though maybe it's because I'm nervous. I'm so nervous.

In the lobby, my stomach flops when I see that familiar white-haired lady behind the reception desk. She tilts her head. “Yes?” she says.

“How are you on this lovely day? We're here to visit Marty Goodman.” Jon smiles. His smile goes unanswered.

“Your name?” she demands.

“I'm Jonathan Smith,” says Jon Harmon. “Marty's daughter put me on the list of approved guests.”

The woman clicks around on her computer, and reluctantly tells us we may wait here for an attendant. Then, for the first time, she looks directly at me. Her eyebrows—brown and penciled—coil in irritation.

My breath stops. It's all over. I'm about to be kicked out.

“I like your hat,” she says.

It takes all my self-control not to laugh as I thank her.

The attendant comes, a glum woman in a blue jacket. We follow her down the long hallway. My high heels scratch against the floor. When there is no risk of the reception lady overhearing, Jon chuckles and tells me he likes my hat.

“Thanks, Mr.
Smith
.” I grin and remove my sunglasses.

“Right here, room 124,” says the attendant. She knocks, but opens the door without waiting for an answer. When I come into the room, I see why she didn't wait.

Marty Goodman is propped up in his bed, but even so he seems more horizontal than vertical. He's the whitest man I've ever seen, and everything about him is white, not just his skin and his hair, but his lips are also white, and even his blue eyes are glazed pale. On either side of him are humming-buzzing-beeping machines, their tubes and wires disappearing under the thin blanket covering his thin body. My throat tightens. I now understand exactly what the residents of the north wing feel about the south wing.

“Hi, Marty,” says Jon. “How're you doing?”

The man's eyelids flutter as small sounds sneak from his white lips.

“I'm Nicole's friend Jon. Remember me? We met at her birthday party, years ago.” He sits in the chair next to Mr. Goodman's bed.

“You don't have to stay, we're fine now,” I tell the blue-jacketed attendant.

“It's standard policy for guests in the south wing to be chaperoned during their visit,” she says. Her expression is bored. This is obviously a line she's repeated a hundred times.

Jon and I glance at each other.

Then Mr. Goodman grunts, and we all turn to him. The words come slowly. “How . . . is . . . Nicole?” he asks.

“She's good. She's coming to visit you next week,” says Jon.

Mr. Goodman's lips flutter. “Ni . . . cole . . . ,” he whispers.

“Where's the bathroom?” My voice is so shrill that everyone looks at me in surprise. Even Marty Goodman. Even myself.

“The public restrooms are down the hall, on the left,” says the attendant.

I go into the corridor. Both sides of the hallway are lined with closed doors. So many doors, all of them closed. I take off my hat and cover my face with my hands. How foolish I was to hurry our visit; how stupid I was not to ask Raul for help; how sad I am for Marty Goodman. So foolish, so stupid, so sad.

After a minute, after two minutes, I drop my arms back to my sides. Then, because I don't know what else to do, I walk
down the hall to the bathroom. As I reach for the door it sweeps open, and I fall onto a woman in green scrubs.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” I say.

“No harm done.” The woman smiles. But her smile fades as she stares at me, as she tries to recall why I am so familiar to her. I know why she is so familiar to me: she is the fair-haired woman who escorted me out of here two days ago. I turn away, but it's too late. I shouldn't have removed my sunglasses. I shouldn't have taken off my hat.

“You're back,” she says. “You're not supposed to be back.”

“I'm here with a friend to visit Marty Goodman,” I say quickly.

The woman nods. “It's nice for Mr. Goodman to have visitors,” she says. Then she moves so I can enter the restroom. It's a moment before I realize she is not going to report me.

“Can I ask you something?” I blurt out. “You said the person I saw was probably one of your residents. You said she's always wandering around the empty rooms. You remember, don't you? Will you take me to see her? Please,” I say. “Please.”

“I can't do that.” She frowns.

“Please,” I say. “I think I know her.”

“It doesn't matter. I can't.” She is still frowning, and I know she is about to walk away from me. Perhaps she will report me, after all. I am desperate.

“I think she's my mother,” I say.

She stops mid-step. “Jean Lee?”

“My mother's maiden name was Lee. Her name was Jeanette
Lee,” I whisper. My hand is still on the bathroom door, pressing it halfway open; I'm stuck in this in-between position while the woman stares at me, studying my face as if it's a problem to be solved. I know she must be trying to decide whether I'm delusional, so I try to look as non-delusional as possible. My efforts are complicated by the fact that I'm clutching an enormous hat with a clump of plastic flowers on the front.

The woman makes a sharp sound through her teeth. “If you bother her in
any way
, you'll have to leave immediately,” she says.

“Yes, thank you,” I say. “Thank you.”

We go up to the second floor. Halfway down the corridor, she stops in front of a door and looks at me. “Ready?” she asks.

I nod because I can't find the voice to answer. I nod, even though I'm not actually ready. The woman knocks. We wait. I think I hear a sound. It's a moment longer, the longest moment, before the voice shouts from inside the room: “Come in!”

The woman in green looks at me, then at the knob, signaling for me to turn the knob to open the door. But I am unable to lift my arm. I don't know what to do or how to do it. Finally, she sighs softly and reaches around me. Just then, the knob glides away, as does the whole door.

“Hello,” says my mother.

“I brought you a visitor,” says the woman.

Mom smiles at me. For a moment I'm afraid this is not actually happening and I am merely in another memory. But when I grit my teeth and straighten my shoulders, all that happens is
gritted teeth and straightened shoulders. Besides, my mother is older than when I last saw her: her hair has more white in it, her skin has new lines. However, her smile is the same.

Exactly the same.

This is real. This is really happening.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello,” I manage to say, and there is so much more I want to say, but I don't know where to begin. I don't know how to begin.

My mother takes my hand. She gazes into my eyes.

Then she asks me who I am.

WHAT I FEEL IS ALL THE DISORIENTATION OF AN ABRUPT AWAKENING
, but not as though I've woken from a dream; it's as if I have woken
into
a dream. There is a lot of talking, and I am doing some of that talking, yet I'm not quite sure what's being said. Then the woman in green—apparently her name is Nina, and she's a nurse here—goes to find Jon Harmon, while my mother invites me to sit down.

She asks if I want something to drink and before I can answer she brings me a glass of water. She asks if I want something to eat and before I can answer she is rummaging inside her closet. She brings me a box of crackers.

“These might be a bit stale,” she says. “I'm sorry I don't have anything better.”

“It's okay,” I say.

We sit at the wooden table in the corner of her room. There's a half-completed puzzle scattered across the top. It's a nature scene: grass and sky and wildflowers. When I glance up, my mother is watching me.

“Lora,” she says.

“Yes.” I reach for the box of crackers. I take one, though I don't really want one.

“I'm sorry,” she says again.

“These crackers aren't stale,” I say. Though they are. Very.

“No, I'm sorry about before. I was confused. I didn't recognize you at first. You're all grown-up now. I can't believe how grown-up you are.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” It's true that I've increased inches and hips and chest since we last saw each other. But I'm still her daughter.

“I'm glad you're here,” says my mother. She smiles.

“But why are
you
here? You should come home,” I say.

Her smile fades. “Yes,” she says, fidgeting with a puzzle piece.

“Don't you want to?”

“Of course I do.” She tries to fit the piece into a corner. It doesn't fit. She tries again. “But I can't. They won't let me go,” she says.

“Mom, I thought you were dead.”

She drops the puzzle piece. “What? I didn't know. I'm so sorry.”

“It's been terrible. I've missed you so much, and so has Dad.”

Her forehead rumples. “Your father. Kenneth. Is he here now?”

“No, it's only me and Jon Harmon.”

“Yes, Jon Harmon. Do I know him?”

“Aunt Austin's ex-husband. You don't remember?”

She says his name again and shrugs.

“It was a long time ago,” I say.

The door opens and in comes Nurse Nina, and behind her is Jon, red-faced and barreling toward my mother. “Jeanette! I can't believe this,” he says, grabbing her into a hug. She pats his shoulder, looking stunned.

I go over to Nina and ask her if my mother can leave.

“Leave? What do you mean?” she says.

“Can she come home with me?”

“If you get the approval of her guardian or whoever brought her here.”

“Whoever brought her here.” I repeat her words as the meaning sinks through me. Someone brought her here. Obviously someone brought her here. I'm desperate to know. I'm terrified to know. “And who's that?” I ask.

“I've no idea. What I can do is have the front desk call her guardian and tell them you want to take her home. We'll also need her doctor's consent.”

“Why do you need that?”

“Because of her memory,” says Nina.

“What about her memory?” I ask. And as soon as I ask, I know. I know why my mother didn't recognize me, why she doesn't think she can leave, why she couldn't remember Jon Harmon, why someone brought her here in the first place.

“She has Vergets,” I say.

But Nina shakes her head. “It's not Vergets. When your mother came here, her key had just been removed. After years of normal use, the body can reject the memory key. It happens very rarely, but it does happen.”

“I don't understand,” I say. I don't.

“I'm sorry,” says Nina.

I look at my mother. She is looking at me. “It's all right,” she says. “My natural memory is underdeveloped, but I've been working to improve it. I've designed a regimen of memory exercises that I do every day. The puzzles help too, and my studies.”

“Your studies?” I ask.

“Yes, and you've gotten so much better,” Nina interrupts. “I'm surprised they haven't transferred you to the north wing.”

I want to laugh. Even with her erased mind, my mother is as methodical as she always was. But I don't laugh. I cry.

“No, Lora. It's all right.” My mother touches my elbow, and at her touch I come apart. I fall on her shoulder and weep into the collar of her shirt. Slowly, her arms come around my back, first one, then the other. She used to hold me like this all the time.

But as my tears slow, I begin to notice the ways it's different now. Now I am taller than she is. Now my ear doesn't quite fit into the nook above her collarbone. Now there is tension in her limbs and spine, and a matching tension in my own body. When I let go, she lets go. She takes a step back and touches my peach dress. Her peach dress.

“Do you recognize it? It was yours,” I say, wiping my eyes.

“Yes, I think it's familiar.” She slides her finger across the silky fabric.

Jon turns to Nina the nurse. “Will you ask the front desk to call her guardian and tell them we want to take her home? And also her doctor?”

“Of course. I'll be right back,” she says.

After Nina leaves, closing the door behind her, Jon looks at my mother. “Jeanette, we have to get you out of here before she comes back,” he says, very quietly.

“Why, what do you mean?” she asks.

“They faked your death and hid you away!” I say, much too loudly. Then immediately I fix my voice, make it normal. No frustration. No disappointment. “Whatever is happening here, it can't be good. Who knows what they'll do when they find out we've found you.”

My mother looks at me but her gaze is far away. She is thinking.

“Yes,” she says after a moment. “I'll go with you. But how?”

A short time later, the plump man in his mint-colored polo shirt and the woman in the peach dress, straw hat, and sunglasses walk through the reception area. Perhaps the visitors wave to the lady behind the front desk. Perhaps she does not wave back because she is appalled by this breach in policy—all guests in the south wing are supposed to be chaperoned during their visit. But at least she doesn't stop them. So out they go.

Here's the tricky part: I am still standing in my mother's room, dressed in her sweatpants and T-shirt and sneakers. The shoes are a little tight, a little narrow, but a vast improvement over the high heels now slipping around on my mom's feet.

Of course my idea—that she would dress up in my clothes and leave with Jon—was met with protest. No, no, no. It's ridiculous. Impossible. Out of the question. But I argued that the most important thing was to get her away. It's not as if they could keep
me
at Grand Gardens against my will.

“But we can't just leave you here alone,” said my mother.

“Mom, I'm not a little kid anymore,” I said. When she flinched, I felt terrible. But it had to be said. This had to be done. “Anyway, you're not leaving me. I'll catch up to you in no time.”

Finally, reluctantly, they agreed.

I watch from the window as Jon and my mother walk to the parking lot. When they reach the car, my mom pauses a moment before getting in. She turns to gaze up at the building, as if she wants one last look at the place. But then I realize I'm wrong; she's looking for me in the window. I raise my hand and touch the glass. I doubt she can see me from this distance. But her head seems to tilt in acknowledgment.

The car glides out of the parking lot, down the driveway, and disappears behind a cluster of trees. This is my cue. According to my mother, there is an emergency exit at the far end of the south wing. The alarm will go off when the door opens, but I'll have several minutes before the security guards
make it over from the central part of the building. Several minutes to run.

I ease the door open. The hallway is empty. I walk briskly, baggy pants flapping against my legs, rubber soles of my shoes squealing on the linoleum floors. I feel like I'm making a racket, and at any moment someone is going to rush out from behind one of these closed doors.

No one does.

But then I hear them around the corner. A woman is speaking, tone tart with complaint: “So Nina comes and tells me to take my break. I'm just doing my job, babysitting the guests, but she acts like I'm slacking off.”

I recognize the voice: it's the glum attendant who escorted us to Marty Goodman. And I don't know what to do. Do I return to my mother's room? Do I continue toward the stairwell? If I continue toward the stairwell, the glum attendant might see me. If she sees me, she might recognize me. If she recognizes me . . .

I don't know what to do. So I do nothing. I stay stopped and still and listening.

Her companion answers in soothing tones. “I'm sure Nina didn't mean it like that. You're just overworked.”

“I'm so sick of this place. But I can't quit until I find another job, and there aren't any other jobs. Believe me, I've been looking.”

Their voices seem to be drifting away, but I'm not sure. Everything inside me sounds so outrageously loud—my
booming heart, my shrieking thoughts—that I'm having trouble hearing. So I creep closer. I creep to the edge of the wall, crouch low, and peer around the corner.

Two women in blue jackets are walking down the hall. Moving away from me, their backs to me. Their backs to me, thank goodness. I take a deep breath. Then I step, step, step to the stairwell. And I'm safe. For now.

I jog down one flight of stairs with my head ducked down—there are security cameras mounted in the corners—and then I'm at the emergency exit. My palms meet the cold metal bar. I push down hard. The alarm clangs as the door opens, the sound slicing the air. I step over the threshold. Then stop.

For standing directly in my way is another person in a blue jacket. He stares at me with one hand held to his ear, perhaps in a futile attempt to block out the piercing scream of the alarm.

“Lora? What are you doing here?” asks Raul.