The Memory Key (16 page)

The shadow still sits still.

I exhale.

My father thumps upstairs and I move toward the sound, wanting to see him, to talk to him, to laugh with him in relief. It feels as if we've just passed through some dreadful ordeal together. I come out of my room to meet him in the hallway. To tell him.

“Lora?” He looks surprised to see me, as if I'm somewhere I don't belong.

“Where were you?” I ask, surprised by his surprise. Surprised by how he is fiddling with the button on his shirt cuff, unbuttoning it then buttoning it again. The absentminded professor is not fidgety. The absentminded professor stares off in the distance; he doesn't dart his eyes around the room, his gaze a scuttling insect.

“Last-minute faculty meeting.” His voice sounds strange, out of tune.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“No, not at all, nothing at all,” he blusters, and this gives him away: Dad gets blustery when he's wrong, and the more wrong he is the more blustery he gets.

All of a sudden my head hurts, it hurts a lot, the pain worse than it's been all week, and the pain has been very, very bad.

How can I tell him about Mom when my head is booming like this? How can I tell him when I know he knows the blue-jacketed strangers? How I can tell him when he is lying about where he was tonight?

I can't.

So I say good night and stumble into my room, shut the door, take out the bottle of pain pills, empty it into my palm, and am dismayed to discover there are only six pills left. I swallow them all, two at a time. Tomorrow I'll buy more.

IN THE MORNING LIGHT, ALL IS CALM AND BEAUTIFUL AS A LANDSCAPE
painting: the sky clear, the trees still, the grass vividly green. There is no silver sedan parked in front of our house, or anywhere else on the block, and I can almost believe I had imagined that car last night. I can almost believe I imagined my father's fidgeting hands and blustery explanations. Almost.

When I arrive at the library, I'm a few minutes late for work, and Cynthia calls me into her office. I worry she thinks I was eavesdropping on her phone conversation the other afternoon. I suppose I was. But she doesn't say anything about that. Instead she asks if everything is all right. I tell her everything is fine.

“Lora, you've always been a responsible employee, but lately you've seemed distracted. You've been coming in late and leaving early. You've been shelving books in the wrong place and snapping at our patrons. Are you sure there's nothing wrong?” Her voice is cool, so is her expression.

“Everything's fine,” I say again.

“If this behavior continues, we may have to let you go.”

I examine her face for a sign that this is a joke, but find only the straight line of her lips, the blank brown of her eyes.

“We've just been told our budget is going to be cut significantly, and we'll have to downsize. I'm telling you now because I want to give you fair warning.”

“I'm sorry. I promise I'll do better,” I say.

But inside I'm seething. Maybe I've been distracted lately, but it's only been lately. And Albert, another of the library clerks, is much ruder to the patrons than I could ever be, even at my most distracted. And I thought Cynthia was my friend.

Still, I start my shift determined to be a model library clerk; all thoughts not pertaining to borrowing, returning, or late fees are banished from my brain. I chirp cheerfully to everyone, even the repulsive old man who talks only to my chest. “Have a wonderful day,” I tell him. He leers at me as he leaves. Then he leers at me as he leaves. Then he leers at me as he leaves. Then he leers at me as he leaves.

I'm stuck in a memory loop. He leers at me as he leaves. I grit my teeth, trying to force myself to the present. Then he leers at me as he leaves. I straighten my shoulders, trying to force myself to the present. Then he leers at me as he leaves. My head is throbbing. Stupid broken key. Then he leers at me as he leaves.

“Lora,” says the next person in line. His voice tows me out from the past. I turn to say a grateful hello, but am unable to speak when I see who it is.

“How are you?” asks Raul.

“Oh.” I stare at the book in his hand.

“How are you?” he asks again.

“About yesterday,” I say to the book in his hand. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” he says, and it's the polite thing to say, but he makes it sound like it really is okay. So I look at him then, finally, I look in his face for anger or disgust. But all I find is concern. He is so nice. He is too nice.

“My break is in an hour,” I say. “Will you be here for a while? Doing research for your paper on cetaceans? Marine mammals and such?”

“You remembered.” He smiles.

“Of course,” I say. If I were a more honest person, I would tell him he shouldn't be so impressed. I remember everything.

We meet outside. I have a sandwich, which I offer to share, but Raul says he's not hungry. I ask if he wants some orange juice, but he says he's not thirsty, no thanks. I bite my sandwich. I sip my juice.

“So what happened?” he asks, turning his head all the way around so he can stare all the way at me. His dark eyes are serious. His hair is honey-colored in the sun.

“What do you mean?” I say. As if I didn't know exactly what he meant.

“Yesterday, at Grand Gardens.”

“I wish I could explain.”

“Then explain.”

“I . . . can't. I'm sorry, but I can't.”

I truly can't. Because what if he thinks I'm nuts? Or reports me to his bosses? Or just decides he wants nothing more to do with me? I don't know what I'll do if he decides he wants nothing more to do with me. Because with Raul there is no ugly past; there are no nasty words or hurtful actions to remember. I can't give that up.

Raul shakes his head. He is frowning.

“I'm really sorry,” I say. I put down my sandwich and my juice. Then I lean over to brush my lips across his lips, and after a second, he kisses me back. His hand finds my shoulder. My hand finds his knee. The dark wraps around us, and I am so happy. I've wanted this for so long. For so long I've wanted to taste the salt-sweet of his mouth, to feel the slide of his fingers across my bare skin, to have his warm body pressed against mine. For so long I've wanted Tim—

Tim?
I pull away, I pull myself to the present and smile sheepishly at Raul, as if I'm merely self-conscious about making out in front of my place of work. Which I am. Still, what a cruel joke of memory that was, when a moment before I had been so sure I was immune with Raul. Guess I was wrong.

I pick up my sandwich again. Though I'm no longer hungry, chewing is something to do. Raul smiles his nice smile—his questions about me at Grand Gardens have apparently been resolved through kissing—and asks if I want to hang out tonight. I nod, my mouth full of bread and guilt.

After he leaves, I go back inside the library. There's a
prickling in my head, but I'm not thinking about that. I'm also not thinking about what happened while I was kissing Raul.
Tim.
Raul. The only thing I'm thinking about is how to productively use the remaining minutes of my lunch break. I hurry over to the computers.

It takes some searching, but I find an article that seems to be about the new line of memory keys. I print it out to read later. Then I come across a photo of Keep Corp's CEO with two senators and the secretary of defense at a charity ball. Then a photo of the CEO with a half dozen foreign dignitaries.

As I click through page after page of such pictures, my stomach sinks. Keep Corp is a multinational corporation worth billions of dollars; they're a household name with their clever billboards and heartwarming television commercials. Keep Corp is embedded in our lives, just as their memory keys are embedded into our brains. If I'm right and it's Keep Corp we're up against, what chance do we have?

Abruptly, I stand up. My face is hot and my breath is short, and all I want is to run right out of here. All I want is to race over to Jon Harmon's house. Because all I want is my mother, to sit with her, look at her, talk to her. She is all I want.

But I don't leave. I can't. I am a model library clerk.

I am a model library clerk until an hour later, when the throbbing in my head becomes unbearable. Then I ask Albert, the other clerk, to cover for me at the circulation desk. I go to the back room and blunder around in my backpack, searching for
my pain pills, but when I find the bottle it's empty. Because I took the last of the tablets last night.

My headache intensifies. Maybe because I'm panicking, of course I'm panicking—how will I make it through the rest of my shift? It feels like someone has chopped open my skull and is kneading my brains into dough. It hurts so much I can barely breathe.

Panicking, I unscrew the bottle again to check again that it's empty, and of course it is. Panicking, I ransack the inside of my bag, searching for something that can't possibly be there: a dozen tablets miraculously mislaid or the new bottle I haven't yet bought.

Then I find it. A lump wrapped in tatty tissue. The single prescription painkiller pill that I took from Aunt Austin's medicine cabinet.

I stare at the small white tablet. I probably shouldn't take it. I don't know how it'll affect me and I'm supposed to be a model library clerk. I probably shouldn't take it since I remember how my father got when he took these painkillers for his back injury: slow and confused, clumsy. Forgetful.

But agony overcomes reason. Easily.

The pill is chalky on my tongue, bumpy down my throat.

I return to the circulation desk, and in what seems like no time at all, the pain lifts away, flies away, and I fly with it in relief. Yes, I might be slow and confused. Yes, there are a few occasions when I'm forced to ask people to repeat their questions—not so fast please. But the pathetic truth is that I can still do my job
just fine. I can check in books and check out books and smile at the patrons, and no one seems to mind if my smile is a little loopy, a lot loopy, all loopy.

There's only one awkward moment when my hand accidentally flops against Albert's and he looks at me with brow raised, quite un-Albert like, and asks if I just touched him. I say no.

So it's only after my shift ends that everything goes bad. As soon as I stand up I get dizzy. Then my headache comes back. Even worse.

“Are you all right?” asks Albert.

“I'm fine,” I say, and leave as quickly as I can in my incapacitated state.

Outside is too bright, and I can't look, and I nearly fall. It's not just my pounding head, I'm also nauseated. It's not just the nausea, my whole body is trembling. I totter to the railing, hanging tight to the bar as I stumble down the stairs.

“Lora!”

I wobble around. When I see him, he appears to be shimmering and I wonder if this is just another memory. But then he comes over, puts his arm around me, props me up against his shoulder, and helps me down the steps, and he's so solid he must be real. This must be real.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, feeling too bad to be mad.

“Coming to your rescue,” says Tim.

“I don't need to be rescued,” I say sharply, try to say sharply, but fail miserably as the world swirls. I touch his cheek, trying
to make it stop. My hand rubs his chin, which is pleasantly scratchy with stubble. Tim laughs and pulls my fingers away.

We are at his car. He helps me into the front seat, and asks for my keys so he can put my bike in the back. As I wait, I try to straighten up, to settle my mind, to shake off the hurt. It feels better to be sitting again, but only a little better. My head throbs. Where
are
my pain pills? I reach for my bag. Then I remember there aren't any left.

Tim gets into the car. “It's your memory key, isn't it,” he says.

“No, I'm fine,” I say. “And I have somewhere to go.”

“I know. I'm taking you there.”

“Thanks.” I close my eyes.

“You're welcome,” he says.

My face flops against the cushioned headrest. I want to ask Tim for my pain pills, but I don't know how, and when I do know how, I remember the empty bottle. I remember that prescription painkiller lump wrapped in tatty tissue. I shouldn't have . . .

I blink. My father knows what to do. I know he knows because he's always the one who stays home to take care of me. Now I'm in bed with a stomach-heaving flu and Dad is wiping my face with a cool cloth.

Drink some water
.
Can you drink some water?
he asks.

No
. I shake my head.

How about some ginger ale? It'll settle your stomach.
Daddy cracks open the can and sticks in a straw. He knows I can't
resist a straw.
One sip
, he says and I take one sip.
One more sip
, he says and I take one more sip.

When's Mama coming home?
I ask.

Soon as she can leave work
.

Will you stay with me till she comes?
I ask. He's right about the ginger ale, I feel better already, though I don't tell him that. I want him to stay.

Of course
, he says.

My head hurts
, I say.

“My head hurts,” I say.

“Lora, we're here,” says Tim.

I look around. But this isn't Jon Harmon's house. This isn't anyone's house. This isn't any place I recognize. We're surrounded by cars and concrete gray. Another moment passes before I understand that we're inside a parking garage.

“Do you need me to carry you?” asks Tim.

“That's not necessary. I've recovered,” I say.

“Great,” he says.

With effort, I manage to crawl out of the car and stretch myself upright. But when I stagger forward, Tim takes my arm. I let him. My headache is so bad that I have to.

We walk through a corridor and come into a room where a security guard sits behind a desk. Tim shows his ID badge and the guard scans it. Sliding doors open to a glass-walled atrium. Here there's too much light, my eyes start watering from so much light, but still I look around, for there is so much to look at, and it all seems eerily familiar.

For example, there's the attractive man sitting on a bench, I know I know that attractive man. I squint at him, but he doesn't notice; he's reading a magazine with complete attention. And just behind him, I recognize another face: a little girl with braided hair dances on the beach. But there's something very wrong—though she's just a little girl she's twice my size, and even though she's smiling at me, I'm frightened of her, and why are we at the beach when we're not?

Tim tugs me forward and I realize there isn't any little girl; she's just an image on a huge screen, she's just the girl from the commercial, it's the Keep Corp commercial on a huge screen. Which means the attractive man is the attractive man from the Keep Corp billboard. I laugh at my foolishness.

Around the corner is another desk, or is it still the first desk? There's a pen in my hand and I'm trying to write my name, but the letters are slippery. “That's good enough,” a voice says, and I'm relieved, so relieved.

I don't remember closing my eyes, but when I open them again, Tim is gone and I'm strapped into a chair, cold metal pressing each side of my face. “Relax, you're going to be fine,” says someone from somewhere behind me. I don't recognize the voice. I twist around in panic, trying to get a look at the person speaking, but my body is anchored and I can't move at all.