The Memory Key (19 page)

“Will they be able to connect her disappearance to you two?” asks Dad.

“The nurse can,” I say. “She's the only one who knows we were there, in Mom's room. And she knows I'm her daughter. But maybe she hasn't told anyone. It might endanger her job—she wasn't supposed to bring us to her room. Or leave us unattended.”

“I don't think Nina would give us away,” says my mother.

Jon shakes his head. “We have to assume she's told them everything. But at least they don't know who I am. What we have to do now is arrange for Jeanette to get away, within the next few days. In the meantime, Ken and Lora, you'll act like
you know nothing. Maybe you visited your mother at the retirement home, but you left her there, and that was the last time you saw her. Okay?”

“Maybe we should talk to Nina. Ask her for help,” I say.

“No!” yells Jon.

We all turn to him in surprise. And I suddenly notice how bad he looks. His complexion is clammy. There are purple shadows under his eyes. I remember him telling me about his breakdown, the panic attacks and insomnia. I remember and I'm ashamed that it's only now I'm realizing that beneath his cheery mask Jon is a stressed mess. Because of us.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “That was a stupid idea.”

He swipes his arm across his damp forehead. “No, I'm sorry for shouting like that. I'm just a little tense.”

“It's fine,” I tell him.

Then I don't say another word while Jon summarizes the plan: Dad and I will return to the department store, retrieve our car, go to the bank to withdraw money from the ATM, and drive home. Tomorrow my father will dress in his workout clothes and meet Jon at the gym with as much cash as he has, in order to purchase the necessary identification papers, airplane tickets, etc. They will go together to procure these items from Jon's contacts, and afterward they will return to Darren's sister's apartment to finalize the plans for my mother's departure.

I don't say a word. I wait for someone else to protest. No one does.

“Okay?” asks Jon.

“Okay,” says my father.

“Okay,” says my mother.

And I want to scream that there must be some alternative, that she doesn't have to go, that we can find another way. Instead I say something ridiculous.

“Can I come along tomorrow?” I ask.

Jon is the first to say no, then Dad. They both say it kindly, firmly.

I look at my mother.

“Lora,” she says. “It's for the best.”

I CALL IN SICK TO WORK THE NEXT DAY. I TRY NOT TO NOTICE
Cynthia's disapproving tone on the phone. I try not to notice I'm neglecting my duties after being lectured about neglecting my duties. I try not to feel bad but I'm feeling very bad when my father comes downstairs in his T-shirt and athletic shorts and white sneakers and socks stretched halfway to his knees; I feel so very bad and so very anxious that I don't even comment on his dorky gym clothes. All I say is: “Please be careful.”

“Of course, Lora.” He kisses my cheek.

I watch from the window as he walks down the driveway, bulky duffel bag bumping against his hip. He gets into his car and goes. I wait to see if another car comes racing down the street after him. No other car comes racing. Everything outside is perfectly, picturesquely ordinary. Neighborhood kids play kick ball in the grass. The trees bob and sway with the breeze.

For a long time I just stand there, looking out at the fluttering leaves and the snickering kids and the red ball swooping through the air. Then I get out my phone. I dial. The line rings
and rings and rings, until the answering machine comes on.

“Hi, it's me,” I say. “Just wondering what you're—”

“Lora?” My mother picks up. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, Mom, how are you?”

“I'm good. And you?”

“Good. I was thinking, if you're not busy or anything, maybe I could come over? Just for a little while? If you don't mind?”

She pauses before she says: “All right.”

“I don't have to, if it's inconvenient.”

“It's not inconvenient. Please come.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“I'm sure,” she says.

Though I notice no strangers lurking, no vehicles following, I ride a long and circuitous route around the city, and lock my bicycle a few blocks away from Darren's sister's apartment. Jon and Dad will not be pleased that I am making this trip alone, so the least I can do is to be careful.

“I thought you had work today,” my mother says when she opens the door.

“No, no work. I couldn't . . . I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all. I was just doing some reading.” She leads me into the square-shaped living room. As before, the couch is covered in notepaper, and, as before, she carefully collects them to make space for us to sit down.

I look at her stack of paper and at the books piled up on the coffee table. “How did you keep up with all this med-tech stuff while you were at Grand Gardens?”

“Well, at first I didn't. I couldn't. My memory was so bad. So my doctor recommended that I find an interest or hobby, some topic to focus my mind on, and of course I thought immediately of medical technology.”

“Of course
.” I don't mean to sound sarcastic. I sound so sarcastic.

She doesn't seem to notice. “Yes, of course,” she says. “The more I studied, the more information came back to me. Not right away, and not everything, not by a long shot. But enough to make me feel more like myself again.”

Then I feel bad. What right do I have to resent her enduring dedication to her work if it makes her feel more like herself again? I have no right.

“That's great,” I say.

“Yes.” She leans back on the couch.

“Yes.” I lean back on the couch.

We sit in silence for a minute. Two minutes.

“What is—” I say and “What are—” she says.

“Go ahead.”

“No, you go ahead.”

“What's that?” I point to the open magazine on the table.

“It's the latest issue of
Med-Tech Quarterly
. Jon got it for me.”

“That's nice of him.”

“Yes, very nice.” She describes the article she just read,
something about the problems with a new kind of neural sensor, and I nod as she talks, but I am looking at her more than I'm listening. I am looking at her shirt and sweatpants, her same shirt and sweatpants from Grand Gardens, and wishing I'd thought to bring some of her old clothes from the attic. She never used to wear sweatpants.

“But I just don't think it's a realistic goal, do you?” she asks, smiling.

“Um. I don't really know,” I say.

Her smile fades. “You should read the article. It's fascinating.”

“Okay,” I say. “Were you going to ask me something before?”

“I wanted to know about your studies. What do you plan to major in?”

“I'm not sure yet,” I say. “I'm only starting college this fall.”

“Yes, your father told me. But it's good to be prepared, so you can go in and take immediate advantage of the resources available to you. What subjects are you considering?” she asks.

“I really don't know yet.”

“What were your favorite subjects in high school?”

“History and math, but I'm not sure I want to major in either of them.”

Her lips compress, her eyes narrow. I remember that expression. It's disappointment. “Well,” she says. “I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually.”

I nod. I don't speak. I don't want to disappoint her again.

My mother picks up her magazine—the latest issue of
Med-Tech Quarterly
—and flips it shut. “Can I offer you a drink?” she asks. “Water? Juice?”

“What kind of juice do you have?”

“There's some cranberry juice, do you like that?”

I don't like that. “I'll have some water. Thanks.”

We go into the kitchen. My mother takes a glass from the cupboard. She gets the ice tray from the freezer and cracks the cubes out of the tray. She stands at the sink and fills the glass under the faucet.

“Anyway, lots of kids start college without a major. It's normal,” I say.

My mother looks at me. While she is looking at me, the glass overflows. She turns back and for a moment just stares at the water spilling down her hand. Then she grabs the tap and twists it closed.

“I'm sure you're right,” she says.

I don't stay much longer after that.

When I tell her I should probably be getting home, my mother nods and walks me to the door. I kiss her cheek and say it was nice to see her and I'll see her again soon. She kisses my cheek and says the same. We are speaking all the correct words and making all the correct gestures, but it all feels off, as if we're actors performing a scene and performing it badly.

And I cannot figure out what we're doing wrong.

So I don't know how to fix it.

I ride an even more circuitous route going than I did coming, and it's not until I am rolling my bicycle into the house that I realize the circuitous route was unnecessary—anyone following me would already know where I live. I slam the front door shut. Then I notice my cell phone is ringing.

It's her. It has to be her.

It's not her.

I don't recognize the number, but I answer anyway.

“Hello! This is Tonya from the KCO, returning your call. How can I help you?” chirps the voice at the other end. It takes me a second to remember that the KCO is the anti–Keep Corp organization from Ms. Pearl's leaflet, and then my mood immediately improves. Maybe the KCO can help us.

I start small: “Do you have any advice for people who've gotten their memory keys removed?” I ask.

“No, we actually don't recommend key extraction.”

“But what about the things you say? About Keep Corp's power? About the child labor in their factories?” My improved mood is already deteriorating.

“Unfortunately, there's no alternative as long as Vergets disease is a threat,” she says. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Then what do you even
do
?” I don't bother hiding my disappointment.

“At this point, our main goal is to end Keep Corp's monopoly on key manufacture. Their patents should have expired decades ago, but they've managed to get extension after extension. The other med-tech companies are afraid to challenge
them because every time someone has tried, Keep Corp has successfully sued.” Tonya from the KCO talks quickly, as if she's afraid I might give up, hang up, before she's done.

“In three months, there'll be a rally to increase public awareness,” she says.

“A rally,” I say.

“If we can end their monopoly, there'll be more regulation of the industry, more transparency. And that's only the beginning! Won't you help make it happen? Anything you're able to do—distributing flyers, making calls, raising money—would help.”

“Distributing flyers,” I say.

“Sure! We're having a meeting next week. Let me give you the details.”

I listen to the details. I hang up the phone. I slip my hand into the front pocket of my bag and fumble around for something. It's only when the top is unscrewed and I'm staring at the blank white bottom that I realize it's the empty bottle of pain pills I've got clenched in my fist.

But my head isn't aching. But my memory key isn't broken. I have no excuse. No excuse other than I'm so frustrated it hurts. Keep Corp wrecked my family once, but it's us doing the wrecking this second time. If only Jon weren't so afraid. If only Dad weren't so bewildered. If only my mother weren't . . . I go into the kitchen and drop the empty pill bottle into the recycling bin.

I come to a decision.

My first move is a text message:
Can we talk?

After waiting a few minutes, I leave my phone on the table and go upstairs. I wash my hands and face. I brush my hair and tie it up into a ponytail. I make my bed. I put away my laundry. Then I run downstairs to check if I've gotten a text back; I must have gotten a text back by now.

I haven't. I scowl at my phone. It chimes.

I'm at the place.

“The place” is the pizza place in our neighborhood, and it serves what may be the worst pizza in the whole city: never enough sauce, never enough cheese, so much crust. The décor is equally unimpressive; the principal design feature is grime. But the waiters are friendly and they let you stay hours, even if you've only ordered a soda. Probably because the place is almost always almost empty.

This afternoon is no different. Only one table is occupied, the table in the back corner. Tim's regular table. And Tim is sitting there. And he's not alone.

“Hi, Lauren!” says Becky, cute Keep Corp intern.

“Hi, Becky.” I wait for Tim to correct her about my name, but he doesn't. He is apparently too busy chewing up the plastic straw in his empty cup.

“That's bad for your teeth,” I tell him.

He shrugs.

Becky stands up. She is wearing a fluttery polka-dotted dress and a crisscrossing pair of sandals. Her lipstick is bright
red. All of it is cute, just like she is cute. “I better get going before I'm late. Bye, Lauren. Bye, Timmy.”

She leaves and I sit down.

“How's it going,
Timmy
?” I say.

“What do you want?”

“What makes you think I want something?”

“Why else would you be here?” He does not look at me. His gaze drifts from the dingy walls, to the plastic menu on the table, to the tiled floors, to the yellowed ceiling, but not to me, never to me.

“I just have a question for you.”

“What?” he says.

“What do you know about the new memory keys?”

Finally, he looks at me. “Why do you want to know?”

“It's a long story,” I say.

“I don't mind.” Tim stares resentfully at me. And I stare resentfully back at him. For he has no right to stare at me so when he was just hanging out with
Becky
, cutest intern ever.

After a moment, his mouth curls. “Don't you trust me?” he asks wryly.

“I do,” I say, and realize it's true. Tim may not be the nicest person: he can be selfish and unthinking; he goads and teases and never lets anyone get away with anything. But he is also the one who, when we were kids, soaked me with his neon green water gun then handed me the gun so I could soak him back. Tim is my friend. And I'm tired of pretending otherwise.

“I trust you,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Promise you won't tell anyone.”

“I swear it,” he says, and if it's possible for a grin to be solemn, his is.

Then my story comes speeding out of my mouth, phrases tripping in eagerness, sentences jumbled, words crowded too close for breath. I tell him about finding my mother at Grand Gardens. I tell him about mysterious cars and Carlos Cruz. I tell him about Jon's plan for my mom to leave the country.

“This is . . . It's totally unbelievable,” he says.

“But you believe me, right?”

“Nope. Never.”

I glare at him.

“Okay, okay. I believe you! Of course I believe you.”

“That's better.” I smile. “So what do you know about the new keys?”

“I know they're scheduled to be released at the end of the year. It's weird because there's lots of buzz, but no one seems to know what makes them special. I'll ask around. I'm friends with some recent grads in that department.”

“That'd be really helpful. Thanks,” I say.

“Do you have that flyer with you? From the Keep Out Keep Corp-whatever?”

“I think so.” I unzip my bag. Out comes a sweater, a stack of rumpled documents, a bottle of water, and a book I thought I'd lost.

“Is this it?” Tim yanks a sheet of paper from my pile of mess.

“No, what's that?” I lean over to see. He leans over so I can see. Our elbows bump once, twice. I have to remind myself to read.

It's the article I got at the library about the new memory keys. Now that I'm looking at it closely, I think it's funny I printed it out. The article is not from a newspaper, but a tabloid magazine, the kind that loves a good alien abduction story.

The writer claims that Keep Corp will soon present a new line of keys that will be marketed as innovative memory technology, but will actually be used to transmit data to the extremist group the Citizen Army, enabling them to circumvent security measures and carry out a series of political assassinations. With the government destabilized by these murders, Keep Corp will take power.