The Memory Key (21 page)

“Carlos is friends with Jon Harmon. And Mom, too, I guess.”

“Well, I suppose you better talk to Jon about this.” My father speaks with no particular urgency and I'm puzzled by his lack of response. This is beyond absentmindedness.

“Don't you understand, Dad? Maybe she won't have to go!”

“But we've already spent the day getting everything together—the papers, the tickets. It's all arranged.”

“Arrangements can change,” I say.

“Lora,” he says. “She's leaving tomorrow.”

“No,” I say. I gaze down at my hands. My nails are painted darkest red from when Wendy and I got graduation manicures two weeks ago, forever ago, and the darkest red polish is now chipped at the edges, revealing the paleness underneath. “No,” I say again. “She can't.”

I get up. I walk down the hall to the phone in the kitchen
and call Jon Harmon. I tell him about Carlos Cruz. I tell him my mother doesn't have to go.

“Lora, what did I say about staying out of this?” he bellows. “This is dangerous business! And telling Carlos, of all people! That man would sell out his mother for a story.”

“But he can help us,” I say, and it feels strange to be defending Carlos after I've thought so many similarly bad things about him. “Anyway, I didn't tell him she's still alive.”

“At least there's that.” Jon sighs. “Perhaps this will go somewhere, but in the meantime we still need to keep Jeanette safe, and the only way to do that is to get her far away from here.”

“Why does it have to be tomorrow?”

“I know it's fast, but you'll have time to say good-bye. I'll call you in the morning and we'll plan something.”

“I have to be at the library at noon,” I say. I can't call in sick again.

“Then we'll plan for something before noon,” he says.

I hang up the phone. I go back to the den. My father has not budged from his chair. “She's leaving tomorrow,” I say.

“I know. I told you,” he says.

“Don't you even care?” I say.

“What does it matter?” he says.

I look at him with utter disbelief.

But then I notice that he is crying, his face like crumpled paper, his hands clenched in his lap, doing nothing to hide the drip of his eyes. “Dad?” I say, and it's all I say because it's all I
can
say.

“This is a stressful time, that's all.” His voice is hoarse.

“Don't worry, Dad. We'll get the proof we need, then she can come home, and everything will be normal again.”

“Yes, normal,” he mumbles as he lunges out of the armchair. He goes into the bathroom. The door shuts.

I don't know what to do. I sit. I wait. I try to think of what I'll say when my father comes back. I'll tell him we'll figure this out, because we always figure it out, because we're a team—not like a superhero and sidekick, but two sidekicks, fair and square. I'll tell him we'll figure this out and everything will be normal again.

But when my father comes back his eyes are clear, his mouth is smiling, and he doesn't give me a chance to tell him anything.

“Sorry about that,” he says briskly. “I haven't been getting much sleep recently; I must be overtired. Aren't you tired? It's late. We should both go to bed. I teach early tomorrow, and you have work at the library, don't you? How's that going, by the way? How's Cynthia? Wow, it's really late. Definitely bedtime.”

The only way to respond to his cheery chatter is with cheery chatter. Together we go upstairs and make the smallest small talk until he turns to go into his room and I turn to go into mine.

“Good night, Lora,” he says, still smiling.

“Good night, Dad,” I say, trying hard to smile back.

I'M SURE THERE MUST BE SOME MISTAKE—MY PHONE CAN'T BE
ringing, not at this hour, in this darkness—but yes, it's ringing and so I answer. “Hello?” I gurgle.

“Lora Mint, did I wake you?”

“It's the middle of the night.”

“It's nine in the morning,” says Carlos Cruz.

“It is?” I glance at the clock. He's right. I untwist my body from the blanket and get up; I go over to the window and pull back the curtain. The glass is streaked with water. The sky is a heavy gray.

“I've got strange news and bad news,” says Carlos. “What first?”

“Strange news,” I say, scratching the sleep from my eyes.

“I haven't been able to identify your two strangers. Apparently, they don't work for Keep Corp. Nor do they work for that specialty firm.”

“Then who are they?”

“Nobody knows, that's what's strange.”

“Okay. And the bad news?”

“My source has disappeared. No one's seen him since yesterday.”

I sit back on my bed. “It's only been a day. He could reappear.”

“Sure, anything's possible,” he says. “Which reminds me, I need your friend Tim Laskey's telephone number.”

“What? Why?”

“I want him to check on something at Keep Corp.”

“How did you know he works there?” I say accusingly.

Carlos sighs. “Are we playing this game again? He mentioned it yesterday.”

I frown. I don't remember him mentioning it yesterday.

“Listen, Lora, your friend could help get the evidence we need to prove Keep Corp's involvement in your mother's death. Don't you want that?”

I give him Tim's number.

When Jon Harmon calls a little while later, I don't bother telling him what Carlos said. I know what Jon's response would be: there's nothing we can do, she has to go and the sooner the better, let's make it an hour earlier, maybe three hours earlier, maybe she's already gone.

“Thanks,” I say. “See you there.”

I retrieve my umbrella from the closet, along with my raincoat and boots, and since the weather's too bad for biking, I take the bus downtown. It drives a different route from the one
I normally take, a route that goes past Keep Corp's trip-down-memory-lane billboards. Even soaking wet, the attractive couple is extremely attractive. They look so happy together. I have to remind myself it's fake.

My phone starts ringing again, and this time it's Tim. I answer, trying to ignore the glares from other passengers. “Did Carlos Cruz call you?” I ask.

“Why are you whispering?”

“I'm on the bus,” I say.

“Right, so I talked to Carlos. He wants me to sneak into his source's office and find those documents he told us about.”

“That's crazy! I didn't think he'd ask you to do something crazy!” I forget to be quiet, and the other passengers glare harder. I lower my voice again. “What did you tell him?”

“I said I'd do it.”

“What? Why? Wait, hold on, it's my stop. I'm getting off.” I hop down to the wet sidewalk and wrestle open my umbrella. “Okay, are you still there?” I ask.

And as soon as Tim acknowledges he's still there, I start shouting. “Are you insane? What if someone catches you? These people are dangerous!”

“Don't worry, it'll be fine.”

“But, Tim!”

“I have to go. I'll call you later.”

“But, Tim!”

He's gone. He doesn't answer when I call him back once, twice, thrice. I'm worried, and I'm scared, and I feel guilty for
getting him into this situation. But I also feel guilty because some tiny part of me is pleased—if he finds what he's looking for, then my mother can stay.

After Tim doesn't answer for the fourth time, I give up.

I cross the street and go into the big department store on the corner, the same store I went to with my father on our way to Darren's sister's apartment the other day. I walk straight to the Intimates section, where there is only one customer browsing, a woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat that is somewhat familiar. She is studying the sizing chart on a package of underwear.

“Find what you're looking for?” I ask her.

My mother steps back in surprise, clutching the pack to her chest, and I realize her hat is
my
hat, with the plastic flowers removed. I kind of wish she had asked before cutting off the flowers. I tell myself it's a hat, just a hat.

“You made it, I'm so glad,” she says.

“Yeah, Mom. Where's Jon Harmon?”

“He went to pick up my passport.” She rests her hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for coming. I was afraid I'd have to go without seeing you again.”

And even though I knew she would be going, it feels as if I hadn't known this at all. “What time are you leaving?” I ask.

“My flight is at seven tonight.” She drops the package of underwear into her shopping cart. It flops against a tube of lotion. I pick the tube up and read the label.

“Unscented?” I say.

“I have to be careful with fragrances. My skin has become very sensitive.”

I remember the lavender soap I bought for her, from this very store. I remember and wait for her to remember. She pulls an undershirt from the rack, examines it, then puts it back. I tell myself it's a bar of soap, just a bar of soap.

“So where are you going?” I ask.

“I can't tell you, Lora, you know that. It's for your own safety.”

“But . . . I'm your daughter.”

“Yes, and as my daughter will you help me select a coat? It'll be cold where I'm going, the nights are apparently very cold.” She pushes her shopping cart toward Women's Apparel, and I trail after her, trying to think of cold places, but I can't think of a single one right now. All I can think of is my father sitting in his armchair, weeping.

“Dad was really upset last night,” I tell her.

“Oh, no,” she says. I wait for her to say more. But she never says more.

So I say more: “You don't have to go. We'll find a safe place for you here, and once we get the evidence against Keep Corp you can come home. I think we're really close.”

“That's good.” She holds up a navy blazer. “What do you think of this?”

“Did Jon tell you about my conversation with Carlos Cruz yesterday?”

“He told me. And you know, I think I remember him.”

“Who? Carlos?”

“Is he a dark man? Tall?” she asks.

“Kind of dark. Kind of tall.” I should be glad she remembers him; I should be glad if she remembers anything. I'm not. “Have you remembered anything else?”

“A little, but it's all in pieces. My sister coming to visit. My grandfather reading his newspaper. A room with a thick green carpet and a large desk.”

“That's your office! What else?” I wait for her to say she remembers me. Anything about me. Everything about me.

“That's about it. My memory . . .”

“Your memory?” I say. Then I say it again.

The words seem to act as an incantation, unfurling something within me. Rage. I am suddenly and completely enraged. How could she have been so careless? Why was she always rushing to work? How could she have let herself get killed? How could she abandon me like that?

I don't understand what's happening. This shouldn't be happening, not now, not when my key has been repaired. And she's alive. She is alive, I remind myself. But my anger easily adjusts to the changing circumstances: she was only a half hour away at Grand Gardens—why did she never come for me? How could she have forgotten me? Did I mean so little to her?

“Lora, what is it?” asks my mother.

“You
want
to leave,” I say, finally understanding.

“No, I
have
to leave.”

“I don't think that's true.” My voice is hard and my face is
hard. But inside I am soft. Inside I am waiting for her to furiously deny it, to say that she's my mother so of course she would never leave me willingly, that she would never leave me at all, no matter what.

“I can't live like this, Lora, stuck in some small apartment, constantly afraid I'm going to be found. I didn't leave Grand Gardens to be trapped in some new place. I need to have some sort of life.”

“But what about me? And Dad? Aren't we your life? Don't you care about us?”

“Of course I care,” she says.

“Then why can't it be like it used to be?”

My mother sighs. “But I can't remember how it used to be. I wish I could, I wish it so much. But I can't. I can't be the person you knew. She doesn't exist anymore.”

I feel sick. Nauseated. I need to sit down. But there is no place to sit down, so I stand up straighter. “You could try harder,” I say. “Why won't you try harder?”

“I have been trying. I really have.” Her voice is quiet.

Then there is nothing left to say. So I stand up straighter, even straighter, and stare at a display of bathing suits. I stare at so many stripes, ruffles, and polka dots on sale, and tell her: “If you're going, you better go.”

But when I look again she's still there. She stretches one arm out, reaches her open hand toward me. Then we both startle back as sound blares through the store. It's a PA announcement:
Will Millie
please report to Men's Shoes. Will Millie please report to Men's Shoes
. The announcement is followed by a silence as loud as the loudspeaker blare, louder even. The silence howls with no shame.

I blink and see my mother standing in our kitchen, arm crossed over her chest, gaze faraway. I see her wandering through the den, not noticing me on the sofa. I see her sitting across from me at dinner, so distracted that when I ask her a question, she gives the answer to a question I didn't ask. She calls my father the absentminded professor, but she has no right. She is the absentminded one.

She is the absent one.

All at once my rage feels hot enough to burn the whole department store down. “Just go!” I shout, and I shout it again. I shout it again, again, again.

And my mother does the worst thing she could possibly do. She does as I ask.