The Memory Key (22 page)

TRAGEDY STRIKES, YET IT DOESN'T SEEM TO MATTER. YOU
brush your teeth. You go to school. You come home and eat your dinner. You watch the evening news. Sometimes you wake in the morning not remembering she's gone, and you have to remember it all over. Even so, you still have to get out of bed. You still have to comb your hair. You are not excused.

I walk to the library. I arrive a little before my shift begins, so for a few minutes I stand outside, protected from the rain by a narrow ledge. With one hand, I touch the back of my head. The bandaged place is barely sore. I close my eyes and test my memory key. But no matter which way I bend my thoughts, I stay standing outside the library with my eyes closed. My key is working as it should.

So I go in and get to work. I shelve the books that need shelving, organize the periodicals, mop the puddles on the floor, put up a
CAUTION
—
WET
sign. I try to help the one person at the computers, but he doesn't seem to want my help. I mop the floor again. I shelve the three newly returned books.

“Lora, you're so full of energy today,” says Cynthia. “I guess you're fully recovered from your illness?”

I stare at her. Then I remember I called in sick yesterday. “Yes, I'm better,” I say, two moments too late.

Cynthia frowns and asks me to take over at the circulation desk. She walks away before I can answer.

On this rainy day, there is not much circulating so I pass the time staring. I stare at the floor and ceiling, at the shelves of books. It's an exciting occasion whenever the doors open and someone comes inside. Then I can watch them shaking out their drippy clothes and soaked umbrellas. I can watch them stomp the water from their shoes onto the rubber mat. I can watch and not think.

The doors open. Someone comes inside. And this time I feel no excitement, only panic. Why is
he
here? Why would he go out on this stormy afternoon? Why would he come to the library after what happened the other day?

Raul shakes out his drippy clothes and soaked umbrella. He stomps his shoes on the rubber mat. His gaze wanders across the room. It passes me without pausing. He walks away from the circulation desk, to the computers in the back.

A minute later, I follow him there. Right now I could really use a friendly face, a kind word. A nice smile. “Raul?” I say, stepping cautiously toward him.

He is already at work on a computer. He does not look up right away. And when he does, he looks faintly puzzled, as though he doesn't know who I am.

“Hey, Raul,” I say. “I'm glad—”

“Are you kidding?” His lips coil, as if he tastes something sour. Perhaps he does, for he spits out his next words: “Why are you talking to me?”

“I thought we—”

“I'll tell you why. You used me to get into Grand Gardens. And when you didn't need me anymore, you got rid of me. But now you need me again. You need my help. Is that what it is? Well, too bad.”

“I don't, I didn't—”

“I shouldn't be surprised. Really, it's my fault for not knowing better. I saw how you treated your friends,” he says.

“I'm sorry, but—”

“Forget it.” He swivels his chair and attaches himself to his computer: eyes stuck on the screen, fingers fixed to the keyboard. He starts typing. He types very fast.

“Lora,” says someone behind me. “We need you at circulation.”

It's Cynthia the librarian.

I say that I'm going. I say that I'm sorry. And I go. And I'm sorry.

I sit behind the big desk and check out books for the two people waiting. “Have a nice day,” I say to the first. “Have a nice day,” I say to the second.

After they leave, I stop smiling.

I hate that Raul thinks I used him. Because the terrible truth is that I did. Though not in the way he said: I didn't need
him to get into Grand Gardens. But I used him just the same, I realize. I used him like a bandage to cover up the scabby scars of the past. As much as I tried convincing myself otherwise, it was never him I wanted; I wanted only a distraction from the memories.

I'm so ashamed.

For all this time I resented Tim for treating me thoughtlessly, but I treated Raul the same way. I wonder if he came here today with the purpose of telling me off. If so, I don't blame him.

When Albert comes to the circulation desk so I can take my break, I first go to the computers to apologize to Raul. But he's gone. On the one hand, I'm disappointed. On the other hand, I'm exceptionally relieved.

Next I go to Cynthia's office to tell her I'm sorry for abandoning my post earlier. In response she gazes at me with lifted eyebrows and I worry she is about to lecture me again about irresponsible behavior. But all she says is: “Boy trouble?”

“Um. Sort of.”

She nods. I cannot tell whether she is waiting for me to say more or waiting for me to go, and I hate how uncomfortable it is between us when she used to be my favorite librarian. When I still want her to be my favorite librarian.

So I don't go. I say, “Yeah, I was kind of dating that guy, but I didn't really like him, so I broke it off, and I guess he's angry now, and I feel really bad.”

“Don't feel bad. They're always angry, but they always get over it.”

“I hope so.” Smiling tentatively, I ask her how she's doing.

“Good. I'm good. Everything's good.” She smiles back but there's something broken in her smile: a crack, some rust, a missing part.

“Everything?” I ask.

Cynthia sighs forcefully, as if trying to exhale more than just air. Then she tells me how worried she is about her daughter. She tells me it's been over a year that Kira has been unemployed.

“I think one reason she's had such a hard time has to do with this political website she writes for. Kira has strong opinions, and these days it seems like employers—even when they agree with her views—are reluctant to hire someone who could be divisive,” she says. Then she frowns. “So I did something I regret. I told Kira to stop writing for that website.”

“But that makes sense. Why do you regret it?”

“Because it's important to stand up for what you believe in.”

“That's true. I see what you mean.”

“But I'm also her mother and I want her to be safe. And happy.”

“Yes, of course you do,” I say, and suddenly there are tears in my eyes, tears on my cheeks, everything wet everywhere.

“Oh, honey, don't trouble yourself over that boy.” Cynthia comes out from behind her desk and puts her arms around me.
She pats my back. She hums comfort into my ear. I tell her that it's okay, that I'm okay. But she doesn't let go. She doesn't let go until I've finished crying.

After I've washed my face, dried my face, and composed my red face in the bathroom mirror, I get out my phone and discover that I missed two calls while I was working. The first was from Tim.

He left a message: “Lora, I found something. I'm not sure what it means, but I scanned it and sent it to you, so check your email. I'm going to put it back, then I'll call you again.”

But he didn't call again. So I call. His line goes to voice mail.

The second missed call was from Wendy. She did not leave a message.

I walk over to the computers. The promised email from Tim is in my in-box. There's no message, only an attached file. I download the file, print it out, and read it. Except I can't read it. It's a complicated diagram, all geometric lines and technical terms. Like something you might find in the latest issue of
Med-Tech Quarterly
.

I call Tim once more. His line goes to voice mail once more.

And suddenly, I'm afraid.

But if I think too much about my fears I might start sobbing again, so instead I think about that missed call from Wendy. Why would she call me? She seemed so angry yesterday. I remember the mean things I said to her, and the
condescending way she acted toward me.

I saw how you treated your friends
, said Raul.

I pick up my phone again. I dial. She answers on the first ring.

“Lora, thank goodness,” Wendy says, her voice too high, too sharp.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“It's Tim. He's been arrested. For trespassing. At Keep Corp.”

“What?” I wait for her to tell me she's joking.

Instead she tells me that the security guards found Tim somewhere he wasn't supposed to be and were unconvinced by his explanation that he got lost. “My mom's at the police station now, but they won't release him. She's freaking out. What are we going to do?” she says.

It's a good thing she can't see my face. I am able to compose my voice enough to tell her, in a fairly convincing tone, that I'll talk to Jon Harmon, that he has experience in these situations and will be able to fix this, no problem. But my face, if she were able to see my face, she would not believe a word I said.

“Okay, then call me back,” says Wendy.

I dial Jon's home number. The line is busy. I hang up and try again. Still busy. I try his cell. No answer. I realize I've stopped breathing. I tell myself to breathe. I tell myself to calm down. I have to focus. I take a breath. Then I call my aunt.

It should have occurred to me sooner that if there's anyone who can help Tim, it's Aunt Austin. She's a congresswoman.
Also, an all-around intimidating person. I am so relieved when she answers. “Lora, hello,” she says. “I'm glad you called. I just returned last night. My trip went smoothly. The service was sad, but tastefully done.”

“Good,” I say. “I was wondering—”

“My dear, it's very hectic here, but I'd like to see you. I know it's horribly inconvenient to ask on such a rainy day, but would you be able to come by my office? I'll have my secretary order us a nice snack, some pastries? I know how you like pastries.”

“Yes, but my friend Tim—”

“When can you get here? In twenty minutes? A half hour?”

“Twenty minutes, but I wanted—”

“Perfect. I'll see you very soon, then.”

“Aunt Austin, hold on,” I say too late. The line clicks. I sigh. At least she won't be able to hang up on me once I'm sitting in front of her.

I walk over to Cynthia's desk. She looks up from her work. “Yes, Lora?”

“I have an emergency. And I have to go. I'm so sorry. Albert is at the circulation desk, and it's not busy today, so I hope it's okay.” I am nervous. I'm afraid I'm making it uncomfortable between us again. I'm afraid of losing my job. Not that my job matters much at this moment.

But Cynthia nods and tells me I can go. “I hope everything is okay,” she says.

“Thanks. I hope so, too,” I say.

Then I put on my coat and my boots, and run out into the rain.

There's a long line of people waiting at the security checkpoint in my aunt's office building. In addition to the standard metal detector and x-ray machine, the guards are pulling visitors aside to have their palms swabbed for chemical residue. When it's my turn, I set my bag on the conveyer belt, and my raincoat, and my rain boots, and I step through feeling vulnerable in my state of semi-undress. At least I'm not pulled aside for additional checks.

I reassemble my outfit and take the elevator upstairs. Another guard is stationed in the hallway. I show him my visitor's pass and he points me through the door. At the reception desk, I give my name to a man with spiky hair and a dazzling smile. He cheerfully tells me to take a seat.

Several minutes go by. I take Tim's diagram out of my bag and stare at it, hoping that if I study it for long enough, I'll understand it. I don't. Eventually I put it away, too agitated to look anymore. If only I hadn't asked Tim for help. If only I hadn't given Tim's number to Carlos Cruz. If only I had told Tim he didn't need to do it because my mother is leaving and nothing can stop her.

The cheerful receptionist clears his throat. I glance at him hopefully, but he only looks at my foot tapping the floor, his smile less dazzling than before. I hadn't realized my foot was tapping. That's how agitated I am. “Sorry,” I say, clamping sole against carpet.

“No worries.” His smile dazzles again.

The longer I wait, the more confused I am to be waiting. Aunt Austin is partial to punctuality, and I am right on time. But I know she is busy, undoubtedly busier than usual since she was away these past few days. Still, she invited me and she wouldn't have invited me if she were otherwise occupied.

But now fifteen minutes have passed since I arrived. My foot is tapping vigorously and I can't make it stop. The cheerful man calls me back to his desk and I'm worried he is going to scold me for fidgeting. “I'm sorry,” I say preemptively.

“No, Miss Mint,
I
am sorry.” He gently places down his phone. “The congresswoman's assistant has just informed me she was unexpectedly called out of the office. My apologies. She's usually extremely organized, but her schedule has been chaotic lately, with all the economic bill stuff.”

“What happened? Is everything all right?”

“I'm sure everything is fine. I cannot tell you more than that.”

“But Austin is my aunt,” I say.

“Really? I didn't know that. Let me tell you, your aunt is fabulous. She gets things done, unlike so many of those career politicians.” The cheerful man rolls his cheerful eyeballs.

“Where'd she go? Are you sure everything is all right?” I say.

“Well, since you're family, I suppose I can tell you.” He glances around, then lowers his voice. “She was called home for an emergency,” he says dramatically.

“What emergency?” I'm ready to smack his smiling face.

But now he is looking past me. “Hello!” he says over my shoulder. “It's horrid weather out, isn't it? I hope you didn't get too wet.”