The Memory Key (6 page)

IN THE MORNING, I CALL KEEP CORP TO CANCEL MY APPOINTMENT
with their medical technician. I tell the receptionist I have the flu and I'll reschedule when I'm better. “The summer flu, that's rough,” he says. “Drink lots of fluids, okay?”

I hang up the phone feeling victorious.

Then I go meet Wendy. We bike over to the library. Wendy grumbles something about my obsession with research. I grumble something about her obsession with disproportionately large biceps. I remind her we have no other leads, not really.

“Not yet,” she corrects me.

“Not yet,” I correct myself.

We go in and say hello to Cynthia the librarian. She shows us a photograph of her dog, Gouda, wearing a yellow ruffled bikini and a matching pair of yellow sunglasses. After expressing our admiration, we walk to the back of the library. Today it's crowded, all computers occupied. I look for Raul, but he's not there. I'm not sure whether I'm disappointed or relieved.

“What do you
really
think of that dog bikini?” I ask Wendy.

“I think it's
really
cute,” she says. “I'd wear it. Not in yellow, though. I look awful in yellow. Blue would be better. The matching sunglasses are nonnegotiable.”

“Obviously,” I say.

We lean against the wall, waiting for our turn. Cynthia once told me that since the recession started, the number of daily visitors to the library has doubled, especially in the summer because there's air-conditioning and places to sit and things to do, and it's all free. I tell Wendy this.

“I see the appeal. My parents have this new rule where we're not allowed to turn the air on unless two or more people are home and they all agree it's needed,” she says.

“At my house, whenever we turn on the air conditioner a fuse blows. So my dad bought me a new fan. It's got a remote control.”

“A remote control? How
fan
-cy,” she says. We giggle. Someone shushes us and Wendy shushes back. I poke her and say she'd better not get me in trouble at my place of work. Then we giggle some more.

Finally, two kids get up from their computers and we take their places. We agree that Wendy will read the search results published after the accident, and I'll read the results published before. I'm grateful. I can't handle any more obituaries.

So my lot of articles are all about Keep Corp. Apparently, my mother was frequently called upon to answer questions about keys, as well as the company's other products. Although
the memory key is their signature item—Keep Corp is the first and still the only manufacturer of keys—they remain the industry leader by continually finding new ways of using medical technology to solve problems of human biology. Some inventions flopped, like the organ defragmenter. Some have found moderate success, like the heart-reg. None approach the superstar status of the memory key.

The more I read, the more I'm impressed by Mom's eloquence. It's no wonder the journalists contacted her: she was able to take complicated topics and describe them simply. With each article, her voice grows clearer in my mind.

Now do you understand?
she asks.

My mother is sitting so close to me that I'm breathing the lavender-soap scent of her while she helps me with my science homework, explaining force and friction, her hands moving gracefully to demonstrate.

Yes, I think I get it
, I tell her.

Then I'm back in the library, reading an article about the data backup function of the newest memory keys. The writer interviewed a number of people with concerns about privacy. Local activist Jon Harmon seemed especially riled up. He's quoted as saying, “First we let Keep Corp into our brains, now we let them take what's in our brains and store it on a computer. That information doesn't only have personal value. It's worth billions to market research companies and the consumer data industry. If we're not careful, we'll commodify our souls in exchange for the convenience of a memory key. There needs
to be more regulation of the industry.”

What he says makes sense, but I'm appalled to find myself agreeing—it feels like blasphemy. So it's a relief to read my mother's reply: “Keep Corp would never share or sell client data. It's not even technically possible. Memory data is encrypted using the unique brain chemistry of each individual. Thus, all memories—whether stored on your key or on our secure servers—can only be read by the memory maker.”

Not even technically possible.
I nod, reassured by her words. However, the next sentence is also troubling, but for an entirely different reason.

“The remote backup function is for your protection,” said my mother. “In case, and this is the worst-case scenario, you should somehow damage your key to the point where your memories are affected.”

It's as if she is lecturing me about my own damaged key.

I have to force myself to continue reading. The article ends with one last comment from my mom: “At Keep Corp our number one priority is to protect people from the horror of Vergets disease.”

She was very convincing. Even the journalist, impartial as he was supposed to be, seemed convinced. After all, he gave her the last word. I scroll up to the byline. Carlos Cruz. The name is familiar. I click back through the other articles I've read. Several of them, the ones from the
Middleton Tribune
, were also written by Mr. Cruz. I make a note of this in my notebook. Then I elbow Wendy. “Find anything interesting?”

“Not especially,” she says. “Mostly articles about the accident, a couple obituaries—you already read that stuff, right? Here's an interview with your aunt that mentions your mother, but only briefly.”

“What does it say?” I nudge my chair over.

It's a profile of Aunt Austin, discussing her role in Congress. The piece is largely positive, praising her for working with politicians on both sides of the party line. There are only a few tricky moments, such as when the journalist writes that she has been criticized for her strong ties to certain companies, Keep Corp in particular.

In response my aunt said: “My sister, Jeanette Mint, was a scientist at Keep Corp. While she was alive, I always supported the work she did, and so I continue to honor her legacy now that she is gone.”

“Keep Corp again,” I say. “It seems like everything's about Keep Corp.”

“Well, we should talk to Tim then,” says Wendy.

“Why Tim?”

“Because he works there.”

It turns out that for the past year, Tim has been an intern in the heart-reg department at Keep Corp, and I had no idea. “It's not that surprising,” says Wendy. “Keep Corp headquarters is nearby. Most of the university's med-tech students intern there. I don't know why you're making such a big deal about it.”

“You're right. I don't know either,” I say.

Wendy taps her fingers on the sticky orange tabletop. We're sitting in a booth at our favorite downtown diner, taking our lunch break. The waiter brings our sandwiches, grilled cheese and tomato for us both. It's what we always order here.

I take my first bite. The oozy salty cheese is sweetened by the tomato and the bread is crunchy perfect. The sandwich is, as it always is, so greasily good. Except . . . I blink and the taste changes. The cheese congeals, the tomato is flavorless, the bread soggy. I'm angry because we'd planned on seeing that new movie together, then Wendy went to see it last night with her latest boyfriend. I'm angry but she doesn't notice. I'm angry and she's chattering about the poems her boyfriend wrote for her, how he's such a talented writer, how sweet he is, how kind, and, most importantly, how cute. My jaw hurts. I'm chewing so hard.

It's only a memory.

I know it's only a memory, yet it feels so true, so real. So right-now.

I take a sip of cold water. The ice cubes jangle against the plastic cup.

“But seriously,” says Wendy. “We should talk to Tim. He could help us.”

“Why?” My voice is mean. Even though the movie came out years ago, even though she eventually realized I was upset and apologized, even though I forgave her. “Tim doesn't work in the division my mom worked in. It's a huge corporation, you know. And he's just an intern.”

“It can't hurt,” she says.

“No.” I don't want Tim involved. I'm regretting that even Wendy is involved.

But then I remind myself of how helpful she's already been, sketching those portraits, helping me read through old articles. It's ridiculous that I'm angry because two years ago she went to a movie without me. I stifle my resentment, I try. I ask what they're doing today at the day camp where she works.

“We're building stuff out of wooden sticks. It's the worst. There's so much poking, I'm always terrified some kid's going to lose an eye.”

I force a smile. It's not that I'm still mad at her. It's just that I still
feel
mad. Unfortunately, one state of being seems indistinguishable from the other.

After lunch, Wendy goes to work, and I go back to the library. This time I search for information on malfunctioning memory keys, specifically cases where the H-Filter is damaged. The only article I find is about a fifty-four-year-old man who was knocked unconscious when he fell from a ladder. A minute later, he awoke in a rage. He tried to attack his wife. She got away only because his leg was injured from his fall. The man was taken to the hospital and had to be physically restrained for his own safety.

Later they found that the H-Filter in his key had been destroyed when he hit his head, resulting in an inundation of memory. Apparently, he and his wife had a tumultuous
marriage and the moment he revived, he remembered it all: the arguments, the betrayals, the disappointments.

A spokesperson for Keep Corp—not my mother—called it a one-in-a-million situation, a freak tragedy that occurred only because the patient had such a turbulent marriage
and
because he sustained extreme and unusual damage to his memory key. The article concluded with the information that once the man's key was replaced, he returned to normal, and although his wife did not press charges against him, they have since separated.

My head is aching again.

I decide I've had enough for today. I pack up my pen and notebook and hurry out of the library. I unlock my bike and begin pedaling home. Fast. Very fast. As if my memory is something I can escape. I try staring down at the black road. I try staring up at the cloud-streaked sky. But no matter where I look, my mind stays wound around that man's awful story. I think about how angry I was at Wendy when we were at the diner. I think about how confused and upset I got around Tim.

Then I think of her. My mother. The tilt of her head, the tones of her voice, the touch of her hands—all things I never thought I'd see or hear or feel again. And what happiness it is to see and hear and feel these things again.

Until the memory ends. Until the grief comes.

It's an old acquaintance, this grief; a pit of misery I thought I'd climbed out from. But now I'm back again, slipped deep into the blackness. What will it make me do? Will I hurt someone? Will I hurt myself?

As soon as I get home, I pour myself a glass of water and swallow down two pain pills. Then I go upstairs to my room. I pick up the phone to call Keep Corp so that I can make a new appointment.

I pick up the phone. But I don't dial.

Because despite the anger and confusion and hurt, despite the sadness, despite the fact my head feels like it's about to burst, I'm not ready to give this up, these memories of my mother, this little I've regained after five years with nothing. I'm not ready to give her up.

Besides, there is the mystery of those two strangers at our house the night before she died. And what if beneath the clouding grief, it's there? The memory that will at last explain what happened, and how it could have happened, and why her. And why me.

I spent years obsessing over these questions, even though I knew there were no answers. No good ones.

But maybe I was wrong.

I put the phone back down.

DURING DINNER, MY FATHER ASKS HOW IT WENT AT KEEP CORP
this morning. My mouth is filled with potato, so I point at my lips and make a show of chewing. The show lasts even after I swallow, it lasts until I say: “Fine. It went fine.”

“See? That wasn't so difficult, was it?”

“Easier than you'd imagine.” I clamp a smile onto my face.

“What are you doing tomorrow? Austin invited us for lunch.”

I had planned to do more research at the library, or possibly track down the journalist who wrote all those articles about Keep Corp, but I can't make up an excuse quickly enough, and I already feel bad for lying about my med-tech appointment, so I tell him I'm not busy.

Dad nods. He seems distracted, but it's hard to tell. His absentmindedness, a family joke when my mother was alive, intensified after she died. It usually annoys me, but at this moment I'm glad he's too preoccupied to be suspicious.

Though I do wonder if he's thinking about the questions I asked him yesterday.

After we finish eating, after we wash the dishes and put the leftovers away, my father goes into his office and shuts the door. I sit on the sofa with a book from the library. But now I'm the distracted one, thinking about my father, worrying about my father. I read the first page of my book three times. The fourth time, I'm interrupted by my ringing cell phone. I check the caller ID, but the number is unknown. I answer cautiously.

“Lora? It's Raul. I hope you don't mind, Wendy gave me your number. Maybe she told you, I don't know. Anyway, this is Raul.” He talks fast, his sentences jumbled. His obvious nervousness almost makes me not nervous. Almost.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Good, and you?” he asks.

“Good,” I say.

“Good,” he says.

There is a pause, a pause awkward as only a telephone pause can be, but then Raul asks if I want to hang out tomorrow, and I say yes, and we make plans to meet in the evening. After hanging up, I try reading again. I stare at the first page for a long time. Finally, I give up and put the book away.

The last time I went out with a guy and it wasn't a low-stakes double date with one of Wendy's boyfriends' friends, it was with this kid from school, Gregory Lange. We went to the movies. As we waited for the show to start, he alternated between describing the plots of his favorite video games and asking questions about Wendy. What music did she like? What was her favorite food? How serious were things with her boyfriend?

I shrugged in answer. By then I'd realized this was more of an informational interview than a date. I felt humiliated, of course. Yet I was also kind of glad—when I agreed to the movie I hadn't known Greg was so totally dull. Therefore, it was an unpleasant surprise when halfway through the film he launched his face onto mine.

I blink and I'm there in the theater: his worming tongue, his sour breath, his lips greasy from popcorn. For a second, I'm too startled to do anything. Then I spit out his tongue and slouch toward the opposite end of my seat. I stare at the screen without seeing what I'm seeing.

I blink again and I'm back in the den. My head is throbbing and there's a bitter taste in my mouth. I run to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I tell myself Raul is not Greg; Raul is nothing at all like Tim—no, that's not what I meant.

I frown at my mirror reflection, and she frowns at me. What I meant was Raul is nothing at all like Gregory Lange. I rinse the toothpaste from my mouth. My head is really throbbing.

After breakfast the next day, my father hurries me into the car and we drive out to Grand Village, where my aunt lives in an ultramodern condominium building. We leave an hour before we're supposed to arrive, even though Grand Village is only half an hour away. Even though it's Saturday, so there won't be any traffic. Dad is slightly intimidated by Aunt Austin, and I might find that funny if I weren't slightly intimidated by her as well.

She's nothing like my mother. No—that's not true. Like Aunt Austin, Mom was smart and ambitious. But when she wasn't working, Mom relaxed. She didn't bother much with housekeeping or other kinds of domesticity, although she did keep a little vegetable garden in the backyard, which thrived despite bouts of negligence. My aunt, on the other hand, is a perfectionist both at work and at home.

My mother said when they were kids, her sister would get so mad when she teased her, even though Austin was older so it should have been the other way around. They fought a lot when they were little, but as adults they got along much better. My mother really admired her sister; she said so all the time. Although she did agree with Dad and me when we said Aunt Austin could be a little . . . overwhelming.

But after Mom died, my aunt helped us a lot. She cooked hearty, healthy meals to store in our freezer. She took me shopping and bought me my first bra. When I was learning how to drive, she went with me to practice, even though it was clear she was terrified by my driving: she'd get out of the car pale and disheveled, but because I appreciated all she was doing for us, especially since she was so busy with her work, I never joked about it. Not in front of her, anyway.

When we arrive at my aunt's apartment building thirty minutes before we're expected, I laugh at my father for rushing, but he merely suggests we go for a walk in the park, around Grand Lake.

It's a beautiful day. A tousling breeze moves through the
trees. People are lounging on the pebbly sand, children hop around in the shallow water. Dad pats my shoulder. “Remember when we came here for a picnic?”

“I remember.” The memory approaches. But for the first time I try pushing it away: I grit my teeth and straighten my shoulders and clench my fists—and am so pleased to discover that I
can
stop it.

I'm so pleased that I imagine it back: Mom kneeling on our gingham blanket, sorting through the basket of food, while Dad and I untangle the tail of my new kite, a violet-colored butterfly, the delicate paper crinkling against our fingers.

When we finally have it fixed up, my father instructs me:
Which way is the wind blowing? Yes, that's right. Now face that way. Hold it up, nose up. No, nose of the
kite
up. Don't throw it. Just let go.

There's not enough wind
, says Mom, but at that exact moment a gust of air flies the butterfly up and up. She laughs gleefully, glad to be proven wrong.

“You had a kite,” says my dad. “It was a red bird?”

“A purple butterfly with yellow dots. You gave it to me for my birthday.”

“What an impressive memory you have.”

“An impressive memory key,” I say, voice irony-flat.

“That was a good time.” My father sighs. He is gazing up at the sky. He loved her so much, I know. Since she died, he's dated occasionally, but those casual relationships always drifted away because he was mostly indifferent to the woman,
or that's how it seemed to me. He loved her so much. I should tell him what I remember. I should tell him about those strangers in the kitchen.

“Dad?” I say.

“Yes, Lora?”

“Isn't it time to go?” I say. Is all I say. Maybe because I don't want to ruin the mood. After all, she is gone. She is gone, she is gone, she is dead. And it's a beautiful day. And I don't want to ruin the mood.

“It sure is,” he says. Then he glances at me. “Something wrong?”

“I'm just scared we'll get in trouble if we're late,” I say.

“Me too, Lora. Me, too.”

At my aunt's building, we say hello to the uniformed man behind the front desk. He asks for our names. Then he asks for identification. Then he spends a minute glancing between the photo on my father's license and my father's face. Then he calls upstairs to tell my aunt we're here. Finally, he directs us to the elevators. It used to be that the doorman would just wave us past.

“They've increased security,” I say.

“It's good. Public figures like Austin need protection. There are a lot of crackpots out there, and a lot of anger these days,” says Dad.

We walk down the hallway, feet squishing in the thick rug. When we come to the right door, my father tells me I can ring
the bell, smiling as if this is a treat he has saved especially for me. As if I'm seven, not seventeen. I dutifully press the button. Bells chime.

“Right on time,” says Aunt Austin as she swings open the door. She is wearing a black shift dress that is as no-nonsense as her workday suits. “Come in, come in. Are you hungry?”

In the dining room, the table is set and covered with food, far too much food for just three people. There's a rice noodle salad and cold chicken and sweet-sauced mushrooms and a meat and vegetable braise. These dishes resemble the foods my mother used to make, but Aunt Austin's versions are more complicated, with more ingredients and garnishes. Mom never had the patience to spend hours in the kitchen. To her, food was fuel. Dad always did more of the cooking.

Once we're seated, my aunt lifts her glass of sparkling water. “A toast,” she says. “Congratulations to our darling Lora. I know your successes in high school will only be exceeded by your success at university, and in life.”

“Thanks.” I'm embarrassed by her mention of my “successes,” when I was only a good student, nothing exceptional. But this is how my aunt always talks.

“Now please, eat!” she says, so we do. The food is delicious, of course. Everything Aunt Austin does she does well. I tell her how good it all tastes.

“I do love to cook. I only wish I had more time to do it,” she says.

My father proposes an intricate theory about the economic
bill, and I smirk. Like a kid cramming for a test, he had spent most of the morning with the
Middleton Tribune.
When I tried talking to him during breakfast, his answer was a grunt and the crackle of newsprint; when I frowned at him, annoyed by his nonresponse, he was protected by his shield of paper. All I could see was the fluff of his hair and the headlines:
CITIZEN ARMY BOMB PLOT SUSPECT QUESTIONED
;
UNEMPLOYMENT RATE REACHES NEW HIGH
; 600
ARRESTED AT ANTIWAR MARCH
.

As the two of them discuss the economy, I think about the increased security downstairs, and consider the possibility that those two strangers were politically motivated, and their target was my aunt. When their conversation shifts to the bitterness between the two parties—as conversations about current events inevitably become about the bitterness between the two parties—I interject: “Is it really that bad? Does everyone get so personally involved?”

“Lora, you've pinpointed the problem exactly, it's that everyone gets so personally involved. But it shouldn't be personal. It should be about what's best for our country,” says my aunt.

“Do you have enemies?” I ask.

“I certainly have enemies.” She sounds almost proud.

“That doesn't scare you?”

“Sometimes. But I know it's because I'm doing important work. I've had to make sacrifices, some really difficult sacrifices, and I can't let my fear endanger all I'm trying to accomplish.” A look of misery flits so quickly across her face that I wonder if
I imagined it, especially since misery is an emotion that seems incompatible with my aunt's disciplined personality.

“You
are
doing important work.” Dad nods. “The main problem is, that's what the other side thinks too. So what do you do then?”

“You do what must be done,” she says.

We are in the car, on our way back to Middleton, when my father repeats what my aunt said. “You do what must be done,” he intones, mimicking the solemnity of her voice, his eyes wide and earnest. Then he chuckles. “Austin's great, but she's such a politician. She can't ever turn it off.”

I laugh. It's true. And it's true it's difficult to have a personal conversation with someone who speaks primarily in platitudes, so I ask my dad the questions I hadn't asked my aunt: “What did she mean when she talked about the sacrifices she made? What sacrifices?”

“Gosh, I've no idea,” he says.

“You think it's because she never got married and had kids?”

“But she
has
been married.”

“What?” I fall forward in surprise, till my seat belt snaps me back.

“She's been married,” he says again, louder this time.

“I heard you. I just don't believe you.”

“It's true.”

“Then how come I didn't know about it?”

“It was a long time ago. Before you were born.”

I scowl at him. “Why didn't you ever tell me?”

“I never think about it, so it never occurred to me. It really was such a long time ago,” my father says apologetically. Then he tells me what he can remember (Dad jokes: “My memory key is the same kind the dinosaurs used”).

After law school, Aunt Austin got a job as a speechwriter for the governor. While working there, she met a young man named Jonnie. They had much in common: similar values and beliefs, similar lifestyles, and many of the same friends. They fell in love. Got married. But as time passed, Jonnie became disillusioned with the political system while my aunt rose through its ranks. They began fighting and eventually decided to separate.

“You think she regrets it?” I ask.

“Your aunt is a mystery to me.” Dad pulls into our driveway and shuts off the engine. We sit in silence for a moment. Then he clears his throat.

“Lora, how about we go to a movie tonight? It's been so long since we've been to the movies, and soon you'll be gone, leaving your poor old father all alone,” he says. His tone is jolly, but it makes me feel no less bad.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I wish I could, but I have plans with a friend.”

“Which friend?”

“Besides, I'm not leaving you all alone. Campus is so close and you're there all the time. We'll see each other every day,”
I say. When I told my father I wanted to live in the dorms and not at home, he accepted it as though he expected it. However, that didn't keep me from worrying I was abandoning him. That same worry pinches me now.