The Memory Key (9 page)

“Yeah, let's go see a movie,” says Raul.

“Great,” I say.

“Great,” he says. Then he asks me about my day, and I ask him about his day, and we talk for a couple more minutes until Raul tells me he has to go. “But thanks for calling. I'm glad you did.”

“I'm glad you're glad,” I say, and I'm embarrassed, thinking about how abruptly I left him the night before. It's nice of him to want to hang out again. He's so nice. I tell myself I'm lucky. I tell Raul I'm looking forward to the movie.

As I hang up the phone, the floor creaks outside my bedroom. I turn toward the sound. A shadow moves across the wall. A familiar shadow. My pounding heart pulls me forward, to the hallway. And there she is, outside her office door. She startles when she sees me.
Lora, honey, I didn't know you were home
.

Study hall was canceled today
.

My mother comes over. She kisses my forehead. She looks tired. The skin under her eyes is dark and swollen.
Are you hungry?
she asks.
Let's have a snack.

Then she's gone. Because she was never actually here. I leave the empty hallway and return to my room. Standing by the window, I gaze out at the front lawn, the memory shifting uneasily inside me. Because, I realize, there's more to it.

I blink as the unfamiliar car pulls up in front of our house. I'm standing by the window, home early because the new study hall teacher got sick. Rumor is he threw up in the teachers' lounge. Apparently, he ate the steamed carrots in the cafeteria. No one else is affected because everyone else knows better than
to eat the steamed carrots in the cafeteria.

The unfamiliar car parks in our driveway. It's a silver sedan, shining like brand-new. I peer down, wondering who that could be. A minute passes before the passenger door opens. My mother gets out and says good-bye to the driver. Squinting, I try to see who she's talking to. As the car pulls away, I get a glimpse of a man with short, dark hair. Then I hear my mother in the hallway, and run to say hello to her.

And that's the whole of the memory.

A few minutes later, as my mother led me into the kitchen for a snack, I had asked whose car that was, who had driven her home? She tilted her head, as if she were the one asking me a question, before telling me it was a friend from work. She was having trouble with her car, so he very kindly gave her a ride. “Oh, good,” I said, and thought nothing more of it. Until now.

For now when I examine that moment with seventeen-year-old eyes, I notice my mother's flushed face and the strange set of her lips. She looks as if she's hiding some prickly thing inside her mouth.

I'm wondering where my father is when the door bangs shut, signaling his arrival. I go downstairs. Dad is in the kitchen, taking groceries out of paper shopping bags and putting them in the cabinets, slamming bottles and boxes against the shelves.

“Hey, what's going on?” I ask.

“Keep Corp called about rescheduling your appointment,” he says.

“Oh.”

“Oh? Is that all you have to say?”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't feeling well that morning. I was going to reschedule.” I'm trying to stay calm, but it is impossible in the face of his anger. He is so rarely angry, and when he is, his rage is never directed toward me.

But now it is.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn't want you to worry.”

He shakes his head. “Lora, you lied to me.”

“I'm sorry. It's not a big deal.”

“Exactly! Why would you lie about such a minor thing?”

“I'm sorry.” I stare at the countertop.

“Here's what you're going to do. Tomorrow you'll go to Keep Corp to get your memory key checked out. You'll bring home a note from the technician, confirming you were there. Are we clear?”

“I'm working at the library tomorrow,” I say. “It's my first day back.”

“I don't care. Go during your lunch break. Or get someone to cover your shift. You're going. Promise me,” he says. “Promise me now.”

I promise.

My father hands me the phone.

I call Keep Corp and make the appointment.

Then it's done.

THAT NIGHT I SLEEP BADLY. NOT BECAUSE OF THE PROMISE I
made to my father. Not because I'm anxious about going to Keep Corp. I sleep badly because I'm not going. I sleep badly because I've decided to break my promise.

After Dad leaves for work in the morning, I call to cancel my appointment. This time, the receptionist is disapproving. “Miss Mint, you really need to get this taken care of,” she says. “If your memory key is malfunctioning, as our system indicates, it could lead to serious problems. You're putting your health in jeopardy with this delay.”

“Well, um . . .” I almost ask her about that article—the one about the man who damaged his key falling from a ladder, and attacked his wife. But I don't. Instead I apologize and tell her I'll reschedule very soon.

Then I make a second telephone call.

“Hello?” His voice is cheery, as if he'd just been laughing a moment before answering. How can a person be so cheery at nine in the morning? But this is business, so I am all business.

“I was hoping you could help me with something,” I say politely.

“For you? Anything,” says Tim.

All day it's busy at the library, and it feels good to be busy, to focus my attention on the task at hand. I scan books, sort books, find books. I help people with the computers. People need lots of help with the computers.

It's not until late in the afternoon that my head starts aching, and only a little, and the pain clears after I take a single pain pill, so I dismiss the Keep Corp receptionist's concerns about my health. When my shift ends, I say good-bye to Cynthia the librarian and she tells me how wonderful it is to have me back and I tell her how wonderful it is to be back.

Then I go outside, and there he is: sprawled over the front steps of the building as if he owned those front steps, face tilted up at the sun as if he owned that sun. I march over and sit a proper distance away, my back stiff and my hands folded together.

“Hello,” I say.

Tim squints. “Hi, Lora.”

“How was work?” I ask politely.

“Could have been worse.” He flaps a sheet of paper toward me. I thank him and take it. “Finally, a job perk,” he says.

“What's that?” I say as I read over what he gave me. The document is on Keep Corp letterhead and declares that Lora Mint saw a medical technician on this date at noon. It looks absolutely official.

“I got to do you a favor.” He grins.

“I really appreciate it,” I say, but I don't smile back.

“So what's this all about?” Tim is still grinning. He doesn't seem to notice that it's pointless to flirt with me. Or if he does notice, he's not bothered by it.

“Nothing.” I fold the paper into a small rectangle and slide it into my pocket.

“You're not going to tell me after everything I did to get that for you?”

“Was it hard to get?” I ask with concern.

Tim smirks, shrugs. “Actually? Not at all.”

Then I can't help laughing. “Now I'm definitely not telling you.”

“Do you want a ride home?” he says.

“No, thanks, I have my bike.”

“We'll put it in the back.” Tim leaps down the steps, toward the bicycle rack.

I follow, shouting, “Get your hands off my handlebars!”

But I decide I might as well go with him; it's not worth the effort to argue. Everything will be fine as long as he doesn't ask any more questions about why I need that letter from Keep Corp.

And he doesn't. We talk about college the entire way home. Tim tells me about his favorite classes, which professors to avoid, the best places to eat near campus, and the worst. I ask about his dorm, about his friends. I tell him I'm worried.

“About what?” he says.

“About leaving my father,” I say, surprising myself. This is the first time I've voiced this thought aloud, and I can't believe I'm saying it to Tim, of all people, and I can't believe I'm saying it now, after Dad and I just had that big fight. But it's true: anger and frustration aside, I'm still worried.

Tim parks his car in front of my house. “Yeah, that sucks,” he says.

I nod. I'm glad he didn't say something about how it'll all work out, how everything will be okay. I'm glad he didn't say something we both know isn't true. That's what most people do when you show them your grief.

Tim reaches over and takes my hand. He doesn't hold it, he just covers it with his palm, and it is a gesture only about comfort—it asks nothing else, it says nothing else. We sit there a minute in easy silence. Then he asks what I'm doing tonight. “There's a free concert downtown. Want to go?”

“I'm going to the movies,” I say, startled. Our hands come apart. I'm not sure who moves their fingers first.

“I like the movies,” he says, and I say nothing.

This silence is not easy; it pushes us away from each other.

“What, are you going on a date or something?” Tim finally says.

“Or something.” I don't look at him. I'm afraid if I look at him, I might find myself in a different time, a time when I would have canceled any plan to go anywhere with Tim. I open the door and get out of the car.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him.

“Hey, Lora,” he calls out after me.

“What?” I lift my bike from the backseat.

“Have fun tonight. Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” he says.

“I never would,” I say, very seriously, and walk myself and my bicycle away.

When my father comes home, I'm waiting in the kitchen with the letter on Keep Corp letterhead. I hand the paper to him wordlessly, and wordlessly he takes it. I watch while he reads. “All right?” I say.

“Lora, you understand why I was angry, don't you?”

“I'm sorry for lying to you.” My face is somehow straight and my voice is somehow steady. I don't know how.

“I appreciate the apology.” He taps a perfunctory kiss on my cheek and goes upstairs to change out of his work clothes.

I stay there. I stay because I can't move; the guilt and shame have completely cramped my muscles. I feel awful about it, all of it, large and small. For lying to him. For continuing to lie to him.

And for suspecting that he is lying to me.

AT EXACTLY EIGHT O'CLOCK THE DOORBELL RINGS, AND I'M
down the stairs, through the hall, my hand on the knob before my father can get up from the sofa in the den. I yell to him that I've got it, then I open the door.

“I'd invite you in to meet my dad,” I say. “Except no one wants that.”

“Really?” Raul smiles bemusedly.

So of course I make it worse: “No, I mean, not that my dad wouldn't like you, or vice versa, my dad is perfectly nice, but . . .” I sigh. “Never mind, it was a joke.”

“Right,” he says, and then he laughs.

We get into his car. When he turns on the engine the radio comes on, and the announcer is speaking in urgent tones: “. . . Senator undergoing surgery. The extremist group the Citizen Army has taken credit for the attack, but the shooter is still at large.”

“Have you heard about this?” Raul tells me that Senator Joseph Finney was shot as he left a press conference about the
economic bill in the capital.

“That's horrible,” I say.

“Yeah, but hardly surprising,” he says. “Our economy is failing, our government is failing, and no one trusts anyone else. It's like we're on the brink of civil war.”

“Come on, it's not that bad,” I say. “It's just these extremist groups.”

“Well, they're definitely a handy excuse for violating our civil liberties,” he snaps, and his snapping takes me by such surprise I don't know how to answer.

A second later he apologizes. “I had a bad experience,” he explains, and tells me about walking home from a party late one night and getting stopped and searched by two policemen. “I wasn't doing anything wrong, and they were threatening me, saying I had no business to be loitering around in this neighborhood. Even though I was two blocks away from my own house.” His hands are fists around the steering wheel.

“That sucks. I'm sorry. . . . But civil war?” I say.

“Yeah, maybe I was exaggerating.” Raul sighs. “Do you want to change the station? Put on some music?”

I spin the knob till I find a tune I recognize. The singer pleads to be forgiven—wailing, crying, begging for forgiveness. It's way too much, so I change the station again, eventually settling on some peppy pop song.

The night is dark, darker than usual. There are not many other cars on the road. I lean back in my seat and gaze out the window. There are storm clouds covering the stars. “I think it
might rain,” I say, and right on cue, it starts drizzling.

By the time we reach the theater, it's pouring.

“I'll drop you off first so you won't get wet,” says Raul.

But I insist I don't mind, so he pulls into the nearest parking space. He unsnaps his seat belt and twists around to shuffle through the objects on the backseat of his car. “I think there's an umbrella somewhere around here,” he says.

“It's fine, don't worry about it.”

Raul throws a soft bundle into my lap. “You can wear this.”

I shake out the fabric. “Isn't this your work uniform? I don't want to ruin it.”

“It's waterproof, stainproof, and rip-proof. Practically indestructible,” he assures me, so I drape the blue jacket around my shoulders.

We get out of the car and run through the rain. Somewhere along the way, Raul grabs my hand. It's colder outside than it's been in weeks, and I'm grateful for both the protection of his jacket and the warmth of his fingers.

When we get inside, I offer to buy his ticket, since I invited him, but then he offers to buy my ticket, so as a compromise I buy the tickets and he buys a bucket of popcorn, a box of chocolate caramels, and two large cherry sodas. I stare at all the food in the flimsy cardboard tray. “Think you got enough?” I ask.

“Want nachos too? A hot dog? A chili-cheese dog?”

“All of the above, please.”

“Really?”

“I'm kidding. Let's get seats,” I say.

“You look cute in my clothes.” Raul smiles.

I look down at the gleaming blue fabric. The sleeves are so long they cover my hands, the jacket hangs to my thighs. “It's huge on me,” I say, and give him a gentle push, careful not to upset his balance since he's carrying all that food.

As we make our way across the diamond-patterned carpet, I am suddenly uneasy, as if I've forgotten to do something crucial. Like turning off the stove before leaving the house. A small detail to remember that becomes a big problem when forgotten. I wring my brain, trying to figure out what it is. Shouldn't my broken memory key help with this? It doesn't.

“Where do you want to sit?” asks Raul.

“In the middle. Is this okay?”

The movie begins. It's a thriller about a beautiful female spy who infiltrates a terrorist group; it's all slinky sneaking and furious fighting and designer disguises and sparkly parties, and it's thrilling enough that I don't notice I've eaten half the bucket of popcorn until my mouth is crackly with salt.

I sip my cherry soda while the beautiful spy is at home, her real home, and her husband, her real husband, is napping in their bedroom while she sweeps the floor in the kitchen. Apparently, even female spies have to clean house.

I put down my drink when the hallway window eases open and the masked assassin somersaults inside. He creeps through the darkness, tucks a tiny ticking box into the corner, and creeps back out. Then he slams the window shut.

The beautiful spy whirls around at the sound.

My mother whirls around at the sound.

I'm standing just outside the kitchen, half asleep and very thirsty, watching as my mother walks across the room. She opens the door. I squint to better see the strangers on the step. There are two of them, a man and a woman, both wearing blue jackets, their faces half in shadow

You have to come with us
, says the man.

There is a thunderous explosion and the screen goes up in flames. The assassin has detonated his bomb, and as he runs from the fiery scene he removes his black mask to reveal he is no anonymous assassin: he is the beautiful spy's partner, the handsome spy who has been posing as her husband. This false husband disappears into the night, a triumphant grin on his face.

And my head is throbbing, my heart thrashing—but not over this treacherous plot twist. I've unearthed the secret buried in my memory; I've discovered the fact that may make all the difference: the strangers who came to our kitchen that night, the man and the woman, are both wearing blue jackets. I look down at the jacket I am wearing at this exact moment. Raul's blue jacket.

The beautiful spy drags her true husband out of their burning house, but it's too late. He's dead.

“I knew he was the bad guy, almost from the beginning,” Raul says as we walk across the parking lot. “Did you like the movie?”

“Yeah,” I say automatically.

It's no longer raining. The ground is slippery wet and the air smells sweet in that after-rain way. There's a cool breeze, but I'm holding Raul's jacket in one hand. I don't want to wear it. I don't even want to be holding it. I can barely stand touching it. When we reach his car, I thrust it at him. “Thanks for letting me borrow this.”

“You're welcome.” He tosses it into the backseat.

“Is that the uniform for everyone who works at your retirement home?”

“Only the attendants. The nurses wear scrubs and the doctors wear lab coats, usually.” Raul backs out of the parking space. “Should we do something else now? Get some food?”

“I have to go home,” I say.

“Are you sure? It's not so late.”

“I'm sure,” I snap. Then I realize that in my agitation I'm being rude. I don't want to be rude, not to Raul who is so nice. Not to Raul who could help me locate those blue-jacketed strangers. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I would normally love to get some food after eating all that popcorn and chocolate, but I'm exhausted tonight. Next time?”

“Next time,” he says.

Then I say, so unsmooth, “Um, yeah, so I've been thinking I should visit Ms. Pearl at the retirement home. What's a good day? I'm working tomorrow but I can come the day after.”

“Is that Wednesday? I'll be there. If you get there around noon, we can have lunch together.” Raul smiles his nice smile.

“Great. I'll invite Wendy too. Because she has a car, so she can drive.”

“Good idea,” he says. Then we talk more about Ms. Pearl, and he tells me what a hustling card player she is, so I'd better watch out when we visit, and it's not until he parks in front of my house that I remember—

What, are you going on a date or something?
says Tim as he parks his car in this same parking space.

Shut up, Tim.

Gritting my teeth, I push the past into the past, and when Raul turns to face me, I turn to face him. His expression is so hopeful it makes me ashamed all over again about the other night. Quickly, I move toward him. Just as quickly, he moves toward me. His lips are soft and taste like cherry soda. My fingers curl up his neck and tangle in his hair. His hands slide across my back. And it's nice, like he's nice. It is very nice.

“Guess what. No, you'll never guess what,” I say as soon as Wendy answers the phone. I'm in my room, lying across my bed, head flopped over the side.

“Is this about your date?” she says.

“How'd you know about that?”

“Psychic powers.”

“Impressive,” I say. “So Tim told you?”

“Isn't it sad that I have to rely on my brother to get personal information about my best friend?” says Wendy.

“It was last minute. I would have told you,” I say.

“Sure, sure. So were you out with Raul? How'd it go?”

“We saw that new spy thriller. But that's not what I want to talk about.”

“Honestly, the
movie
is not exactly what I want to talk about, either!”

“Those strangers in the kitchen that night—they were wearing blue jackets that are exactly the same as Raul's blue jacket,” I say quickly, so quickly that my words all bump together. Then I wait for her reaction. And wait.

“Wendy? Are you there?”

“I'm here. But . . . are you telling me Raul abducted your mother?”

“The jacket is his work uniform. So those people in the kitchen must have also worked at the retirement home—”

“—and maybe they still do!” she says.

Then we plan our plots and plot our plans, and after we hang up I'm too excited to sleep. I no longer care about all the excruciating headaches, or the disorienting moments of anger and sadness; I no longer feel guilty for lying to my father and not getting my memory key repaired. What I now know makes it all worth it.

Though, if I'm going to be honest, there is another reason I haven't gotten my key fixed.

I close my eyes and imagine her face.

The memory comes faster than ever before.

My mother's doll speaks in her squeaky high voice; she invites my doll to a tea party. My doll accepts in an even
squeakier, higher voice. After the tea party, both dolls go to school. Mama and I play together for hours. We play until I'm a moment before sleep, still atop my bed, mouth still salty from the popcorn.

Yes, this is the other reason why I haven't gotten my key fixed. There is grief in remembering, but there was always grief. At least now there is also her voice, her smile, the cool touch of her quick hands. My mother.