by Liana Liu
I take a sip of juice. “What features does the new one have?”
“The MK-545, which came out six years ago, has a data backup system and upgraded filters. Other than that, it’s more or less the same as yours, the 485.”
“But isn’t there a new one coming out soon? What does that one do?”
“Not public yet.” Dr. Trent flips through the pages clipped to his clipboard. “If you’ll just answer a few questions we’ll make sure everything is in order,” he says.
“But how did you get the data from my old key onto my new one? Since mine didn’t have a backup system?”
“It’s a simple procedure. Fortunately, despite the damage, we were able to download the data from your key into our systems, so we could upload it onto a new key,” he says. “Now please, let me ask my questions.”
“Sorry, go ahead.”
“Your name?” Dr. Trent glances at the clipboard. Then he looks abruptly at me.
“Lora Mint,” I say, and at the same time, he says, “Lora Mint?”
“If you knew, why’d you have to ask?” I smile.
He does not smile back. Slowly and carefully, as if he’s weighing each syllable on his tongue, he says, “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Jeanette Mint, would you?”
I consider lying, but I don’t think I could get away with it. I nod.
“You’re Jeanette’s daughter, aren’t you?”
I nod again.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. Your mother was a wonderful person and a great scientist. We worked together.” He looks sad, terribly sad.
“Yes.” My eyes are glistening. I am the very image of a girl who has lost her mother. And I’m not even trying.
Dr. Trent shakes his head slightly. Then he clears his throat and asks me a series of questions to make sure my memory is intact. He inquires about things like my first pet, my third grade teacher’s name, a positive experience I had in middle school, my emotions upon graduating high school, and what I ate for lunch today. Finally, he makes a note on his clipboard and says, “Good as new. Do you have any questions for me?”
“If someone has their memory key removed, but later changes their mind, can they get a new key put in?” I ask.
His narrow face puckers. “You want to have your key removed?”
“No, no. Hypothetically.”
“Do you have any questions about your memory key?”
“I know this guy who had his key removed years ago because he didn’t like having one. But now he’s been diagnosed with Vergets. So can he get a new key?”
Dr. Trent scowls. “I have to say, that is extremely irresponsible behavior. And without examining the patient, I can give you no definitive answer. However, if the area is not too damaged, if there is no inflammation or excess scar tissue, it would be possible.”
“That’s comforting to know.” I grin, ignoring his scowl.
But the doctor has moved his disapproving expression past me. “Can I help you?” he says, and I turn to see who he’s talking to. It’s Tim. I stop grinning.
“I’m here for the patient. Not that Lora’s patient. I mean, she is the patient.” Tim laughs at his own stupid pun. I do not.
Neither does Dr. Trent. “You’re not allowed back here,” he says.
“It’s okay. I work here.” Tim brandishes his badge.
“All right,” the doctor says begrudgingly. Then he looks back to me. “Well, Miss Mint, it was nice to meet you. Let us know if you have any problems with your new key.”
And before I can ask another question, or even just thank him, he’s gone.
“How are you doing?” Tim comes to stand beside me.
I glare at him.
“Come on, Lora!” he says. “You were practically passed out at the library. What was I supposed to do? And don’t you feel better now? You look better.”
“But it wasn’t my memory key. It was just these painkillers I needed to—”
“Will you listen to what you’re saying? Just these painkillers? Once you’re drugging yourself, it’s probably time to admit something’s wrong.”
“It’s not like that,” I say. Then I realize it’s exactly like that.
Tim sighs. “Let’s go. I’ll drive you home.”
We walk through a maze of hallways: white walls, blue floors, and Keep Corp’s octagonal logo everywhere. I keep my eyes on the blue floors and say nothing. I am a bit unsteady, but when Tim offers his arm I refuse. He asks if I can manage stairs and I shake my head. As we approach the elevators, the doors open.
“Timmy! I thought you’d left already!” The girl pounces on him. She is cute, wearing a cute striped dress, tossing her cute long hair. They hug.
“I brought my friend to get her key fixed,” he says. “Becky, this is Lora. Lora, Becky. Becky is another one of the interns here.”
I say hello and fake-smile. I do a bad job, but Becky doesn’t seem to notice, so involved is she with Tim. It’s high school all over again, when I would watch him flirt with girl after girl after girl. My breath catches; I’m afraid I might have summoned the memory.
Then I remember my key has been replaced so I no longer have to worry about the past. The realization feels peculiar, not disappointment, but something akin to disappointment. I relax my shoulders and invite the memory to come. I dare it to come. I insist that it come. But I’m stuck in the present, in this slowly descending elevator with chattering Tim and Becky.
“My friend is having a party tonight,” she says to him.
“Sounds fun,” he says to her.
“I’ll call you later,” she says to him.
The elevator chimes, the doors slide open.
“This is us,” Tim tells me.
“Bye!” Becky waves cutely. “Nice meeting you, Lauren!”
I give her a fake smile, faker than the first, and follow Tim down the corridor, into the parking garage, and back to his car.
“Want to go to that party tonight?” He opens the passenger door for me. But then he stands in the way so I can’t get in.
I just glare.
“Lora, give me a break. Stop being such a jerk.”
I try to push him aside so I can get into the car. He won’t move. So I try to wrestle him out of the way, and somehow my arms get twisted up with his arms, and our bodies smash together, and then we’re kissing, kissing so fiercely it’s like a battle with desperate stakes, and after a minute, our limbs unknot and rearrange so we’re holding each other tight, as tightly as we can, but still struggling to get closer. Mouths open. Tongues tangle. Hot hands on hot skin. We’re greedy, we’re both so greedy; the more we touch, the more we want to touch.
Then a car drives by and honks. “Get a room!” shouts the driver, and I’m positive Tim is going to pull away, this is where he always pulls away, except he doesn’t, not this time. This time he kisses me harder. But . . .
Now I’ve started thinking. And I have to stop.
Even though to move away from him—to step out of his arms, to separate our lips—takes almost more strength than I have. “I—I can’t do this,” I say.
“Why not?” Tim leans over and kisses my neck.
“I can’t.” I push him away. I force myself.
“Because of that guy, what’s-his-name? Ralph?”
“Raul. And, yeah, because there’s Raul.”
I say this even though I had not thought of Raul until this moment. But Raul is a reason that can be easily explained and easily understood. The passenger door is still open so I climb into the car. Tim walks around and slides into the driver’s seat.
“You don’t really like that guy, do you?” he asks.
“I do,” I say, which is true. Raul is so nice.
“Good for you, then.” Tim grins. It is the poorest imitation of his usual grin. Yet this false smile convinces me in a way that his kiss did not.
“But I like you too,” I say, which is also true. I’m tired of pretending otherwise.
“Well, the feeling�
�s mutual.” He reaches then—not for me, but for my seat belt. He pulls it across my chest and buckles me in safe, and it’s the sweetness of this gesture, even more than his declaration, that crushes my heart.
“If things were different—” I say.
“Why can’t they be different?” he interrupts.
“Like I said, there’s Raul, and—”
“Look, I’m sure Ronald is an okay dude, but . . . you need to get rid of him,” he says with his typical self-assurance.
I’m annoyed. Tim is so certain of himself, and of me. So certain I will do anything to be with him. But that’s not true, not now. Even with my key fixed, I haven’t quite forgotten.
“Maybe I don’t want to get rid of him,” I say, sharpening the edge of every word. I wait for his snappy retort, but he doesn’t retort; he just turns on the engine and starts driving. Then I wish I could take it back. One small sentence should be easy enough to take back. But I don’t. I can’t. Even with my key fixed, I haven’t quite forgiven.
So I change the subject. “What were you doing at the library?”
“I thought you should know,” he says, staring straight out at the road.
“Know what?”
“Wendy told your dad you still haven’t gotten your memory key fixed.”
25.
I HAVE FIVE NEW VOICE MAILS. TWO ARE FROM MY FATHER, AND both of these are shouted. One is from Jon, asking when I’ll arrive. One is from Aunt Austin, saying she’ll be returning the day after tomorrow and would like to see me soon. The last is from Raul. He wants to know what I’m doing tonight, if I still want to hang out.
I gaze out the windshield, trying to figure out who I should call, where I should go, but then I flinch when I notice where I already am. And I forget my dad’s rage. I forget Jon and my aunt, I forget Raul’s niceness and Tim’s annoyance. I forget everything other than my fear. The car is speeding toward the entrance of the bridge that spans the river that runs along the northern edge of Middleton. The bridge where my mother died.
“No,” I say.
“What?” says Tim, and the needle in his voice stings me, stings me enough to remember that she didn’t die. Stings me enough to realize we must have crossed this bridge on our way here, so I shouldn’t be as frantic as I am. Still, I am very frantic.
“I can’t go this way. I can’t. Can we go the other way?”
He doesn’t answer but he does change lanes, and takes the last exit before the bridge. Which means he has to drive an extra twenty minutes to get back to the city.
“Are you okay?” he says, voice rough, eyes forward.
“I’m okay,” I say, voice soft, eyes down.
When we get to Middleton, I ask Tim if he’ll drop me off at Jon’s house, and when he grumbles agreement, I give him directions. That is the extent of our conversation for the rest of the drive. There is not much traffic, so even with the detour it doesn’t take long to get there.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him. “And for taking me to get my key fixed.”
“Yeah,” says Tim, and as soon as my bicycle and I have been removed from his car, he zooms away. For a moment I just stand there, alone in the middle of the street, and try to remember the exact feeling of his mouth on my mouth. But I can’t remember. Not anymore.
It’s for the best. Because the two of us together is obviously impossible: first he hurts me, now I hurt him; first I’m angry with him, now he’s angry with me—the cycle seems doomed to repeat itself over and over and over forever. It makes me sad, though I have no reason to be sad. My mother is waiting for me.
Except she’s not. Jon Harmon lets me into his home, guides me to the living room, tells me to take a seat, and takes a seat himself. Immediately a little girl leaps from the floor to his lap. “This is my daughter, Ginny,” he says.
I say hello, but I’m anxious. “Where is she?” I ask.
“I’m here.” Ginny stares at me. She has curly hair and a cute freckled face and a very intense stare.
“I know. I meant . . .”
“Don’t worry, everything’s fine,” says Jon. “I’ll explain after I put Ginny to bed. It’s bedtime now, isn’t that right, Gin?”
“I’m four,” she tells me. “Almost five.”
“Great! When’s your birthday?” I ask.
“Today,” she says.
“No, honey, your birthday isn’t today,” says Jon.
Ginny laughs uproariously.
“Yup, it’s definitely bedtime.” Her father stands, lifting her up with him, swinging her to his chest as she flings her arms around his neck, lays her head upon his shoulder, and he carries her away, their routine movements graceful as choreography.
Jon is gone a long time. And the longer he is gone, the more anxious I get. When he returns downstairs, before he can even sit back down, I start with the questions: Where is she? How is she? When can I see her?
“We’ll go right now.” He explains that Darren’s sister is away on business so they’ve settled my mother in her apartment, just a few blocks away. He takes me into his kitchen and out the back door. “Just to be safe,” he says.
We walk silently through the dark night, across the yard and down the alleyway behind his house. And even though he told me where she is, and he assured me she’s fine, and now he’s taking me to see her, I’m still anxious. I keep imagining that when I get to where she’s supposed to be, she’ll be gone.
But then Jon knocks a particular rhythm on a particular door—one long tap, two short—and the door opens, and there she is.
As soon as I see her, I feel better. I smile and reach out for a hug, and in my arms she feels so delicate I’m afraid I might break her if I hold on too tightly, so I’m gentle as I let go. “I’m sorry I’m late,” I say.
“It’s all right. I’ve kept busy.” She steps aside to let us in, but Jon excuses himself and says he has some things to do at home, and he’ll come back to join us later.
So it’s just me and my mother. She gives me a tour of the apartment. It’s one bedroom, one bathroom, a narrow kitchen, and a square-shaped living room that she has already transformed into her office: the coffee table made of books, the sofa upholstered in notepaper.
Mom clears a small space for us to sit and asks me how I am. I tell her I’m fine. I ask how she is. She tells me she’s good. I ask about her day and she says it was productive, a lot of reading, a lot of writing. She asks about my day and I tell her it was okay, just a normal day working at the library.
Then I can’t stand the small talk any longer. “Have you remembered more about Keep Corp?” I ask her. “About why they would put you in that home?”
“I’m afraid not.” She stoops to pick a stray paper from the floor.
I frown. Then un-frown before she sees. “What about a silver sedan?”
She shifts upright again. “A silver sedan?”
“You told me it was your coworker’s car.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
“Do you remember Carlos Cruz? He’s a journalist and your . . . friend?”
“Carlos Cruz? I don’t think so.” She tilts her head thoughtfully.
And there’s something in the thoughtful tilt of her head that I don’t like, so my next question comes out harsher than it should. “Don’t you remember anything?” I say.
She looks at her coffee table of books. “I’m very sorry, Lora.”
“No, I didn’t mean . . . It’s not your fault.”
My mother stands up. “I should have asked before, are you hungry? Can I fix you something to eat? Or drink?”
“Sure,” I say, though I’m not particularly hungry. “Thanks.”
Five years away and her cooking has not improved at all. She makes a grilled cheese sandwich and somehow the bread burns without the cheese melting. “Is it okay? You can tell me if it isn’t,” she says. “I’ll make you another one.”
“It’s perfect,” I say. And it is. Because how miraculous it is to be sitting he
re with my mother, eating a sandwich she burned for me. Perhaps she thinks so too: she watches me chewing with a bemused expression.
But no, it turns out she’s thinking about something else. Someone else. “I thought Kenneth might have come with you tonight,” she says.
“Um. I haven’t told Dad yet. There hasn’t been a good time.” My excuse is so bad, I wait for her to tell me how bad.
She nods.
There’s a knock on the door—one long tap, two short—and Jon Harmon is back. He comes into the kitchen holding an enormous shopping bag, carrying it against his chest with his arms wrapped round, the same way he carried his daughter earlier. He eyes my charred sandwich.
“You know what would go perfectly with that? I brought over some vegetable soup. Would you like some soup?” He takes a plastic container out of his shopping bag and ladles its green contents into a bowl. This is one thing he and my aunt still have in common: they both love to feed people.
Jon puts the soup bowl in front of me, and a spoon, and a paper napkin folded neatly into a rectangle, and urges me to eat.
I don’t eat. I just look at him.
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
Jon doesn’t answer immediately. He puts away the groceries in his shopping bag. He sits down. He sighs. Then he says: “Well, your mom can stay here till the end of the week, when Darren’s sister gets back. After that, we’ll have to find somewhere for her to go. The farther from Middleton, the better. Perhaps abroad.”
“You want to send her away?” There is an ugly taste in my mouth, a bitter taste. The burnt bread of the sandwich, I think.
“There aren’t a lot of options. We don’t know what Jeanette found out about the new keys. We don’t have any leverage against Keep Corp. But someone went to a lot of trouble to make her disappear, so our priority has to be her safety.”
“But if we don’t do anything she’ll never be safe. She’ll spend her whole life away in hiding,” I say. Away from me, I don’t say.
I glance at my mother to see her reaction, her indignation, her steadfast refusal. But she doesn’t even seem to be following our conversation. She is staring at the wall, and her eyes are far away. How well I know those faraway eyes.