The Memory Key

by Liana Liu

  “I guess so,” I say.

  Then we eat our cake and drink our tea, and as we eat and drink, the sound of my parents’ conversation seeps into our silence, but through the muffling walls their voices are melodies without lyrics, and I can’t even tell whether the song is a happy or sad one.

  “Jon?” I set my fork down gently on my plate, so gently there is no clink.

  “Yes?”

  “Why didn’t she tell my dad about what she found at Keep Corp?”

  Jon sighs. “It’s impossible to know what any relationship is like from the outside. But I’d guess that Jeanette wanted to protect him, to protect both of you. If she told Ken, she would have put him in danger. And if something happened to him, what would have happened to you?”

  “Yes, but,” I say, then stop because I don’t know what else to say. His reasoning makes absolute sense.

  But.

  I stuff another chunk of cake into my mouth. “This is delicious.”

  “Darren made it. He’s a wonderful baker.”

  I nod. I swallow. My phone starts to ring.

  “Go ahead and answer that if you want,” says Jon.

  I check the caller ID. It’s Raul. And then I feel guilty. I remember kissing Tim in the parking garage. The press of Tim’s lips. The heat of Tim’s body. I stare at my ringing phone. I feel so guilty.

  Kissing Raul is nice too, I tell myself.

  Kissing Raul is nicer than kissing Tim, I tell myself.

  I apologize to Jon and step through the tiny hallway and into the bedroom and shut the door and answer the phone and tell Raul I’m sorry for not calling him back yesterday. I tell him I’ve been busy with family stuff.

  “Is everything all right?” he asks.

  “Everything’s fine.” I flop down on the bed. Raul is so nice. I could be nicer. I should be. So I hesitate for only a second when he tells me he needs to talk to me and asks if I can meet him. Soon.

  “Sure,” I say. I’m reluctant to leave my parents, but I know I have to give them a chance to get, as Jon said, reacquainted.

  After hanging up, I stay flopped on the bed for a moment longer. On this bed that my mother has slept in these past two nights. The mattress is soft. She always preferred a firm mattress, I remember. For better posture, she said.

  I go back to the kitchen, but Jon is no longer there, so I peek into the square-shaped living room. My mother sits at one end of the sofa, my father sits at the other end, and there is a space between them. Her face is no longer quite as pale. She seems calmer. He still looks bewildered.

  But perhaps that’s because Jon is leaning against the wall and talking about, of all things, his daughter’s difficulties at preschool. “She’s not very good at sharing,” he says.

  “She’ll learn,” my father says sympathetically.

  I come to sit in the space between my parents. “Mom?” I say.

  “Yes, Lora?”

  “How have you been sleeping?”

  “Very well. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh. Just wondering. Um, I got you a present. Well, Dad paid for it so technically he got it for you, but I picked it out. It’s not a big deal or anything, it’s just . . . Hold on.” I run across the room to get the lavender bar out of my bag.

  “It’s the soap you used to use. Remember?” I say. “Smell it.”

  My mother cradles the bar in her hands, admires its floral wrapping paper, but does not bring it close to her face, does not inhale its perfume, does not tell me that she remembers. “Lovely,” she says.

  “You have to smell it,” I say. “When you smell it you’ll remember.”

  She brings the soap swiftly to her nose, and swiftly down again. “What a thoughtful gift. Thank you,” she says.

  I smile to cover up my confusion. It’s not that I expected her to instantly remember everything, but I had hoped for something more than this polite gratitude. I stand up. “I’m going to meet a friend now. I’ll be back soon,” I say.

  “Who are you meeting? Where?” asks Dad.

  “I’m meeting Raul at the park. It’s just a couple blocks away.”

  My father looks at Jon. “Is it safe for her to go by herself?”

  My father looks at me. “Maybe I should come with you.”

  “Dad, no!”

  “Only kidding,” he says. “Mostly.”

  “It should be all right,” says Jon. “Just be careful.”

  I look back once before leaving. My mother is still holding the lavender bar of soap in her lap, in the hollow of her hands, and she is gazing longingly at it, as if it’s something she wants but cannot have.

  Outside it’s hot and humid and I have plenty of time before I’m supposed to meet Raul, so I walk slowly. When I get to the park, I choose a spot in the misshapen shade provided by a misshapen tree, and sit cross-legged in the grass. I touch the bandage under my hair. For a moment I wish I still had my broken memory key. I know it’s stupid; I certainly don’t miss those debilitating headaches. And yet . . .

  “Hey, you’re early,” says Raul.

  “You’re early too,” I say.

  “Not as early as you.” He sits very close to me.

  “True. So what do I win?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For being early. I deserve at least a dollar, I think,” I say and Raul digs a rumpled bill from his pocket. I wave it away. “I’m kidding,” I tell him.

  “Right. Of course.” He smiles his nice smile, but for some reason his nice smile now makes me want to roll my eyes. So I’m glad when his expression turns serious.

  “We have to talk,” he says.

  My first thought is that Raul knows about what happened with Tim. My second thought is that Raul is going to break up with me. My third thought is that I don’t mind.

  Therefore, I’m completely unprepared when he says: “People have been asking questions at work. About Friday, when the alarm went off.”

  “What did you tell them?” I am trying not to panic—of course people are asking questions; one of their residents has gone missing.

  “Nothing. I figured I should talk to you first.”

  “Who was asking? What did they ask?”

  “It was weird. These people showed up, two people we’d never seen before, and management told us we had to answer their questions. They asked if we were working Friday, and did we notice anything out of the ordinary, and where were we when the alarm went off.”

  “Two people? What did they look like?”

  “A man and a woman, both with brownish hair, both wearing suits.”

  “A man and a woman?” I zip open my bag and take out the photo of my father with the strangers from our kitchen. “Were they, possibly, this man and woman?”

  Raul studies the picture. His finger hovers over the man’s face, then the woman’s face. “Yeah! It was definitely them. Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem.” I am still trying not to panic, though this is definitely cause for panic.

  “Lora, what’s going on?”

  “Remember when I said I was dealing with family stuff? Well, this is that family stuff. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” I say.

  Then I expect Raul to be annoyed because I’d be annoyed if I were him. But he looks at me with understanding, more understanding than I deserve, and takes my hand into his hand. His fingers are warm. His grip is gentle. How easy it would be to stay here with him in the overgrown green grass, watching the drifting clouds.

  But I don’t want to. And when I think of the light in my father’s eyes when he saw my mother, I realize what I must do. I realize I’ve put it off too long already. Because as much as I like Raul, I don’t like him like him. I slip my hand from his hand.

  “Raul, you’re great, you’re a really nice guy, but . . .”

  “What?” His eyebrows draw together.

  I say a lot of things about how my life is crazy right now, and I don’t want to inflict that on him, and how I wish things were
different, but they aren’t different, and I’m sorry, so sorry. I am terrible at this, having had little practice at breaking up with boys. But Raul listens quietly, doesn’t interrupt, and when I’m done he nods.

  “I hope we can be friends,” I say.

  “Right. Friends,” he says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say for the tenth time.

  “Okay. Guess I’ll see you around.” He gets up and walks away. He doesn’t look back, not once, and I watch until he’s gone. I feel bad, though he didn’t take it badly. Then I feel bad that he didn’t take it badly. Then I feel awful for being awful. Then I feel a wave of pure relief.

  I reach for my cell phone to call Wendy and tell her what happened. But I stop mid-dial when I remember. We’re not talking. And I’m still mad at her. Because she told my dad about my broken key. Because she always thinks she’s right. Which means I’m always wrong.

  My memory key is fixed, and I am still mad.

  I put away my phone. There’s no time to waste, anyway. I have to get back to Jon’s house. I have to tell them what I’ve learned. Keep Corp is looking for my mother.

  The news does not have the impact I expected. My father looks bewildered. My mother seems distracted. Jon nods and announces he’s not surprised. “I checked and there’s been no media coverage about a resident’s disappearance, no report filed with the police, nothing that would happen in a normal situation,” he says grimly.

  “Will they be able to connect her disappearance to you two?” asks Dad.

  “The nurse can,” I say. “She’s the only one who knows we were there, in Mom’s room. And she knows I’m her daughter. But maybe she hasn’t told anyone. It might endanger her job—she wasn’t supposed to bring us to her room. Or leave us unattended.”

  “I don’t think Nina would give us away,” says my mother.

  Jon shakes his head. “We have to assume she’s told them everything. But at least they don’t know who I am. What we have to do now is arrange for Jeanette to get away, within the next few days. In the meantime, Ken and Lora, you’ll act like you know nothing. Maybe you visited your mother at the retirement home, but you left her there, and that was the last time you saw her. Okay?”

  “Maybe we should talk to Nina. Ask her for help,” I say.

  “No!” yells Jon.

  We all turn to him in surprise. And I suddenly notice how bad he looks. His complexion is clammy. There are purple shadows under his eyes. I remember him telling me about his breakdown, the panic attacks and insomnia. I remember and I’m ashamed that it’s only now I’m realizing that beneath his cheery mask Jon is a stressed mess. Because of us.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was a stupid idea.”

  He swipes his arm across his damp forehead. “No, I’m sorry for shouting like that. I’m just a little tense.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell him.

  Then I don’t say another word while Jon summarizes the plan: Dad and I will return to the department store, retrieve our car, go to the bank to withdraw money from the ATM, and drive home. Tomorrow my father will dress in his workout clothes and meet Jon at the gym with as much cash as he has, in order to purchase the necessary identification papers, airplane tickets, etc. They will go together to procure these items from Jon’s contacts, and afterward they will return to Darren’s sister’s apartment to finalize the plans for my mother’s departure.

  I don’t say a word. I wait for someone else to protest. No one does.

  “Okay?” asks Jon.

  “Okay,” says my father.

  “Okay,” says my mother.

  And I want to scream that there must be some alternative, that she doesn’t have to go, that we can find another way. Instead I say something ridiculous.

  “Can I come along tomorrow?” I ask.

  Jon is the first to say no, then Dad. They both say it kindly, firmly.

  I look at my mother.

  “Lora,” she says. “It’s for the best.”

  27.

  I CALL IN SICK TO WORK THE NEXT DAY. I TRY NOT TO NOTICE Cynthia’s disapproving tone on the phone. I try not to notice I’m neglecting my duties after being lectured about neglecting my duties. I try not to feel bad but I’m feeling very bad when my father comes downstairs in his T-shirt and athletic shorts and white sneakers and socks stretched halfway to his knees; I feel so very bad and so very anxious that I don’t even comment on his dorky gym clothes. All I say is: “Please be careful.”

  “Of course, Lora.” He kisses my cheek.

  I watch from the window as he walks down the driveway, bulky duffel bag bumping against his hip. He gets into his car and goes. I wait to see if another car comes racing down the street after him. No other car comes racing. Everything outside is perfectly, picturesquely ordinary. Neighborhood kids play kick ball in the grass. The trees bob and sway with the breeze.

  For a long time I just stand there, looking out at the fluttering leaves and the snickering kids and the red ball swooping through the air. Then I get out my phone. I dial. The line rings and rings and rings, until the answering machine comes on.

  “Hi, it’s me,” I say. “Just wondering what you’re—”

  “Lora?” My mother picks up. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah, Mom, how are you?”

  “I’m good. And you?”

  “Good. I was thinking, if you’re not busy or anything, maybe I could come over? Just for a little while? If you don’t mind?”

  She pauses before she says: “All right.”

  “I don’t have to, if it’s inconvenient.”

  “It’s not inconvenient. Please come.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “I’m sure,” she says.

  Though I notice no strangers lurking, no vehicles following, I ride a long and circuitous route around the city, and lock my bicycle a few blocks away from Darren’s sister’s apartment. Jon and Dad will not be pleased that I am making this trip alone, so the least I can do is to be careful.

  “I thought you had work today,” my mother says when she opens the door.

  “No, no work. I couldn’t . . . I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Not at all. I was just doing some reading.” She leads me into the square-shaped living room. As before, the couch is covered in notepaper, and, as before, she carefully collects them to make space for us to sit down.

  I look at her stack of paper and at the books piled up on the coffee table. “How did you keep up with all this med-tech stuff while you were at Grand Gardens?”

  “Well, at first I didn’t. I couldn’t. My memory was so bad. So my doctor recommended that I find an interest or hobby, some topic to focus my mind on, and of course I thought immediately of medical technology.”

  “Of course.” I don’t mean to sound sarcastic. I sound so sarcastic.

  She doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes, of course,” she says. “The more I studied, the more information came back to me. Not right away, and not everything, not by a long shot. But enough to make me feel more like myself again.”

  Then I feel bad. What right do I have to resent her enduring dedication to her work if it makes her feel more like herself again? I have no right.

  “That’s great,” I say.

  “Yes.” She leans back on the couch.

  “Yes.” I lean back on the couch.

  We sit in silence for a minute. Two minutes.

  “What is—” I say and “What are—” she says.

  “Go ahead.”

  “No, you go ahead.”

  “What’s that?” I point to the open magazine on the table.

  “It’s the latest issue of Med-Tech Quarterly. Jon got it for me.”

  “That’s nice of him.”

  “Yes, very nice.” She describes the article she just read, something about the problems with a new kind of neural sensor, and I nod as she talks, but I am looking at her more than I’m listening. I am looking at her shirt and sweatpants, her same shirt and sweatpants from Gran
d Gardens, and wishing I’d thought to bring some of her old clothes from the attic. She never used to wear sweatpants.

  “But I just don’t think it’s a realistic goal, do you?” she asks, smiling.

  “Um. I don’t really know,” I say.

  Her smile fades. “You should read the article. It’s fascinating.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Were you going to ask me something before?”

  “I wanted to know about your studies. What do you plan to major in?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I say. “I’m only starting college this fall.”

  “Yes, your father told me. But it’s good to be prepared, so you can go in and take immediate advantage of the resources available to you. What subjects are you considering?” she asks.

  “I really don’t know yet.”

  “What were your favorite subjects in high school?”

  “History and math, but I’m not sure I want to major in either of them.”

  Her lips compress, her eyes narrow. I remember that expression. It’s disappointment. “Well,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.”

  I nod. I don’t speak. I don’t want to disappoint her again.

  My mother picks up her magazine—the latest issue of Med-Tech Quarterly—and flips it shut. “Can I offer you a drink?” she asks. “Water? Juice?”

  “What kind of juice do you have?”

  “There’s some cranberry juice, do you like that?”

  I don’t like that. “I’ll have some water. Thanks.”

  We go into the kitchen. My mother takes a glass from the cupboard. She gets the ice tray from the freezer and cracks the cubes out of the tray. She stands at the sink and fills the glass under the faucet.

  “Anyway, lots of kids start college without a major. It’s normal,” I say.

  My mother looks at me. While she is looking at me, the glass overflows. She turns back and for a moment just stares at the water spilling down her hand. Then she grabs the tap and twists it closed.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she says.

  I don’t stay much longer after that.

  When I tell her I should probably be getting home, my mother nods and walks me to the door. I kiss her cheek and say it was nice to see her and I’ll see her again soon. She kisses my cheek and says the same. We are speaking all the correct words and making all the correct gestures, but it all feels off, as if we’re actors performing a scene and performing it badly.