The Memory Key

by Liana Liu

  I give him Tim’s number.

  When Jon Harmon calls a little while later, I don’t bother telling him what Carlos said. I know what Jon’s response would be: there’s nothing we can do, she has to go and the sooner the better, let’s make it an hour earlier, maybe three hours earlier, maybe she’s already gone.

  “Thanks,” I say. “See you there.”

  I retrieve my umbrella from the closet, along with my raincoat and boots, and since the weather’s too bad for biking, I take the bus downtown. It drives a different route from the one I normally take, a route that goes past Keep Corp’s trip-down-memory-lane billboards. Even soaking wet, the attractive couple is extremely attractive. They look so happy together. I have to remind myself it’s fake.

  My phone starts ringing again, and this time it’s Tim. I answer, trying to ignore the glares from other passengers. “Did Carlos Cruz call you?” I ask.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “I’m on the bus,” I say.

  “Right, so I talked to Carlos. He wants me to sneak into his source’s office and find those documents he told us about.”

  “That’s crazy! I didn’t think he’d ask you to do something crazy!” I forget to be quiet, and the other passengers glare harder. I lower my voice again. “What did you tell him?”

  “I said I’d do it.”

  “What? Why? Wait, hold on, it’s my stop. I’m getting off.” I hop down to the wet sidewalk and wrestle open my umbrella. “Okay, are you still there?” I ask.

  And as soon as Tim acknowledges he’s still there, I start shouting. “Are you insane? What if someone catches you? These people are dangerous!”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

  “But, Tim!”

  “I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  “But, Tim!”

  He’s gone. He doesn’t answer when I call him back once, twice, thrice. I’m worried, and I’m scared, and I feel guilty for getting him into this situation. But I also feel guilty because some tiny part of me is pleased—if he finds what he’s looking for, then my mother can stay.

  After Tim doesn’t answer for the fourth time, I give up.

  I cross the street and go into the big department store on the corner, the same store I went to with my father on our way to Darren’s sister’s apartment the other day. I walk straight to the Intimates section, where there is only one customer browsing, a woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat that is somewhat familiar. She is studying the sizing chart on a package of underwear.

  “Find what you’re looking for?” I ask her.

  My mother steps back in surprise, clutching the pack to her chest, and I realize her hat is my hat, with the plastic flowers removed. I kind of wish she had asked before cutting off the flowers. I tell myself it’s a hat, just a hat.

  “You made it, I’m so glad,” she says.

  “Yeah, Mom. Where’s Jon Harmon?”

  “He went to pick up my passport.” She rests her hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for coming. I was afraid I’d have to go without seeing you again.”

  And even though I knew she would be going, it feels as if I hadn’t known this at all. “What time are you leaving?” I ask.

  “My flight is at seven tonight.” She drops the package of underwear into her shopping cart. It flops against a tube of lotion. I pick the tube up and read the label.

  “Unscented?” I say.

  “I have to be careful with fragrances. My skin has become very sensitive.”

  I remember the lavender soap I bought for her, from this very store. I remember and wait for her to remember. She pulls an undershirt from the rack, examines it, then puts it back. I tell myself it’s a bar of soap, just a bar of soap.

  “So where are you going?” I ask.

  “I can’t tell you, Lora, you know that. It’s for your own safety.”

  “But . . . I’m your daughter.”

  “Yes, and as my daughter will you help me select a coat? It’ll be cold where I’m going, the nights are apparently very cold.” She pushes her shopping cart toward Women’s Apparel, and I trail after her, trying to think of cold places, but I can’t think of a single one right now. All I can think of is my father sitting in his armchair, weeping.

  “Dad was really upset last night,” I tell her.

  “Oh, no,” she says. I wait for her to say more. But she never says more.

  So I say more: “You don’t have to go. We’ll find a safe place for you here, and once we get the evidence against Keep Corp you can come home. I think we’re really close.”

  “That’s good.” She holds up a navy blazer. “What do you think of this?”

  “Did Jon tell you about my conversation with Carlos Cruz yesterday?”

  “He told me. And you know, I think I remember him.”

  “Who? Carlos?”

  “Is he a dark man? Tall?” she asks.

  “Kind of dark. Kind of tall.” I should be glad she remembers him; I should be glad if she remembers anything. I’m not. “Have you remembered anything else?”

  “A little, but it’s all in pieces. My sister coming to visit. My grandfather reading his newspaper. A room with a thick green carpet and a large desk.”

  “That’s your office! What else?” I wait for her to say she remembers me. Anything about me. Everything about me.

  “That’s about it. My memory . . .”

  “Your memory?” I say. Then I say it again.

  The words seem to act as an incantation, unfurling something within me. Rage. I am suddenly and completely enraged. How could she have been so careless? Why was she always rushing to work? How could she have let herself get killed? How could she abandon me like that?

  I don’t understand what’s happening. This shouldn’t be happening, not now, not when my key has been repaired. And she’s alive. She is alive, I remind myself. But my anger easily adjusts to the changing circumstances: she was only a half hour away at Grand Gardens—why did she never come for me? How could she have forgotten me? Did I mean so little to her?

  “Lora, what is it?” asks my mother.

  “You want to leave,” I say, finally understanding.

  “No, I have to leave.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.” My voice is hard and my face is hard. But inside I am soft. Inside I am waiting for her to furiously deny it, to say that she’s my mother so of course she would never leave me willingly, that she would never leave me at all, no matter what.

  “I can’t live like this, Lora, stuck in some small apartment, constantly afraid I’m going to be found. I didn’t leave Grand Gardens to be trapped in some new place. I need to have some sort of life.”

  “But what about me? And Dad? Aren’t we your life? Don’t you care about us?”

  “Of course I care,” she says.

  “Then why can’t it be like it used to be?”

  My mother sighs. “But I can’t remember how it used to be. I wish I could, I wish it so much. But I can’t. I can’t be the person you knew. She doesn’t exist anymore.”

  I feel sick. Nauseated. I need to sit down. But there is no place to sit down, so I stand up straighter. “You could try harder,” I say. “Why won’t you try harder?”

  “I have been trying. I really have.” Her voice is quiet.

  Then there is nothing left to say. So I stand up straighter, even straighter, and stare at a display of bathing suits. I stare at so many stripes, ruffles, and polka dots on sale, and tell her: “If you’re going, you better go.”

  But when I look again she’s still there. She stretches one arm out, reaches her open hand toward me. Then we both startle back as sound blares through the store. It’s a PA announcement: Will Millie please report to Men’s Shoes. Will Millie please report to Men’s Shoes. The announcement is followed by a silence as loud as the loudspeaker blare, louder even. The silence howls with no shame.

  I blink and see my mother standing in our kitchen, arm crossed over her chest, gaze faraway. I see her
wandering through the den, not noticing me on the sofa. I see her sitting across from me at dinner, so distracted that when I ask her a question, she gives the answer to a question I didn’t ask. She calls my father the absentminded professor, but she has no right. She is the absentminded one.

  She is the absent one.

  All at once my rage feels hot enough to burn the whole department store down. “Just go!” I shout, and I shout it again. I shout it again, again, again.

  And my mother does the worst thing she could possibly do. She does as I ask.

  30.

  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.”