by Liana Liu
“Yes, but my friend Tim—”
“When can you get here? In twenty minutes? A half hour?”
“Twenty minutes, but I wanted—”
“Perfect. I’ll see you very soon, then.”
“Aunt Austin, hold on,” I say too late. The line clicks. I sigh. At least she won’t be able to hang up on me once I’m sitting in front of her.
I walk over to Cynthia’s desk. She looks up from her work. “Yes, Lora?”
“I have an emergency. And I have to go. I’m so sorry. Albert is at the circulation desk, and it’s not busy today, so I hope it’s okay.” I am nervous. I’m afraid I’m making it uncomfortable between us again. I’m afraid of losing my job. Not that my job matters much at this moment.
But Cynthia nods and tells me I can go. “I hope everything is okay,” she says.
“Thanks. I hope so, too,” I say.
Then I put on my coat and my boots, and run out into the rain.
There’s a long line of people waiting at the security checkpoint in my aunt’s office building. In addition to the standard metal detector and x-ray machine, the guards are pulling visitors aside to have their palms swabbed for chemical residue. When it’s my turn, I set my bag on the conveyer belt, and my raincoat, and my rain boots, and I step through feeling vulnerable in my state of semi-undress. At least I’m not pulled aside for additional checks.
I reassemble my outfit and take the elevator upstairs. Another guard is stationed in the hallway. I show him my visitor’s pass and he points me through the door. At the reception desk, I give my name to a man with spiky hair and a dazzling smile. He cheerfully tells me to take a seat.
Several minutes go by. I take Tim’s diagram out of my bag and stare at it, hoping that if I study it for long enough, I’ll understand it. I don’t. Eventually I put it away, too agitated to look anymore. If only I hadn’t asked Tim for help. If only I hadn’t given Tim’s number to Carlos Cruz. If only I had told Tim he didn’t need to do it because my mother is leaving and nothing can stop her.
The cheerful receptionist clears his throat. I glance at him hopefully, but he only looks at my foot tapping the floor, his smile less dazzling than before. I hadn’t realized my foot was tapping. That’s how agitated I am. “Sorry,” I say, clamping sole against carpet.
“No worries.” His smile dazzles again.
The longer I wait, the more confused I am to be waiting. Aunt Austin is partial to punctuality, and I am right on time. But I know she is busy, undoubtedly busier than usual since she was away these past few days. Still, she invited me and she wouldn’t have invited me if she were otherwise occupied.
But now fifteen minutes have passed since I arrived. My foot is tapping vigorously and I can’t make it stop. The cheerful man calls me back to his desk and I’m worried he is going to scold me for fidgeting. “I’m sorry,” I say preemptively.
“No, Miss Mint, I am sorry.” He gently places down his phone. “The congresswoman’s assistant has just informed me she was unexpectedly called out of the office. My apologies. She’s usually extremely organized, but her schedule has been chaotic lately, with all the economic bill stuff.”
“What happened? Is everything all right?”
“I’m sure everything is fine. I cannot tell you more than that.”
“But Austin is my aunt,” I say.
“Really? I didn’t know that. Let me tell you, your aunt is fabulous. She gets things done, unlike so many of those career politicians.” The cheerful man rolls his cheerful eyeballs.
“Where’d she go? Are you sure everything is all right?” I say.
“Well, since you’re family, I suppose I can tell you.” He glances around, then lowers his voice. “She was called home for an emergency,” he says dramatically.
“What emergency?” I’m ready to smack his smiling face.
But now he is looking past me. “Hello!” he says over my shoulder. “It’s horrid weather out, isn’t it? I hope you didn’t get too wet.”
I turn around, hoping it’s my aunt. It’s not. It’s a man in a gray suit accompanied by a woman, also in a gray suit. They nod in response to the receptionist’s greeting, their expressions solemn. They do not seem to recognize me.
But I recognize them immediately.
They are the ones who took my mother away.
31.
“THOSE PEOPLE WHO JUST CAME IN, WHO ARE THEY? THEY LOOK familiar,” I say. My voice sounds normal. Impossibly normal.
The receptionist grins. “I’m sure you’ve met them before. They’re your aunt’s aides. They’ve worked with her forever.”
“Forever,” I say.
“Not literally forever. But years and years.”
I try to process this information, that the blue-jacketed strangers work for my aunt, that they’ve worked with her for years and years. I cannot process this information.
“I have to go,” I say slowly. Slowly because my tongue seems to have swollen inside my mouth. In fact, all of me seems to have swollen. My lungs strain thickly inside my chest. My skin feels about to burst. I stagger out of the office, past the security guard, into the elevator, and back down to the lobby.
I remember Aunt Austin in her bedroom, standing over her suitcase. I loved your mom, Lora. I really, she said, then zipped her bag closed without completing the sentence.
I remember my mother sitting on Jon’s couch. Why don’t you give me her number and I’ll call, she said, and I gave her her sister’s number.
Fumbling my phone from my pocket, I try Jon’s house again. Again I get a busy signal, tinny and echoing in my ear. I try his cell again. Again it goes to voice mail. So I try Darren’s sister’s apartment. I leave a message on the answering machine—“It’s Lora, pick up, pick up, pick up!”—but no one picks up.
Then my phone rings.
“They’re not going to release him until the judge sets bail. His lawyer says this is unusual for a trespassing charge, and she’s going to fight it, but it sounds bad, Lora, it sounds really bad. Did you talk to Jon Harmon?” Wendy says all of this in one breathless rush.
“I’m going to his house. Do you want to meet me there?”
“Yes! I’m going crazy waiting,” she says.
“We’ve got to hurry. Before it’s too late,” I say.
“Too late for what?”
“I’ll tell you when we get there. Hurry, okay?” I give her Jon’s address. Then I look around for my bicycle, and realize it’s at home. Then I look around for my umbrella, and realize I left it in my aunt’s office. So I pull my hood over my head and race outside. The rain has eased; now it falls in thin, sharp needles.
A bus is pulling away from the stop on the corner. I chase after it, waving. I run two blocks to catch up. “What’s the big rush?” the driver asks when I get on.
I shake my head.
Traffic is bad because although it’s no longer pouring, the roads are soaked and slippery. I groan at every stop, every red light. When I get off the bus, the other passengers are probably glad to be rid of me, but I don’t care. I dash up the street to Jon’s house and ring the bell. Then I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
The door opens.
“Hello,” says the man. He is short and slim, with a lot of red-blond hair.
“Hi. You must be . . . Darren.” It takes my damp brain an extra second to recall the name of Jon Harmon’s partner.
“And you’re Lora,” he says. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Please, come in. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, I was upstairs.”
Darren hangs my coat in the closet while I step out of my dripping boots. He invites me to borrow some slippers and I choose the plaid pair closest to my size. They are still much too large. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks.
I shake my head impatiently. “Where’s Jon? And my mom?”
“I was hoping you’d know. No one was here when I got here,” he says, waving me into the living room. He sits in the
armchair, normally Jon’s armchair, and I sit on the sofa.
“I called the apartment. There was no answer there either,” I say.
His pale eyebrows come together. “Where could they be?”
“Could they still be at the department store?”
“The department store?”
“The one on Greenfield Avenue,” I say.
“Ah, yes, that one.” He gazes at me, eyes gleaming. “Lora, I can’t imagine what it must be like for you. To have thought your mother was dead, and then find out otherwise. You must be so happy,” he says.
“Of course, I’m very happy.” I nod. Darren is not what I expected. He is intense, almost uncomfortably so, in stark opposition to Jon’s laid-back cheerfulness.
“I truly admire the way you got your mother out of Grand Gardens. What an elegant plan you came up with, and so quickly,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, idly scratching at an itchy place above my ear, but there’s no relief, only increasing discomfort. I force my hand down, clamp it underneath my leg. The irritation is not on my head, it’s inside my head. I’ve forgotten something.
“And you didn’t even panic when you got outside and bumped into your friend who works there, what’s his name, Ralph, Ron . . . I’m so bad with names.”
“Raul,” I say, distracted, as I try to remember what I’ve forgotten.
“Yes, Raul. How’s it going with Raul? He seems so nice.”
Then my full attention is abruptly on Darren. How does he know about Raul? I haven’t told Jon about Raul. How does he know I saw Raul outside the retirement home? I haven’t told anyone about seeing Raul outside the retirement home.
“How do you know about that?” I ask.
But now Darren is the one distracted. He is gazing out the front window. I turn to see what he sees, and I nearly choke when I see it. A silver sedan is pulling into the driveway. The car door opens and a tall man unfolds out. He holds his hands over his face to protect against the rain as he strides quickly to the house. The doorbell rings.
“Finally,” says Darren. “Now don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
I don’t move. I can’t move. So complete is my confusion. So complete is my fear. There is the creak of the door opening, and a bang as it closes. There is the low murmur of deep voices. I cannot make out what they are saying. Perhaps because they are speaking so carefully quietly. Perhaps because I am remembering what I had forgotten.
The only part of me that will budge is my gaze, so I push my eyes away from the window, away from the silver sedan in the driveway, and over to the family portrait on the wall above the fireplace. There’s Jon Harmon, bald and beaming, and the two kids, cutely freckled. But I’m focused on the other man in the photograph. The other man is tall, unlike Darren, who is of average height. The other man is plump, unlike Darren, who is slender. The other man has brown hair, unlike Darren, whose hair is a reddish blond. The conclusion is obvious. Darren is not Darren. But if he’s not Darren . . .
I’ve got to get out of here.
I stand. But then there’s a clatter of footsteps and Not-Darren reappears. “Sorry for the interruption,” he says. “You stay put while I talk a minute with my friend. We’ll be right here in the hallway, so don’t worry about a thing. You might as well sit back down and relax.” Not-Darren smiles at me, and I know that he knows that I know. I sit back down. He nods approvingly as he goes.
I’ve got to get out of here.
But how? I ease myself up and tiptoe to the window. With great tenderness, I tug on the frame. The wood jiggles, but won’t lift. I search for a latch or a lock or a lever, fingers crawling into dusty cracks and corners, but then I’m distracted by a flash of color. I look through the glass and am appalled by what I find.
Wendy is walking toward the house.
Her umbrella is open high above her head, and that’s what caught my attention because her umbrella is hot pink. I tap on the window. Then I tap more frantically. I can’t let her fall into this trap I’ve fallen into. For that’s what this undoubtedly is: a trap. Set for my mother, but now that Not-Darren has caught me, he’s keeping me instead. Or in addition.
I tap as loudly as I dare, then consider more drastic action, looking around the room for something heavy, something I can use to smash the glass.
Wendy stops mid-stride. She sees me.
I shake my head and wave my arms and mouth a million desperate words. When she nods I exhale with relief. Now she will walk away, she will go for help, she will save herself, and maybe, hopefully, me.
But instead, Wendy dashes out of my sight.
But instead, the doorbell rings.
No, no, no.
The two men fall silent. A moment passes before they begin whispering again. Then one of them treads toward the door. I run to the fireplace, to the iron poker resting against the bricks, thinking I can use it to smash the window, the room, anything, everything, and create a diversion so that Wendy can get away.
But as I reach for the poker a hand grips my arm and pulls me backward. “Lora Mint,” says a voice in my ear. I turn around.
It’s not Not-Darren.
This man is tall. This man is thin. This man has salt-and-pepper curls and dark eyes. I know this man. He’s the doctor from Keep Corp, the one who replaced my memory key. The one who said my mother was a wonderful person and a great scientist. The one who looked at me with such grief when I told him I was her daughter. Dr. Trent. Driver of the silver sedan.
“It’s you,” I say. I glare.
“Quiet,” he says. “You don’t want anyone to get hurt, do you?”
This quiets me instantly.
Wendy’s voice soars nimbly through the stillness. “Are you Jon Harmon?” she asks. “I’m the journalism student who called to interview you about your experiences in activism. I know I’m early for our appointment, I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, I’m not Jon. He’s not home right now. You’d better come back later, when he’s expecting you,” says Not-Darren.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” asks Wendy.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” says Not-Darren.
“Get out of here,” Dr. Trent hisses.
“What?” I’m sure I heard him wrong because I was focused on the conversation between Wendy and Not-Darren. I stare at the doctor. His face is narrow eyes and narrow lips and nothing revealed.
“Is there another exit? A back door?” he whispers, releasing his hold on my arm.
“Through the kitchen?” I say.
“Then go that way. Now.” Dr. Trent is obviously exasperated by my confusion.
But I still don’t understand. “Go?” I say. “Go where?”
“Anywhere! Just get out of here!”
I take a step toward the door, then turn back.
“Why?” I ask. “Why are you letting me go?”
For a moment, I think he’s not going to answer. I take another step toward the door, and another, before he speaks. “I owe your mother this much,” he says softly. “Now, go!”
I go. I sneak across the hallway. Wendy is still chattering to Not-Darren, even as his responses get impatiently short. Still she prattles on, telling him how important this article is to her, and how hard it is to get a regular column at the school newspaper, and how she’s always wanted to be a journalist, even when she was a little girl. Terrified as I am, I’m still able to admire Wendy’s act.
In the kitchen, I undo the deadbolt. But when I ease open the back door, the hinges screech, they scream, they wail. I freeze.
I freeze and wait for the thunder of footsteps. What I actually hear is much worse. “Wait, I recognize you,” Not-Darren says to Wendy. “You’re Lora’s friend. Cindy? Mindy? Winnie? I’m so bad with names . . .”
He continues guessing, but I’ve stopped listening. I leap outside, across the wooden deck, down the stairs, and into the yard. My feet slip in the muddy grass, and I realize I’m still wearing those too-large plaid slippers. I kick them of
f as I race around to the front of the house.
“Wendy!” I shout. “Wendy, run!”
She hears me. She sees me. She runs.
Not-Darren reaches for her, but trips over the hot-pink umbrella she has dropped in her haste. He swiftly recovers, sprinting down the front path. But Wendy has a head start, and with those long legs she’s very fast.
“Car! Over there!” she yells, pointing at the end of the block.
I follow her. The concrete is painfully hard against my socked feet. The rain is coming down in dense drops. Wendy unlocks her car and we both dive inside, shut our doors, lock our doors. Only then do we look behind us.
Not-Darren is nowhere to be seen.
“Let’s go,” I say to Wendy. My voice is wobbly.
“Yes, let’s,” she says to me. Her voice is wobbly, too. She starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space. We have to pass Jon Harmon’s house, and as we approach, Wendy accelerates.
“No,” I say. “Not so fast.”
She raises her eyebrows, but slows down. I stare out the window. Not-Darren stands on the sidewalk, holding Wendy’s open umbrella over his head. The umbrella glows pink on his face. Dr. Trent is on the porch, calling out. But it appears as though Not-Darren does not hear him. Perhaps because he is too busy watching us as we drive past. I’m unnerved by his expression. He doesn’t look angry or disappointed or frustrated.
Instead, Not-Darren is smiling as if he doesn’t mind that we’ve escaped. He is smiling as if it was his plan all along to let us go. He is smiling as if we’re playing a game and he’s just realized he is going to win.
32.
“HE KNEW WHO I WAS.” WENDY IS CLENCHING THE STEERING wheel so tightly that her hands are bumpy knuckle and nothing else. “How did he know? I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“He knew all these things he shouldn’t have known. I don’t know how.”
“Should we call the police? I think we’d better call them,” she says.