The Memory Key

by Liana Liu

  “She’s not the only one,” I mutter, but she doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.

  “Do you hear that?” She walks to the refrigerator and opens the door. “Thank goodness. The electricity is back on.” She reaches for the light switch, flicks a finger, and the room is aglow.

  “Now tell me, Lora. How can we find her?”

  I gaze down at the silverware on the floor. I think. I think: how does anyone ever know what to do? Sometimes it’s obvious and you do it instantly, like when I grabbed Ms. Pearl away from that speeding car. More often, though, you think and think and think and think, and still don’t know.

  My fist clenches, and inside my clenched fist is my mother’s memory key.

  “She’s leaving tonight,” I say. “But there’s still time to stop her.”

  33.

  THE SCIENTISTS WHO INVENTED THE H-FILTER ARE NOT FAMOUS. Their names are unfamiliar to the public; there have been no books devoted to their work, no films dramatizing their journey toward innovation. But it is their contribution to medical technology that I have been most grateful to these past few weeks. Because it’s their contribution that will eventually help me forget.

  And there’s so much I want to forget.

  I want to forget the day of Tim’s arraignment, how pale and scared he was, how pale and scared we all were, when he was finally released after spending two days in jail.

  I want to forget Jon Harmon’s faked cheerfulness when he called to tell me that he and his family were going away—on vacation, he said—but a vacation with an undisclosed destination and an uncertain return date.

  And I want to forget the night I went with Aunt Austin to find my mother.

  Her aides came to meet us at the train station. Together we waited and waited, and it wasn’t until seven o’clock exactly that my aunt began asking questions: “Are you sure she said seven? Are you sure it’s tonight? Are you sure she’s leaving by train?”

  Aunt Austin peered at me and I could see in her face how much she wanted to believe I’d been misinformed or scatterbrained. How much she wanted to believe that I had not lied to her. Purposefully. Callously.

  Still I stuck to my story, and like everyone else I glanced frequently at the big brass clock on the wall of the Middleton train station. But with each glance I saw my mother.

  I saw her waiting in the security line at the airport, calmly smiling at the officer as she handed over her fake passport. I saw her strolling through the terminal, wearing her floppy straw hat, my floppy straw hat, and stopping to buy an overpriced bottle of water. I saw her step onto the plane, greet the flight attendant, and walk to her seat, a window seat in the back. I saw the airplane lift up and sail across the darkening sky. And from the ground I watched as the plane got smaller and smaller, a blot, a speck, then nothing at all.

  At nine o’clock, Aunt Austin said I might as well go home, and asked me for my mother’s key. “I’ll hold on to it for safekeeping,” she said, and I gave it back to her without protest. She slid the plastic bag into her jacket pocket.

  She didn’t notice that in the bag, the tiny disk was broken in two.

  She didn’t know that hours ago, while I stood in her kitchen, gazing at the silverware on the floor, I had made my decision. I clenched my fist and inside my clenched fist, my thumb pressed against the disk, pressed it down hard.

  I felt it bend and bend and bend.

  I felt it snap.

  And while my aunt made plans and phone calls, the tears spilled from my eyes. I knew I had to do it—I had to protect my mother’s privacy, I couldn’t risk letting Keep Corp get access to her memories. Still, I cried. How easily the memory key had broken in two.

  Since that night, I haven’t noticed any suspicious cars around our house, no silver sedans, no SUVs. Not-Darren has not made a reappearance, nor has Dr. Trent. I imagine it’s Aunt Austin who is protecting my dad and me, who is keeping Keep Corp away, but I don’t know for certain—we haven’t talked since that day at the train station.

  Still, I want to call her. I want to warn her about what’s coming.

  But I know I can’t.

  Even though I keep waking up in the middle of the night, heart pounding with panic, wondering if I’d been too small-minded to comprehend the greatness of my aunt’s vision, wondering if I’d let my mother go at the world’s expense.

  But when morning comes, I know I did what had to be done. Because a ruthless corporation cannot be trusted with such power. Because history shows what disasters result when governments trespass upon its citizens. Because I experienced firsthand the violation of having someone invade my memories, of having every thought, every feeling, every experience exposed. Whenever I think of Not-Darren groping through my mind, my stomach aches. At least I saved my mom from the same fate.

  But I don’t mean to sound so tragic.

  My mother is alive and free in the world.

  So I’ll be fine, really. We will all be fine.

  And this is how fine I already am: on a beautiful summer day, a perfect beach day, Wendy and I are eating cherry ice pops while stretched on towels stretched on sand, and we are not talking about regret or fear or memory. No, we’re discussing her new boyfriend, Travis, a competitive swimmer. “He smells permanently of chlorine,” she says. “I kind of like it. Whenever I’m near a swimming pool, I miss him.”

  “That’s disgusting,” I say. Then I focus my complete attention on my ice pop. I know what comes next.

  “Travis has some cute friends.”

  “You never give up.”

  “So you might as well give in.” She gazes at me with eyes mournfully wide, lips a squiggle of sadness. “It’s been forever since you dated anyone.”

  “Not even a month.”

  “That’s worse than I thought.”

  “I still feel bad about Raul.”

  “Why’d you break up with him then?”

  “I liked him, but I didn’t like him.”

  She nods. “Then it’s good you ended it.”

  I look at her in surprise. I had expected to be admonished for not giving him a chance, for never giving any guy any chance. How strange to discover I’ve misjudged my best friend. “Anyway,” I say, “I feel bad about Raul because I wasn’t sure I liked him, but I went out with him anyway. I’m worse than Greg Lange.”

  “Who?”

  “Remember that guy who asked me out because he had a crush on you?”

  “Ugh, that guy.” She grimaces. “First of all, you’re definitely not worse than him. Second of all, you went out with Raul to figure out whether you liked him or not. That’s how dating works.”

  “That’s how people get hurt,” I say.

  “Well, yeah, sometimes. Sometimes not. That’s the risk.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Are we still talking about Raul?” she asks.

  “Who else would we be talking about?”

  Wendy gives me a look of pure sympathy, a look that says she knows more than I’ve told her, maybe more than I’ve told myself, and sighs. Then scowls. Then complains: “Ugh, stop it!” she shrieks at her brother.

  Because there he is, dripping on her feet while he leans over to pick up his towel. “Stop what? Stop this?” Tim says, shaking out his drenched hair, speckling his sister with water.

  “You’re so immature.” She swats him with the stick from her ice pop, then turns back toward me. “Guess I’ll go for a swim now. You coming?”

  I shake my head. “It’s way too cold.”

  “Wimp!” she shouts as she goes running down to the lake.

  Tim sits in her vacated spot and immediately tells me: “No apologizing.” This is our joke that isn’t really a joke. Because I can’t stop apologizing to him. Because he’s been fired from his internship, suspended from school, pending the dean’s review, and his trial date for trespassing is in two months.

  “Just a little apologizing?” I say.

  “Not even a little,” he says. “Listen, Lora, what I did, I didn’t do it for you.
I did it because it was the right thing, and I wanted to do the right thing, and I’m glad I did. It sucks I got caught, but it was my fault, it was my choice, and I don’t regret anything. So no more apologies, okay?”

  “Okay. Nice speech.”

  “Thanks. I’m practicing. My lawyer said that when Carlos’s article is published, I’ll get some sort of whistle-blower protection, and then I’ll be a national hero.”

  “Really? She said you’d be a national hero?” I laugh.

  “You won’t be laughing when the girls start following me around.”

  “They already follow you around,” I say. “Anyway, I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing . . . at you. There’s sand all over your face.”

  “Well, get it off me.” He grins.

  “Hold still.” I rub my fingers across his cheek, along his jaw. His skin is warm, and as I brush the sand from his warm skin, he stops grinning. I look at him and he is looking at me with intense gaze and serious mouth. He is looking at me as if he’s about to kiss me.

  But then he blinks the glint from his eyes. “All gone?” he asks.

  “All gone.” I remove my hand from his face. I’m taken aback by my own disappointment. After all, I’m the one who decided we should just be friends. Just friends is what I want, isn’t it? I think about what Wendy said about dating and hurt and risk.

  “Thanks for the grooming,” Tim says, and starts talking about this bike trail at the state park, how we should go there while the weather is still good, a whole big group of us, and bring lots of food and drinks, and normally this is a topic I’d love to discuss because it includes all my favorite things—bicycles and food and drinks—but right now I’m not interested in any of it.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “I was wrong,” I say.

  Then I kiss him. Quickly. On the mouth. Then I lean back and wait for him to tell me this isn’t a good idea. That I’ve missed my chance because he’s already met someone new or he doesn’t want anything serious or he’s tired of my indecision. That he thinks of me now as just a friend.

  “Do that again,” he says, grinning.

  “No,” I say, but then I do it again.

  And again and again, until Wendy comes back from her swim.

  “Gross. Stop it,” she says. Then after we reluctantly stop it, she informs us, matter-of-fact: “It’s about time you idiots got together.”

  Because Wendy knows; she always knows.

  Late in the afternoon, after the clouds swallow the sun and the breeze starts biting, we decide we’ve had enough of the outdoors, sticky and sandy and sleepy as we all are, so Wendy drives us home. When I come into the house, my dad is on the phone. There’s something about the gentle tone of his voice, the soft look on his face, that makes me wonder if he’s talking to her. Mom.

  After he hangs up, I ask who it was.

  “Just a colleague.” He hesitates before adding: “That woman I was, uh, casually dating, she invited me to a dinner party next Wednesday. I told her I’d go.”

  “Good.” I try to sound like I mean it. “That’s good,” I say.

  “How was the beach?” he asks.

  “Fun. The water was cold, though.”

  “Are you hungry? I’ll start dinner.”

  “I’d like to shower first. If you don’t mind,” I say.

  “Of course I don’t mind,” he says kindly.

  These days, we are very kind with each other, my father and I; we are kind and we are careful. So I carefully do not tell him what I truly think about that dinner party. And I carefully do not tell him that I’d hoped it might be Mom on the phone. It was a foolish hope, anyway, since my mother is not supposed to contact us by phone, fax, email, letter, or telegram; in other words, there can be no contact at all. These are the rules as established by Jon and Carlos.

  I understand why. There’s too much at stake, at least for now, while Carlos Cruz is finishing his exposé about the security program, and my mother assists from afar, working out an explanation of Tim’s complicated diagram. Apparently, it’s a schematic of the new line of memory keys.

  I understand why. But it still hurts.

  That night, I’m alone in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner, when there’s a thunderous knocking on the back door. I can’t imagine who it could be. Visitors never use the back door. Except once. Five years ago.

  I frown. “Who is it?” I call out.

  “A secret admirer,” the visitor answers in a sexy voice.

  I fling open the door. “Why are you here? Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. I’m just here to talk business with your dad,” says Carlos Cruz.

  “Glad you could make time in your busy schedule of getting other people to do your dirty work for you,” I say. I’m still angry about how he got Tim in trouble, though I probably shouldn’t be—as Tim said, it was his own decision.

  Carlos grins. “Yes, my schedule has been busy lately,” he says. “Otherwise I’d have come by sooner to see how you’re doing. How are you, Lora Mint?”

  “I’m fine, but are you sure it’s safe for you to be here?”

  “I took precautions,” he says. “Where’s Kenneth?”

  “He’s in the den. Just down the hall. But, wait, Carlos . . .” My voice softens, and I hate that my voice softens, and I hate that I am about to ask him for something, but it’s something I really want to know.

  “Yes?” He turns back around.

  “Do you, I mean, can I ask you . . . I can’t stop wondering why my mom went to her sister’s that day. How did she know Austin was involved?”

  “Jeanette told us that she’d always imagined that her sister visited her at Grand Gardens, but she thought it was a dream or hallucination or something, since her memory was virtually nonexistent at the time. It wasn’t until you showed her some family photos that she realized it actually happened.”

  “Why didn’t she tell anyone?”

  “You know how your mom is about her privacy.”

  I grimace. I do know. “And why did she wreck the apartment?”

  “She had a vague memory of Austin asking the doctors for her old key, so she went to look for it. She knew it was dangerous, but said it was worth the risk if she could get her memories back.”

  “My mother said that?” I say.

  “Your mother said that,” he says.

  Then Carlos Cruz goes to talk to my dad. He doesn’t stay long. When he leaves I’m still in the kitchen, still washing the dishes, still thinking about what he told me. On the one hand, I’m happy that my mother tried to get her memories back. On the other hand, I feel guilty because I’ve destroyed her chance of getting her memories back. On another other hand, I know none of this really matters.

  Because in the end she left anyway.

  What I have to remember is that I’ll get my chance to fix things with her; we will get our chance to fix things with each other, after Carlos’s article is published. It just feels like such a long time to wait, with more guessing about what will happen than any actual certainty. Though I suppose there can never be much certainty about the future.

  And in the meantime what will I do? Distribute flyers for the KCO—that anti–Keep Corp activist group? Be a model library clerk? Hang out with Wendy? Make out with Tim? Move away to school and decide what to major in? Eat some ice cream with my dad?

  I close my eyes and try to see her as I last saw her, standing in the department store, arm reaching toward me. Her face is a blur, her arm is a blur, the whole memory is a blur. But I still know she’s reaching toward me.

  We will get our chance to fix things with each other.

  And in the meantime I’ll just wash these dishes, dry these dishes, then go across the hall to the den, where Dad is sitting in his armchair, watching the evening news, and when he looks up to ask if it’s time for ice cream, I will smile and tell him yes. It’s time.

  Acknowledgments

  For their inspiration and wisdom and invaluable gu
idance, thanks to Kristen Pettit, Sarah Burnes, and Logan Garrison.

  For their help in making this book a book, thanks to Elizabeth Lynch, Veronica Ambrose, and Bethany Reis.

  For his super photography skills, thanks to Amir Husak.

  For their encouragement and insight, thanks to my first readers, Sara Culver and Alina Romo, and to my teachers, Charles Baxter, Aimee Bender, Maria Fitzgerald, and Julie Schumacher.

  For their love and support, thanks to my friends and family, especially Mom, Dad, Karina, and Kristen.

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  About the Author

  PHOTO BY AMIR HUSAK

  LIANA LIU was born and raised in New York City and lives there still. She received her MFA in fiction writing from the University of Minnesota. You can visit her online at www.lianaliu.com.

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  Credits

  Cover art © 2015 by Shutterstock

  Cover design by Annemieke Beemster Leverenz

  Copyright

  HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  THE MEMORY KEY. Copyright © 2015 by Liana Liu. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.