Memento Nora (13 page)

22

Therapeutic Statement
42-03282028-11
Subject:
JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15
Facility:
HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42

Sliding into the backseat of the car, I was still feeling pretty glossy from that kiss—until I bumped right into Dad.

“Well, now I know what you were doing,” he said as he rifled through some papers in his briefcase. An ad played across the bulletproof screen between the driver and us. “I thought I’d surprise you by picking you up after my meeting with your principal. Thought I might treat you to a slice of pizza or something with your old man. Imagine my surprise—and
worry
—when I find the library’s closed and you’re not answering your mobile.” He still didn’t look at me. I had noticed the missed calls when I buzzed the car service, but my brain had been otherwise occupied.

I knew I had to say something—fast—but I was totally not used to lying to my father. Not telling him things, yes, but not outright lying.

On the screen, purple mountains faded into a boardroom and then into a little girl blowing on a dandelion; the barest hint of a flag waved underneath everything like a ghost.
Securing our way of life
, the final frame said.
Soft Target
.

“Uh, yeah, the librarian had to leave early so we went to the art studio,” I said. “And I left my mobile in my locker.” At least the last part was true.

“Uh-huh.” He kept staring at the piece of paper in his hand. What was it? That actually concerned me more than him thinking I was making out with Micah. I didn’t think I’d flunked anything, and Officer Bell obviously hadn’t told the principal what he knew.

“Why were you meeting with the principal, Dad?” I asked.

“You saw this, didn’t you?” he said, handing me the latest issue of
Memento
.

The temperature in the car felt as if it were about a hundred degrees.

“Everyone did,” I managed to say.

“I know. It got all over town. Other cities, too, but we’ve determined it started here. My client isn’t happy.”

I wondered which client would care about an underground comic drawn by a few high school kids. I mean, Homeland Inc. would. It was their school, but Dad had never mentioned working for them before. It wasn’t like I knew his whole client list, though.

He looked up from the paper at me. “Your principal doesn’t have any proof, but she thinks one young Micah Wallenberg, your new boyfriend, is the only one in this school talented enough to draw this. Or this.” He pulled out a copy of the first issue from a plain brown folder. “Interesting story line, don’t you think?”

I waited for him to say something. Anything. When he didn’t, I knew.

He knew. Everything.

He held his lighter under the comic and watched the flames lick the paper for a moment. Then he threw the last bits of it out the window just as we turned down the street.

“You’ve disappointed me, daughter.” He looked at me, his expression softer, sadder. “I thought you were smarter than that. You may think this is just a harmless flirtation with a rebellious bad boy—but you’ll get hurt. And I, for one, don’t want that. I want you to get into a good school, carve out a nice career for yourself, meet the
right
kind of young man, and be happy.”

I could tell he really meant what he said.

I didn’t say anything. Even though I believed in
Memento
, I still felt as if I’d let him down.

“Give me your mobile,” he said.

I handed him my Pink Ice. He pressed a couple of digits on his mobile and handed mine back to me. I knew what he’d done without looking. He’d cut me off from everything except homework and his or Mom’s calls. He didn’t need to do all that in front of me—he could have done it from anywhere, anytime—but he wanted me to watch.

“You’re not to see that boy again. In fact, you’re grounded until we move. And then you’re restricted to the compound indefinitely.”

He let me out in front of our house.

After I closed the car door the car window slid down.

“Nora, I’m going to have a long talk with your mother about this when I get home,” he said. And then the car took off.

I knew how those long talks ended.

I raced inside to warn Mom. I found her sitting on the kitchen floor, cleaning out the cabinets, a big box marked SMALL APPLIANCES by her side.

“You—we—we need to leave now before Dad gets home,” I told her.

“What?” She put a mixer I’d never seen her use in the box.

“We have to go
now
,” I implored. I grabbed her mobile off the counter and tossed it to her.

“Calm down, Nora. What’s wrong?” She taped up the box with maddening calmness.

I took a deep breath. The important thing was to get her out of the house. I could explain it all later. “I did something Dad didn’t like. And he said he’d ‘talk’ to you about it.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized how ridiculous they sounded.

“Nora Emily James! What did you do?” Mom scrambled up off the floor.

This was not going the way I wanted. She wasn’t going to budge unless I told her something. Should I tell her I spit out the pill? That I remembered what she’d forgotten? That I put out an underground comic about it? That I just rode home with a cop from a meeting of people Dad would call terrorists?

“Well?”

I opted for the safest version. “I’ve been hanging out with this boy Dad doesn’t like.” That sounded so stupid.

“Is that all?” Mom was relieved, but then she asked, “You two haven’t been doing anything? You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“It’s not like that at all,” I insisted.
As if
.

“Nora, do you really like this boy?”

“That’s so not the point, Mom.” How could I get it through her glossy head that Dad was dangerous?

“Honey, don’t worry. If you really like him, we could have him over for dinner, and your Dad will come around. I’ll talk to him.” She put her arm around me.

“No!” I squirmed free. That’s exactly what I didn’t want her to do. Talk to him.

“And why not?”

I was going to have to say it. “Things happen when you two talk. He hits you.” I said the last part quietly.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” She was pissed.

But I had to keep going. “That’s why you go to TFC. To forget.” She must know that, somewhere inside.

“Enough, young lady! I will not listen to another word. Go to your room.” Mom turned her back on me and started packing again.

“But, Mom—”

“Enough.”

I heard the argument that night as I was lying in bed. He was more convinced than ever that moving to Los Palamos was the right thing to do. And that I needed to be kept away from “certain elements.” And that it was all her fault for not keeping a better eye on me. I heard her protest.

Again I thought,
How could I have not heard this racket before?

I knew they fought. But everyone’s parents fight. I remembered some raised voices every once in a while. Dad had always said it was over dumb stuff. He worked too late. She spent too much. It was his turn to take out the garbage. He’d tell me all about it when he brought me a cup of cocoa before bed. Then he’d say, “Drink up, Princess, and tell me every little thing that’s bothering you. Don’t leave anything out.” I’d always loved when he said that. And I’d tell him everything while I sipped that hot chocolate dotted with red cinnamon sprinkles and his “secret ingredient.” It tasted like nutmeg, but I let him pretend it was a mystery. In the morning I always felt so glossy.

It hit me then. That’s why I didn’t remember.

Dad’s biggest client is TFC. His secret ingredient isn’t nutmeg. And I’d reactivated the memory of each fight (and who knows what else?) when I told him “every little thing.” Only, after the bombing, I’d been the sulky teenager rather than his little princess. Good-bye, cocoa. Hello, TFC.

I suddenly felt so cold. And so alone. I pulled the covers over my head and tried really, really hard not to hear the yelling.

I lay awake long after they were done. A door closed somewhere in the house, and it was silent. I listened for the sound of flip-flops making their way down the hall, for the clink of a cup and saucer coming toward my room.

They didn’t come. I knew they wouldn’t, but in a weird way I hoped I could go back in time.

I wished Micah were here.

In the morning Mom had a cast on her wrist. Fresh flowers sat on the countertop. And she wanted me to go to TFC.

“I’m fine,” I insisted. Neither of us were able to look the other in the eye.

All of a sudden I was angry. At her. “Anyway, I’m grounded. Remember?” I hurled the words at her like a kitchen knife. Then I stomped back upstairs and slammed my door.

I wanted to spend the rest of the weekend holed up in my room, letting them think I was brooding about being grounded. I couldn’t. I felt bad about being angry with Mom. And about being the cause of her latest “accident.”

I found her packing up the dining room. Dad was out playing golf with clients. She was fumbling with a wine glass, her wrist making it hard to wrap the stem in bubble wrap. I caught the glass as it slipped from her hands.

“Thanks.” She sniffled. She’d clearly been crying. Now I felt really bad.

“Sorry,” I said, picking up another glass to wrap.

Mom didn’t say anything. We just packed in silence for a while. The cast on her wrist, however, was a constant reminder to me of what we weren’t talking about. I sealed one box and set it on the floor.

I had to try once more. “Why don’t you leave him? Or at least tell him you don’t want to move.”

Mom looked at me strangely. “Why would I want to leave him? He didn’t mean it. This was an accident.” She held up her wrist. “I’m certainly not happy about the move, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the ones you love.”

That’s when I finally gave up.