The Memory Key (18 page)

“No, why don't you give me her number and I'll call.”

“Okay.” I smile. I try.

My mother closes the photo album. “Thank you, Lora. This was a good idea. I'm sure I'll remember more as I look through it again.”

“We have lots of albums. I'll bring them tomorrow,” I say.

“No need to bring them all at once. One at a time is enough.”

“Right. Of course.”

“And will your father also come tomorrow?” Her voice is soft.

“I'll ask him. I'm sure he'll want to.” My voice is softer.

She nods. “It's late, Lora. I'll call Jon to drive you home now.”

“It's okay. I have my bike, I'll bike home.”

“But it isn't safe. Not at this hour.” She lays her hand on my arm.

And suddenly I'm annoyed. I have to restrain myself from yanking free from her touch. I have to restrain myself in order to say, in a reasonably calm tone: “I bike at night all the time. I've been doing it for years.”

My mother lets go of my arm. She stands and starts straightening the couch cushions, plucking linty flecks from the fabric upholstery. I watch her, surprised. She never used to fuss like this.

“Then you'd better leave now,” she says, “before it gets any
later. Just call me when you get there, so I know you made it safely.” She does not look up from her tidying.

The sky is empty of stars and moon, so the night is dark. Extremely dark.

I regret not asking for a ride home. And I regret arguing with her. I wanted my mother back so she could be my mother—listening to my worries, counseling me on my complaints, wrapping me with scarves in cold weather, insisting I don't bike home too late at night—so why did I resist when she tried?

How I regret arguing with her. And how I regret not asking for a ride home. Because it's dark, it's late, and there is the issue of the silver sedan.

The silver sedan. As I turn onto our block, I look for it and it's not there. But what
is
there is equally alarming: there's a gleaming black SUV parked across from our house. It's alarming because the car is too startlingly large and too shiningly new in this family neighborhood of dented minivans. It's alarming because the windows are tinted dark, silhouetting the two figures in the front.

I know it could mean nothing. I'm sure it must mean something.

I speed up the driveway and hurry to the door. My hand shakes as I work the key into the lock; my fingers tremble as I turn the key till the lock clunks open. I glance backward. There is movement within the black car. Quickly, I go inside, close the door, bolt the door, chain the door, exhale, and exhale.

Then I call my mother to tell her I made it home safely.

“Good. Thank you for calling,” she says.

“Mom, I'm sorry about before,” I say.

“What are you talking about?” She sounds genuinely puzzled. I imagine her at the other end of the line with her brow crinkled. Her eyes far away.

“Never mind,” I say. Overhead the ceiling creaks and groans, then there is the thud of feet stomping down stairs. I tell my mom I have to go.

My father comes barreling down the hallway as I hang up the phone. He is yelling. Yelling about my memory key and my lies and how Wendy told him everything. It's no surprise.

What
is
a surprise is how my own anger rises to meet his.

“You're such a hypocrite!” I shout. “Are you really going to scream at me for keeping secrets? How can you when you won't tell me what happened to Mom! I know you know the truth. I know it. So tell me, what did you do to her?”

Somewhere amidst all my fury, I am stunned. I have never spoken to my father in this way.

Perhaps he is also stunned. His mouth is still open, but no more comes out.

“I went to Keep Corp today. A med-tech replaced my key. See?” I flip my hair to show him the bandage at the base of my head. Then I lower my voice. “I shouldn't have lied to you, but I had my reasons. Now tell me what happened the night before the accident. You owe me that.” I pause to find my breath. “You owe me.”

He closes his mouth and, suddenly, he looks old. His hair is thinning. His skin is deeply creased around his eyes. He's thinner and shorter than I remember. When I saw my mother for the first time at Grand Gardens, it was a shock how much she had aged. But because I see my father every day, I hadn't noticed the wear on his face, the narrowing of his body. I notice it now.

“Please, Dad,” I say. “Please talk to me.”

Finally, he answers: “We'd better sit down.”

We go into the den. I tuck myself into the corner of the couch. My father remains standing. It is a moment before he begins his story. But once he begins, he speaks effortlessly, as if giving a speech diligently prepared for a long-awaited occasion. Perhaps because that's exactly what this is.

“It began a few weeks before the accident,” he says. He tells me he noticed that my mother was acting oddly. She was working even longer hours than usual and seemed constantly distracted. He'd hear her on the phone, and when he asked who it was, she'd change the subject.

“Jeanette had always been a private person, like you, Lora. But in this case I was certain there was something more going on.”

I nod, guessing that this was when my mother had discovered the problem with the new memory keys. I wonder why she didn't tell my father what she found; he was her husband, after all. She should have gone to
him
for advice.

Yet I'm not wholly surprised she didn't. Dad is right about
Mom liking her privacy. And I suppose he's right I can be that same way. It must have been hard for him to be stuck between the closemouthed two of us.

“To this day, I'm utterly ashamed of what I did next.” Dad says that in his frustration, he eavesdropped on one of her telephone calls. He heard her talking to a man, begging him to meet her. The man said it was too risky. She said she needed to see him. Eventually, he agreed.

For a few days, my father did nothing. He did not know what to do. He wished he could forget. But he could not forget. So he confronted her, asked about all those late nights. She said she had been working. He asked about all those furtive phone conversations. She said they were about work. He told her if she couldn't tell him the truth, he wanted a divorce.

“That night, she never came up to bed. The next morning, the police called about the accident,” he says, gazing at the floor. It feels as if he's forgotten I'm here.

“If only I hadn't lost my temper. Why wasn't I able to control my temper? We could have worked it out. I would have forgiven her. I should have told her these things. If only she had gotten a good night's sleep, if only she hadn't been so upset . . .

“The accident. It's . . . it was entirely my fault.”

“No, Dad, it wasn't. It really wasn't.”

“I'm sorry, Lora. I'm so, so sorry.”

My body moves without my consent, jerking across the room. Before I understand what I'm doing, I've taken the photograph out of my bag and brought it over to my father. “And
what about this?” I say, shoving it toward him.

Startled, he takes the picture from me, the picture of him smiling with the two strangers. He stares at it for a minute. “Well, there I am. But I don't know these other people.”

“If you don't know them, why are you sitting together?”

“I think this was at a Keep Corp fund-raiser. I must have met them there, but I don't remember who they are. You know how it is at these functions. Meaningless small talk. I always hated going to those things. But Jeanette insisted. Why?”

“Where were you last night? I know you weren't at a faculty meeting.”

“I
was
at a faculty meeting,” he says slowly. “But afterward I went for a drink with a colleague. A woman. A date. I don't know why I didn't tell you.”

“You should have told me.”

“Yes, I should have.”

“Mom wasn't having an affair,” I say, and as soon as I say it I'm sure it's true. But I don't blame my father for his suspicions because they're not so different from my own fears about sexy journalists in unfamiliar cars.

“How do you know?” Dad looks at me in wonder.

“There's something else,” I say.

“What? Lora, what is it?”

I tell him.

MY FATHER DRIVES INTO THE PARKING LOT, INTO THE FIRST
available space, and shuts off the car engine. Then he just sits there, hands resting on the steering wheel. I want to say something. I want to apologize again. For lying about my memory key. For making assumptions about his guilt. I want to tell him it'll all be all right.

Instead I ask: “Shall we?”

We shall. We get out of the car and walk up to the department store, through sliding doors, down air-conditioned aisles. When I called Jon to tell him about the black SUV loitering outside our house last night—though it was gone by morning—he said we should take precautions today and gave me very specific instructions. When I repeated these very specific instructions to my father, he seemed bewildered.

But he's seemed bewildered ever since I told him about her.

“Dad, hold on!” I call him back to the Personal Care aisle.

“What's that?” he asks.

I show him the bar of lavender soap wrapped up pretty in
its floral paper. “I want to get this for Mom. It's the soap she used to use.”

My father says nothing, but when we go through the checkout counter he hands the cashier a twenty-dollar bill before I can take out my wallet. I protest. He says nothing. I let him pay.

Per Jon's instructions, we leave the store at the opposite end from where we entered, through an exit that opens to street level. I glance back to see if anyone comes out after us. No one does. We briskly walk the couple of blocks to Darren's sister's apartment.

But when we arrive at the building, I stop on the front step.

“Is this it? Should we go inside?” asks Dad.

“Yeah. But. Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, Lora?”

“What about that woman? The one you're dating?”

For a moment he looks indignant, as if he's been wrongly accused of some crime. Then he shakes his head. “We're not dating, it was only a couple dates. It's nothing,” he says, and he sounds so dismissive that I would feel bad for the woman if I weren't so entirely relieved.

We go inside. I knock the correct rhythm on the door—one long tap, two short—and Jon Harmon lets us in. He takes my father's hand and shakes it with enthusiasm. “Ken, it's been a long time, too long a time.”

“Too long, yes.” Dad smiles nervously.

“Hello?” says a voice from across the room.

And there she is. My mother. Coming slowly toward us. In my silky peach dress.
Her
silky peach dress. I glance at my father. Her husband. He is staring at his wife with light in his eyes. She stares back at him. Her expression is more solemn.

I realize I'm holding my breath, waiting for something to happen, for someone to come forward, for someone to speak. No one comes forward, no one speaks. Nothing happens. I am not sure what I expected from this moment, but I did not expect this. I exhale. “Hi, Mom,” I say.

She looks at me. “Lora,” she says.

Then she looks again at my father. “Ken,” she says.

“Jeanette,” he says. “How are you?”

“I'm fine. And how are you?”

“Good. I'm good.”

“I'm glad,” she says.

“Yes,” he says. “You're looking well.”

“Thank you. As are you,” she says.

They are both lying. Neither one of them looks well. She is pinched and pale. He is flushed and sweating. Their smiles are painfully polite. I step forward, but a hand hooks my elbow and draws me back.

“Come, Lora, let's give them a chance to get reacquainted,” whispers Jon.

I shake my head, but when he pulls me away I don't resist.

In the narrow kitchen, I watch as Jon Harmon moves nimbly from cabinet to refrigerator to sink to stove. His polo shirt
today is a soft pink. I wonder how many polo shirts he owns, and in what colors.

“Lora, how are you doing?” Jon brings over a teapot and two mugs, and two wedges of lemon cake on two plates with two forks, and sits next to me at the counter.

“I'm okay.”

“Sure? This is a lot to handle. It's okay if you're not okay.”

“I'm okay. It's just . . . Do you really think that black SUV was at our house to look for my mom?” I ask.

“I think it's very likely.”

“But she can't remember anything! Why should they care if she left the retirement home? She's no threat to them anymore.”

“I don't know. But someone wanted her gone, and I doubt that's changed. The sooner we get her out of Middleton, the better.”

“It's not fair,” I say, and this is the most trite observation, the most tired truth; it's the obnoxious refrain of some little kid's temper tantrum; yet I say it and I mean it.

“I know. The thing to remember is that your mother is alive and well. She can make a new life for herself, and you'll be able to visit her.”

“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.