The Forgetting Curve (Memento Nora)

by Angie Smibert

  I jumped in after her. We hung a left in the partial darkness and crouch-walked a few dozen meters through the nose of the rocket. We emerged blinking into an open space, surrounded on two sides by walls of junk. At the far end was a white-domed building that looked like a mini-observatory.

  “Are you new here?” a lanky girl in glasses asked. She’d magically appeared in front of us.

  “Yes, we are.” I extended my hand and moved closer to her. Time to turn on the charm. “We’re doing a school project…”

  I heard Velvet sigh heavily behind me. She thunked my antenna with her finger. I relented.

  “Actually we’re looking for…” I held out the cantenna.

  “Big Steven,” Velvet finished for me.

  I was going to say signal, but okay, Steven. Whoever that was. I glanced back at Velvet.

  “Steve,” the lanky girl bellowed. “Company.” She tossed her head in the direction of the observatory.

  “Big Steven?” I threw Velvet a look as we crossed the courtyard.

  “He’s this guy I know.” Her face didn’t give away a thing.

  I got momentarily distracted by a pallet of old stereos, lab equipment, printers, and whatever else was stacked against the wall of junk. “We need to come back here for our next date.”

  Did I really say date? Facepalm. I waited for an awkward silence to follow.

  “You are so related to Winter,” Velvet said without missing a beat.

  Steven met us on the steps to the mini-observatory thing. Voices and laughter, mingled with static and banging, echoed inside the dome.

  He was a tall, clean-cut guy, maybe nineteen or so. He could’ve been a former basketball player or something, but I doubt it. He was more likely an engineering student at the university. I could picture him in one of those old moon launch documentaries sitting at the mission control desk with a clipboard, a cigarette, and a cup of coffee. And a pocket protector. His barcode tattoo kind of ruined that image, though.

  “Velvet? I didn’t think this was your thing. Actually, I didn’t think anything was your thing.” He turned to me before she could respond. “And you are?”

  “Aiden.” I extended my hand but he left me hanging.

  Velvet stepped up to Big Steven. “It is not my thing, Steven Michael Ambrose III.” She stared him down, which was in itself quite impressive. “Aiden’s looking for something. And he’s Winter’s cousin, by the way.”

  Steven looked at me with renewed interest. It seemed that Winter’s name had unlocked this door. Of course. This was her kind of place.

  A sheepish grin broke out on his face and he extended his hand. “Sorry, dude, you can’t be too careful nowadays. Welcome to the Rocket Garden.”

  Steven showed us into the dome, which probably would have been stifling hot if the canopy hadn’t been cranked open.

  “This thing is an old mobile observatory/tracking station from NASA. The museum got a few of them when the space program shut down. We gutted and cannibalized this one to set up our workshop.”

  The workshop consisted of a few folding tables, a bench loaded with power tools, some tanks for welding, buckets of circuit boards, an old vending machine, and a table saw. At one of the tables, a short-haired woman in coveralls was showing four kids how to solder. Another kid was tinkering with something across the workshop. I knew what this was.

  “It’s a hacker space!” I’d read about these places that provided workshops, equipment, classes—all informal—to show people how to hack or create things. The spaces sprang up every few decades, and there were some still in Europe. They weren’t exactly legal in the US anymore.

  “We call it a maker space. Hacker is such a touchy term.”

  Tell me about it. I shook my head in agreement.

  “So what I’ve heard about you is true?” Steven asked, amused.

  “What are they working on?” I said, changing the subject. I didn’t really want to hear what he had to say about me—in front of Velvet.

  “Becca is showing them how to make radios. Lina is packing up router kits. And over there Dune is working on a chip scanner.” Steve jerked his thumb in the direction of an Asian kid, probably Vietnamese, who looked twelve or thirteen, working at a table alone.

  I had to see the chip scanner.

  “It looks like the one the cops use for IDs,” Velvet said from across the room.

  “Yes, but simpler. We don’t want to read the ID, just detect if someone has one of the new ones,” Dune said.

  “You mean the mandatory ones?” I asked as he ran the scanner behind my ear. Nada.

  “How is it that the heir apparent to the company that makes them, doesn’t have a chip?” Steve asked, genuinely intrigued.

  “He’s been away at boarding school,” Dune answered for me.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said staring at the kid.

  “My brother works at Nomura,” he said, obviously proud. “He—”

  Steven cleared his throat, and Dune instantly became engrossed in the inner workings of his scanner.

  Was Roger his brother? Why would Steven care if I knew?

  “What’s the point of scanning for a chip?” Velvet asked, derailing my thought train.

  It was a good question.

  Steven took the wand in his hand. “When it becomes illegal not to have one next week, it might be useful for those of us off the security grid to know who’s really one of us.”

  “You never know what they plan to use the chip for, anyway,” the short-haired woman in coveralls called from the workbenches. She looked familiar.

  Steven ran the wand behind his own ear and another kid’s. All the while Velvet was backing toward the door. What was up with that?

  “Velvet?” I asked, moving in her direction.

  She backed right into the lanky girl who had appeared by the door. Then Steven was in Velvet’s face, running the wand behind her ear. The scanner chimed pleasantly.

  “Back off,” I told Steven as I came between them. “So what if she has an ID chip. It’s mandatory.”

  I expected Velvet to rage at Steven and the others for getting in her face. I think he expected it, too. He seemed be itching for a fight for some reason. Instead, tears were running down her cheeks and she was trembling.

  Steven backed off, mumbling an apology.

  “Velvet,” I said, touching her hands, “what is it?”

  She let out a little sob. “I don’t remember getting one,” she whispered. A torrent of tears and furious words spilled out of her as I held her. She shook as she told us about getting stopped by the cops. And not being able to remember the few weeks before that clearly. And how she also knew where Winter and Micah were.

  I pulled her close and let her sob. Her body fit perfectly against mine, like it belonged there.

  The short-haired woman brushed past us and out the door. Velvet pulled herself together, apologizing for her meltdown.

  “No, I’m sorry, Velvet,” Steven said. “I was just messing with you. I did not expect you to have one. Him, yes, but not you. Tell us what happened again.”

  She repeated her story clear-eyed but still looked pissed.

  Steven paced. “I wonder if Little Steven and my parents have one.”

  Velvet held out her hand. “I can find out at the next band practice.” She took the scanner from Steven’s hand. “And by the way, he dumped me. And you’re a dick.”

  Velvet grabbed my hand and held onto it as I led us back out through the fuselage maze into the daylight.

  I never got to ask about the signal.

  22.0

  FLY AWAY

  WINTER

  I didn’t want to go. Neither did the hummingbirds. The flutter of their wings grew louder and louder as our car got closer to the doctor’s office. Mom gripped my hand as if I were going to fly away.

  “It’s up here on the left,” she said more to me than to the driver. He knew where he was going: the Nomura Medical Complex.

  It was a low cluster of bu
ildings right outside the gates of Nomura North American headquarters. I’d forgotten the company preferred its own doctors. I hadn’t been here since Mom and Dad went away.

  Grandfather had taken me to doctors and dentists downtown. Their waiting rooms were full of old furniture, ancient magazines, and even older people.

  The inside of the Nomura Medical Complex gleamed. And we didn’t have to wait. That may have been because it was Saturday.

  “Dr. Ebbinghaus is ready for you, Miss Nomura.” The receptionist bowed, and a crisply uniformed nurse hurried to meet us.

  She whisked me away to do the whole weigh-measure-poke-prod thing in the privacy of an exam room. Through the cracked door, though, I could see Mom talking to a tall red-haired woman in a white lab coat. The woman nodded solemnly as Mom spoke. No doubt she was telling the doctor about my fixation with their so-called trip to Japan. The hummingbird wings roared in my ears. I almost missed what the doctor said when she stuck her head in the door.

  “Nurse, do a quick scan. Lateral view of temporal-occipital region.” She pulled the door shut behind her without even looking at me.

  Something in your head, the hummingbirds said. She wants to see something in your head. I rubbed the raised surface of the ID chip behind my ear.

  The nurse scurried around. She draped me from the neck down in a lead cloak, lowered a camera from the ceiling, carefully pointed it at my head, and then hurried out of the room. The camera made a slow circle around my head and then jerked to a stop. Nursie scurried back in and made everything disappear—cloak, camera, and herself—leaving me to stare at the blank walls and listen to the hummingbirds flitting through my head.

  Well, the walls weren’t entirely blank. There was a small screen mounted in the corner, the sound muted. I could watch this wellness ’casts that seemed to be heavily punctuated by drug ads and stock reports. I’d rather watch the walls.

  TFC’s stock was up, and sure enough it was followed by an ad for some new revolutionary app promising the TFC experience over your mobile. Forget your cares wherever you are, starting July 1st.

  Wherever you are? To do that, TFC would need to have something inside your head.

  Shit.

  I fumbled for my mobile, but I wasn’t fast enough.

  Everyone, including Mom, came back into the room then.

  “Young lady,” the doctor said to me. Her name tag said HANNAH EBBINGHAUS, MD. “You check out fine. I think we only need to adjust your medication slightly.”

  The nurse handed me a pill and a glass of water. The hummingbirds buzzed. Mom nodded for me to take them.

  “Winnie, you need this,” she said when I didn’t move.

  Everyone stood there, arms crossed, until I put the pill on my tongue and chased it down with the water. And then they checked to make sure I didn’t spit it out.

  Damn.

  I told myself to call Aiden when I got to the car.

  The hummingbirds grew still on the ride home. They were encased by a languid nothingness—creamy as pudding—in my head. I began to feel that everything really was going to be alright.

  I could forget about the past, go to school, work for the company…

  I needed to tell Aiden something, but I couldn’t remember what.

  23.0

  HOME

  VELVET

  Aiden walked me to my door. I realized I was still holding his hand. Squeezing it, I mouthed, thanks. He touched my face where I’d been crying. This damsel thing was so not me, but I felt much better, especially as he caressed my cheek.

  “We’ll figure this out,” he said.

  Then he leaned in to kiss me. I met him halfway. He tasted like his coffee—sweet and wide awake. I probably tasted like salt. I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel his arms around me again.

  I pulled away slowly.

  “That was a helluva first date,” I said before I slipped through my front door.

  Always leave them wanting more. Book of Velvet. Yada, yada, yada.

  As great as the kiss had been, I still felt shaky and furious about what I’d let slip today.

  Mom was actually home and cooking. Not for us—but for the homeless shelter. Once a month, she scraped together enough coupons to get buttloads of free stuff or traded the coupons on the Hour Exchange for food. Then she’d make up big batches of whatever, freeze some, and donate the rest.

  She was a genius at making Dad’s army pay stretch around the block.

  I ducked out of dinner early. It was vegan meatloaf, anyway. Whole chapters of the Book of Velvet are devoted to the evils of textured vegetable protein.

  In my room, I turned on some tunes from my mobile, which I’d discovered quite by accident can play on my new “internal speaker.” Talk about frying your cerebral cortex. (I definitely killed some brain cells with that little discovery.)

  From between the mattress and box spring, I pulled out my lyric/poetry book. I scribbled down phrases and verses and refrains. I had a few complete songs, but most were in various stages of construction. Some were just ideas.

  I turned to a fresh page and wrote down Steven’s words, which I kept hearing in my head: I didn’t think anything was your thing.

  It pissed me off because it was true.

  I’m no artist or musician or engineer. I’m not even a hacker. I can’t even finish a song. My one claim to fame is the dubious ability to throw together a cheap ensemble. Big deal.

  I scribbled down some more lines:

  I may not know what song to sing

  Yet I could be anything

  Okay, maybe this could be my thing. Maybe. I’d finish this song or one of the others in my notebook, and I’d get Spike and the boys to play it. If it didn’t suck.

  Oh. Crap. Spike.

  24.0

  OUT OF FASHION, OUT OF MIND

  AIDEN

  I had so much to tell Winter.

  Her new house was a lot like her old one. It’s nice but not showy—like ours. It wouldn’t be proper for Uncle Brian to have a nicer house than his older brother (and boss). Dad is very conscious of those things, even if he doesn’t like to admit it.

  Aunt Spring let me in. “We just got back from shopping, Aiden-kun. Come sit and have a cup of coffee. Or tea? Winter can model what she bought for us.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary. I’d love a cup of coffee, though.”

  “Nonsense, she’d be happy to do it. I’m sure she’d value your opinion.”

  Well, I tried. This should be good. For Winter to even go shopping with Spring was monumental. They don’t share a passion for retail therapy—and their tastes are worlds apart.

  I love my aunt, but she’s always been hung up on the superficial. Maybe it’s a rebellion against growing up in a tattoo shop. Maybe she wants to get out of the lab and into the boardroom. (That’s Mom’s theory.) Who knows.

  I poured sugar and cream in my coffee and planted myself on the kitchen counter to enjoy the show.

  But it wasn’t the least bit funny.

  Winter came out wearing a white dress with red poppies on it. It was something a twelve-year-old girl might wear to church or to the symphony. She twirled around watching the skirt wrap around her legs. She smiled at me and ran off to try something else.

  She had to be putting us on.

  “Doesn’t she look lovely—and happy?” my aunt asked. The smile on her face said she didn’t think Winter’s performance was strange at all.

  The show repeated itself a few more times. Was this performance for her mother’s sake? If so, Winter had suddenly become a better bullshit artist than I was. And that was saying a lot.

  Finally, Winter came out in a purple golf shirt with a bear on it and a matching plaid skirt and sneakers.

  “Nice show, pumpkin,” Spring said as she kissed Winter’s cheek. “You kids have a nice time chatting. Winnie, remember the doctor said no caffeine.” My aunt disappeared in the direction of the bedroom.

  “That was a hell of a performance, Winnie.”
She hates that nickname. I waited for the placid façade to drop, for Winter to emerge and fix me with one of her looks and then rip me a new one for calling her Winnie.

  It didn’t happen.

  She smiled at me, her eyes not really focusing. “Thanks. That’s nice of you to say.”

  “Okay, Winter, stop shitting me.”

  “What? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her voice stayed very mellow.

  Maybe she didn’t know. Her pupils were huge. She swayed a bit as she stood, and one hand trembled slightly. She grabbed it and held it in front of her.

  “Let’s go sit out in the sun,” she said, walking toward the patio.

  I followed dumbly. Winter is not a sun person. I caught her when she stumbled out onto the pavers. She eased herself into a lounge chair facing the sun.

  “Ah, that feels great. I could sit here all day.”

  She looked like she could. My Winter couldn’t sit still long enough to read the directions on a shampoo bottle. Lather. Rinse. Time for a new project.

  “What’s going on?” I planted myself on a chair facing her.

  She’d closed her eyes to soak up the sun.

  “Winter?”

  “Sorry.” Her eyes flickered open. “This medicine makes me sleepy.”

  “Medicine?” Maybe she was sick, but she’d still want to know what I found out. “I saw Velvet today.”

  “Velvet.” She knitted her eyebrows together as if she were struggling to concentrate. “She’s cute, isn’t she? She dresses like she’s going to work in that vintage shop the rest of her life, though.” She laughed. “No wonder Mom doesn’t want me to talk to her. Everything is finally okay. I can get on with my life. Forget about art and hummingbirds. Work hard. Go to school. A good school. Work for the company.” Her eyes slid shut again, and she nodded off.

  Forget about art? Work for the company? She must be stoned. My Winter would never say that sober.