by Liana Liu
“We’re just happy you’re here. We know how busy you are,” says Wendy.
“Yes.” Aunt Austin nods, but she is looking at me. Or, more precisely, she is looking at my peach dress. Or, most precisely, she is looking at my mother’s peach dress.
“How did your meeting go? Was it about the economic bill?” I ask.
She lifts her gaze to meet mine. I blink. I am six years old and I’ve just spilled my cranberry juice on her white rug. Aunt Austin scowls, her expression first directed at the ruby-red stain, then at me, and I’m sure I’ve ruined everything, and I’ll never be invited over again. My teary eyes are a blink from bursting. I blink. I’m in the hallway at Wendy’s house. But Aunt Austin’s expression is still the same.
“That’s Jeanette’s dress,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, apologizing for the juice, apologizing for the dress.
Aunt Austin turns around and walks toward the backyard. I follow Wendy into the kitchen, feeling thoroughly rebuked. But also slightly irritated: it’s my mother’s dress, I’m allowed to wear my mother’s dress.
Wendy asks me to wash the raspberries and blueberries and blackberries.
“That was weird, right?” I say.
“What was weird?” she asks as she whisks the heavy cream.
“Aunt Austin,” I say, swirling fruit through water.
“I think she’s so great,” Wendy says. Wendy thinks everyone is so great. It’s the quality I find most admirable and most annoying about her.
“Maybe I’m being overly sensitive,” I say. But I don’t think I’m being overly sensitive. First my father stops talking to me because of the peach dress, then my aunt does the same. They’re the ones being overly sensitive.
“So that’s your mom’s dress?”
“Yeah.” I drain the berries and gently roll them into a clean bowl.
“I think it’s nice you’re wearing it. It fits you perfectly,” she says. “Will you boil water for the coffee?”
“Sure.” I put the kettle on.
“It’s really pretty,” says Wendy.
“What’s really pretty?”
“Your dress.”
“Well. Thank you.” I sense she wants me to talk about my feelings, and my mother, and my feelings about my mother, but I’m not in the mood.
“Oh, no!”
“What?”
“I got whipped cream all over my shirt.” Wendy turns to show me.
“How’d that happen?” I giggle. She really did get whipped cream all over her shirt. And arms. And face.
“I’d better rinse it before it stains,” she says as she runs from the room, shouting back that I should finish everything up. So I lift the chocolate cake out of the bakery box and put it on a plate. I set the plate on a tray and add the bowls of fruit and cream. A knife. Some extra serving spoons. The kettle starts screaming. I turn off the flame.
“What’s taking so long?” asks someone behind me.
I spin around. It’s freshman year. I’m standing on the steps in front of school, searching for whoever it was who’d called my name. Then I see him. And I’m nervous, and I don’t know why. Tim is my best friend’s brother, that’s all. I’ve known him forever, that’s all. But when he grins at me, I notice his mouth, the pink of his lips, and the slight slant of one front tooth; I notice his mouth as if it were new to his face, and I have to fold my fingers together to keep them down in their proper place.
“What do you want?” I say, too rushed, too rough. We’re back in the kitchen but my pulse is still too quick.
“Mom sent me to see what was taking so long,” says Tim.
“Well, we could have used some help in here.” I do not dare look at him. I do not dare look at his mouth. I pluck up a blackberry, drop it into my own mouth, and press it apart with my tongue. The seeds stick in my teeth. My head throbs.
“Everything okay?” He touches my arm, the bare skin of my forearm.
“I’m fine.” I move away and his hand falls back to his side.
“It’s great to see you. It’s been ages, huh,” he says.
“Has it?” I say, though I know very well that it has. Even though Tim goes to college only a dozen miles away, at Middleton University, where my dad teaches, I’ve barely seen him these past two years. Partly because I’ve been avoiding him, mostly because it’s been so easy to avoid him. Tim doesn’t often come home during the semesters, and last summer he didn’t come home at all because he was interning at a medical technology hospital on the east coast.
“You look good,” he says.
“Will you fix the coffee? The water’s ready.”
“Sure.” Tim saunters over to the cabinets. He asks what I’m doing this summer.
“I’m working at the library, same as always.” I glance over. His back is to me now, and as he reaches for the tin of coffee grinds, his shirt lifts, revealing an inch of plaid boxers and pale skin. I turn quickly away.
“I better take all this dessert outside,” I say.
“Good idea. Those people want their cake, they’re getting cranky,” he says.
The tray is heavy, so I move slowly. When I get to the door I tap on the glass, and one of the little cousins comes to slide it open. He stares at the chocolate cake. “Can I get some of that?” he asks, eyes wide and hopeful.
“Yes, but not yet.” I step carefully around him, bring the tray to the table, and set it gently down. Only then do I realize that the adults are arguing. Not everyone: Dad is staring at the grass and Wendy’s parents are clearing away the leftovers. But Aunt Austin and a couple of the other uncles and aunts are shouting and gesticulating and interrupting each other.
I go over to my father. “What’s going on?” I whisper.
He sighs. “They’re talking politics. What else?”
“Have those people lost their minds?” hollers one of Wendy’s aunts, the one with twin daughters. “What about supporting our troops? What about national security? And what about all these crazy radical groups running around?”
“You actually think corporate tax cuts will help matters?” snaps an uncle to a different aunt.
“Look,” says Aunt Austin to another uncle, the tall bald one. “I understand what you’re saying, but if you don’t think we should compromise, and the other side is—let me assure you—just as unwilling to compromise, what happens then?”
The bald uncle says, “Compromise is what got us in this mess to begin with. The system is broken and drastic action needs to be taken. You think the economic bill is going to fix anything?”
“You know what the economic bill isn’t going to fix? The fact I’ve been unemployed for the past year,” says the uncle with the fancy black facial hair.
“Maybe you’d have a job by now if you started looking for one,” mutters his wife. “And shaved that ridiculous mustache.” She speaks quietly, but loudly enough so that everyone can hear.
Aunt Austin’s face flattens as she tries to hide her amusement. “I’m sorry to hear of your troubles,” she says to the mustachioed uncle. “If you send your résumé to my office, I can pass it along to a friend of mine, a corporate headhunter.” She hands him her card, smiling her congresswoman smile: bright eyes, lips a smooth curve.
“Cake?” Mrs. Laskey says cheerfully. “Who wants cake?”
Everyone cheers. Everyone agrees on cake.
I go sit in the chair next to my aunt and tell her I’m sorry about the fuss.
“That? That was nothing,” she says. “Every day I deal with worse, much worse, between the constituents and the lobbyists, not to mention my congressional colleagues. Believe me, I don’t mind a little dinner party debate.”
“I’m glad,” I say.
“Do you want some cake, my dear?” she asks. Apparently I’ve been forgiven for the dress offense, though it’s impossible to know for sure because her congresswoman smile is still stuck to her mouth.
“Sure,” I say. “And thanks for coming tonight. I’m really glad you
’re here.”
My aunt reaches over and selects a particularly large and attractive slice of cake—one with a frosting flower—and sets it in front of me. Then she smiles, truly smiles. “Of course, Lora. I wouldn’t have missed it for all the economic bills in the world.”
The party breaks up after dessert, which is probably for the best because most of the aunts and uncles will no longer look at each other, let alone talk to each other, despite Mrs. Laskey’s chirpy attempts to restart an inoffensive—i.e., nonpolitical—conversation. Also, my head is throbbing again.
When we get home, I say a bleary good night to my father and stumble upstairs to bed. I’m almost asleep when I realize I’m making a rumpled mess of the peach silk. I force myself up, remove the dress, hang it in the closet, and put on my pajamas. Then I go downstairs for a drink of water.
The kitchen light is on. I blink, trying to adjust my eyes to the brightness. My mother is sitting at the counter, one arm across her chest, the other arm folded up so her fingers can gently tap against her cheek. She looks worried. Before I can go to her, there is a knock on the back door. She gets up to answer it. I step backward into the shadowy hall. The door opens. Two strangers stand on the step, a man and a woman, their faces half in shadow.
You have to come with us, says the man.
I know. My mother’s voice is soft but steady.
Let’s go then, says the woman. A blue-sleeved arm reaches out and takes hold of my mother’s elbow. They pull her outside.
I leap forward and wrench open the back door. “Mom!” I shout, peering into the blackness of the backyard. “Mom!”
There’s no one there. Of course there’s no one there. My mother, those two strangers, they were only a memory. I close the door. Lock it. Pour myself a glass of water. Drink most of it down. Turn off the light. Go back to bed.
But I don’t sleep. Because I can’t sleep. Though my body feels almost feverish with exhaustion, my mind is restless. I go over it a hundred times, trying to make sense of what I saw that night. I go over it a hundred times, and it still makes no sense.
All I know is that I was wrong before, when I thought the last time I saw her was when she kissed me good night and gave me the peach dress. This was the last time, truly: in the middle of the night, I stood in the hallway and watched as my mother was taken from our home by two strangers.
4.
THE PHONE IS RINGING. I ANSWER, BUT NOBODY IS THERE. THE phone is still ringing. I answer again, and still, nobody is there. Hello, hello? The phone is still ringing. I sit up, abruptly awake, twisted up in the bedsheets. The real phone is really ringing.
“Hello?” I cough.
“Are you still sleeping? It’s noon!” says Wendy.
“I had a bad night,” I say.
“A bad night? Why? Are you okay?”
“It’s nothing. I’m fine now.”
“Tim and I are going to the lake. Come with us?”
“Well . . .” I tell her I can’t because I have to clean my room and help my father organize the attic and something or other. My excuses are lame, and I can tell Wendy thinks so too. I’m not sure why I don’t tell the truth, why I don’t tell her what I’ve remembered and that I can’t go to the lake until I figure out what it means. Maybe I’m afraid she’ll say I must have imagined it or that I better get to the doctor. Maybe I’m afraid she will sigh in her sincerely sympathetic way and inform me, as she’s done before, that I’m still traumatized by the loss of my mother.
“Have fun! I’ll call you later,” I say, and hang up the phone.
My head hurts. I take a pain pill, and one more. Then I get into the shower and wash my hair, careful around the tender place at the back of my skull, rinse off, towel off, and return to my room. In my closet, the peach dress flutters on its hanger. I touch the soft fabric. It glides through my fingers like a promise.
The phone rings again. I don’t answer; I don’t want to make any more fake excuses to Wendy. But when the machine comes on, it’s not her. I stand silently as I listen, as though the caller might hear if I make any sound whatsoever.
“This message is for Lora Mint. My name is Debra and I’m calling from Keep Corp to let you know our systems have registered a problem with your memory key. Please call us back immediately at CALL-KEEP, extension twenty-two. Thank you and have a nice day.”
Debra has a shrilly trilling voice. I imagine her as a little girl with big eyes—the girl from that Keep Corp commercial—wagging a disapproving finger, her pointy teeth bared. The line clicks off. I exhale.
I’m surprised: I didn’t know Keep Corp was able to track each individual memory key in this way. I’m unnerved: it’s sort of disturbing that Keep Corp is able to track each individual memory key in this way. So the secret I thought was mine alone is actually a secret I’m sharing with a huge corporation.
Nonetheless, I can’t let them repair my key. Not yet. I delete the message.
Then I go to the library because there are certain facts I need to check. I go because it’s too hot to stay home, because I’m too antsy to stay home, because at home I feel the memories leaning close, breathing into my ear. I get on my bicycle and go. It’s downhill all the way downtown; still I arrive sweaty.
Cynthia waves to me from behind the reference desk. She’s my favorite librarian, the cheerful librarian, with an elaborate hairdo of ringlets and curls that’s a different color every year. Last year was orange. This year it’s red. Red is a real improvement.
“Lora! Is it summer already?” she says in an exclamatory whisper. As a professional, she can express even the loudest emotions quietly.
“Doesn’t it feel like summer?” I say.
“I can’t tell with all this air-conditioning.” She shudders dramatically.
I ask about her family. Cynthia has a grown-up daughter who now lives on the east coast, a husband who loves bowling, and a little dog named Gouda. She talks more about Gouda than she talks about her grown-up daughter and bowling husband—combined.
“Everyone’s fine. My daughter moved home a few months ago.”
“That’s great,” I say.
“Yes,” she says, but her smile sags. “Actually, Kira got laid off and couldn’t find a new job out there, so she came back to Middleton. She’s already had several interviews, and another scheduled for this week, so I’m sure something will work out.”
“I’m sure.” I nod enthusiastically, so enthusiastically my head starts throbbing and I have to stop mid-nod. “How’s Gouda?” I ask.
“She’s such a smart dog. The other day, I was looking everywhere for one of my sandals. Under the couch. Under the table. Then Gouda comes and drops something at my feet. And you know what it was?” Cynthia beams with pride.
“Your sandal?”
“It was my sandal! A little chewed up, but nothing noticeable once I had it back on my foot. My Gouda is a treasure.”
“She sure is,” I say.
“You come back to work next week, right? I can’t wait. No one can organize the periodicals like you can,” she says. This is a big compliment around here. I blush as I thank her.
At the back of the library, the computers are arranged in three rows, and it’s not too crowded, but I go to the farthest end for extra privacy. There’s no one next to me, but two seats down a boy looks over as I settle into my chair. Then he keeps looking. I stare at my screen.
“Hey,” he says.
I stare at my screen.
“It’s Lora, right?”
I turn reluctantly around. I do know him. But how do I know him?
“I’m Raul. We met yesterday?”
“Ms. Pearl’s assistant.” I blink and remember: Ms. Pearl is in a floral smock. Her face is pale. Her skin creased. Raul comes and takes Ms. Pearl’s arm. He wears a blue jacket and black pants.
It’s strange how my broken key works; the connection to the past is not always immediate, but once I have the memory in my mind, I’m right there. Here. Raul’s arm is firm around my
back as he lifts me from the ground. My head throbs. He smells of mint and musk.
“You’re not wearing your jacket,” I tell library Raul, who is in a red T-shirt faded pink. And I’m immediately embarrassed. Of course he’s not wearing his jacket; it’s a zillion degrees out. Then again, it was a zillion degrees yesterday too.
“That’s my uniform.” He explains that he works at the facility where Ms. Pearl lives.
“She lives in a nursing home now?” I don’t know why I’m surprised. She is very old.
“Not a nursing home. A retirement home,” he says.
“Right, a retirement home.” Still, I’m surprised and kind of upset. Ms. Pearl seemed invincible when she was our teacher. “Why does she have to live there?”
“Her memory is failing.”
“Does she have Vergets disease? What about her memory key?”
“She doesn’t have Vergets, but she doesn’t have a key, either,” says Raul. “It’s just ordinary old age.”
“She doesn’t have a key?” I’m surprised again. Everyone has a memory key.
“You know how some people are weird about medical technology,” he says. “Like those religious groups who say it’s unnatural, that it’s affecting our humanity or whatever. Turning us into machines.”
“Is that what you think?” I don’t bother keeping the skepticism from my voice. I know it’s illogical, but it feels as if he’s insulting my mother. At the time of her death she was one of the most senior scientists in the memory key division of Keep Corp.
“No, not at all,” he says quickly.
“And Ms. Pearl isn’t religious, is she?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why doesn’t she have a key?” I frown. My mother was committed to her work. Every year, she would drag my dad to the big fund-raising dinner even though he hated those fancy events. But she insisted they support the cause: the dinner raised money to make memory key technology accessible to all in need. Mom said that in the past, not everyone could afford a key, especially if they didn’t have health insurance.
