by Liana Liu
“Yes, I want,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Good night, sweet dreams . . . about Raul.” She hangs up quickly, before I can respond. But I am only giggling. Wendy is so Wendy.
I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and wash my face. The soap I use is new. I’d gone to the drugstore this afternoon to buy Dad a tub of his favorite chocolate ice cream, but got distracted by the display of soaps wrapped in floral paper, wrapped up pretty as presents. Standing there in the aisle, I held a lavender bar to my face and inhaled it through its lavender paper. It was the soap my mother used to use.
I bought one bar and it wasn’t until I was halfway home that I realized I’d forgotten the ice cream and had to go back.
Now I rinse my face and slide on pajamas and fall into bed, and when I close my eyes all I smell is lavender, the herbal grassy sweetness, half perfume, half medicinal, and I imagine that she’s sitting next to me, pulling the blanket over my shoulders, smoothing my wayward hair from my face.
And she’s there. Here.
Mama says good night. She says sweet dreams. Then she’s about to go, so before she can go I hook my fingers into the scratchy wool of her sweater and tug her close, closer, and ask her to tell me a story. I don’t let go until she agrees. Just one, she says. Then right to sleep, okay?
My mother tells me the story of the man who invented the memory key, and it’s a tale as good as any fairy tale—the clever technician, the forgetful wife—until she comes to the ending that seems to me like no real ending: So Keep Corp made keys widely available, saving everyone from Vergets disease, she says.
But what about that man? I ask. What about his wife? What happened to them?
Mom pauses before answering. They lived happily ever after, she says at last.
I sigh with relief as she leans over to kiss me, her lips cool against my forehead. She smells like flowers, I tell her so, and she smiles and kisses me again. Good night, she says. Good night, Lora.
Then she leaves. Then she’s gone.
But before I can be struck by the loss, I imagine her back. Cool lips. Calm voice. Scratchy wool sweater. I imagine her back and make the memory happen all over again. It’s easy now that I know how.
Mama says good night. She says sweet dreams. And I don’t let her go.
9.
WHEN I WAKE UP, I FEEL WORSE THAN I’VE EVER FELT BEFORE. Worse even than at Nick Jordan’s birthday party, where I drank four cups of jungle punch and spent the rest of the night throwing up in the bathroom. As soon as the thought occurs to me, I pray I won’t revisit that moment. This is bad enough.
I stagger downstairs and swallow three pain pills and a mouthful of water before going into the den to collapse on the couch. The blood pounds a hot hammer in my head. The throbbing sparks all around my brain.
“Back to sleep? You just woke up.” Dad looms over me.
“It’s my vacation, I’ll sleep if I want to.” I close my eyes and wait, hoping he’ll go away. He goes away. Then my cell phone starts ringing. The sound rips up my eardrums. I wait, hoping it’ll go away. It goes away. My arm is numb, but I cannot find the energy to turn my body over. I wait, hoping it’ll go away. It goes away.
Then finally it’s the pain that goes away. I sit up. Very carefully, I ease myself to standing. I shake out my deadened limbs and go upstairs to phone Wendy.
“I called you,” she says. “You didn’t answer.”
“Sorry, um, I wasn’t feeling well.”
Her voice softens. “Is it your memory key?”
“I had a bad night of sleep, that’s all. Are you going to the lake?”
“Tim has to work. It’s Sunday and he has to work, poor guy. But now I can help you track down that dashing and handsome journalist. Want to come over?”
I tell her yes. I eat a small bowl of cereal, take a quick shower, and by the time I’m ready to leave the house I’m good as new. But I swallow down another pain pill, just in case. And I bring the medicine bottle with me, just in case.
It takes five minutes to bike to Wendy’s house, and it takes five seconds to find Carlos Cruz—his phone number is listed online. Wendy volunteers to call. She tells him we’re journalism students working on an article about memory keys, and simple as that he invites us over.
“Good news,” she announces. “His voice is really sexy.”
“Stop it,” I say.
Mr. Cruz lives in the northwest part of Middleton, in a neighborhood that used to be considered dangerous but is now considered artsy. Once we’re on our way, I turn down the volume on the car radio.
“What are you doing?” says Wendy. “I love that song.”
“What are we going to say to this guy?”
“Dibs if he’s single, okay? I know you don’t mind, since you have Raul.”
“Wendy . . .” I hate how she is not taking this seriously. But she never takes anything seriously.
I blink. We’re in the bathroom during a middle school dance. I’m scrubbing at the orange soda stain on my white dress, the paper towel crumbling as I scrub and scrub, and I can’t seem to erase either color or smell, that citrus syrup smell, but when I tell Wendy she only says: No complaining, you can’t even see it, barely even. Come on, let’s go back outside. If you won’t, I’ll go without you!
I blink. We’re walking out of the classroom after a history exam, everyone chattering as they push out the door, knocking elbows, trampling feet, backpacks bumping in their rush to escape. Except for me. I’m worrying over the last question, and the first question, and the questions in between. I’m berating myself for not studying as much as I should have. Wendy grips my arm and asks: What’s wrong? Is something wrong? But before I can answer she giggles and says: Never mind. Guess who called me last night? You’ll never guess.
I blink. We’re in my bedroom and I’m crying, swollen-eyed, achy-faced, breaking-heart crying. Wendy pats a soothing rhythm into my back, fingers playing the piano on my spine. But when she speaks she sounds more bemused than consoling. She sighs. I can’t believe you like Tim. You know better, Lora, you really should know better. Tim is . . . he’s just so immature.
“Come on, I need some driving music,” Wendy says. She is grinning at the windshield, at the road; she is grinning at the world, and doesn’t notice that I am sitting, seething, next to her. My hands ball up into fists, my fists are shaking with frustration, and Wendy doesn’t notice. She never notices.
“Would you please take this seriously?” I say. “I know it’s hard for you to do that when it’s not all about you, but could you try? For once?”
She stops grinning. “Are you kidding? Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true,” I tell her, and as angry as I am, I’m also surprised: I’ve never said anything like this to Wendy before. Even if I’ve thought it.
“Aren’t I going with you to see this guy? Didn’t I call him and lie to him for you? I can’t believe you said that. Just because I made a joke doesn’t mean I’m not taking things seriously. I’m trying to help. I’m trying to keep you from moping around, like you’ve been doing.”
“I haven’t been moping around.”
“You really hurt my feelings.” Wendy folds her lips together. She looks as if she might cry. But I refuse to be convinced by her forlorn expression; I know better than to be convinced by any of her expressions.
The car speeds down the highway, trees a blur of green on either side of the road. The back of my head is throbbing again. We spend a mile in silence, and another.
After the third silent mile, I start feeling remorseful. She’s right: it was mean of me to say those things when she has been helping me. And if what I said is also true—that she has trouble taking my problems seriously—it’s only a little bit true. Wendy is a good friend, my best friend.
It was my memory key’s fault, feeding me years of resentment in one bite.
“Wendy,” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
“You’re right. You’ve helped
me so much.”
She doesn’t respond.
“I’m sorry. It’s just my key messing with my head.”
Finally, she nods. She mutters, “Turn up the music, okay?”
I turn up the music. We don’t talk for the rest of the ride, but when we arrive at the correct address, Wendy parks the car, looks at me, and says: “So what should we say to this guy?”
As it happens, Carlos Cruz is dashing and handsome. And his voice is really sexy.
“Please come in,” he says in his really sexy voice. He sits us down on a tattered couch surrounded by dusty stacks of paper. I repress a sneeze. The cluttered room is in direct contrast to the man who lives there. Mr. Cruz is tall and lean, his dark hair clipped short. He is wearing a shirt so brightly white it looks brand-new, and an equally crisp pair of pants.
He asks if we’d like something to drink, and as soon as he goes into the kitchen, Wendy pokes my arm. She widens her eyes and tilts her head to wordlessly express her message: he’s so hot. I swat away her poking finger and look at her sternly. “This is business,” I whisper.
“Pardon?” Carlos Cruz returns with three glasses balanced in his two hands.
“Thanks so much for talking to us, Mr. Cruz,” says Wendy.
“Please, call me Carlos. It’s my pleasure.” He smiles as he hands us our drinks.
“We really appreciate it.” I take a small, nervous sip of water.
“No, I really appreciate it. It’s a relief to know that in this age of technology, your generation is still interested in print journalism. Media, you know, is the fourth pillar of democracy—the mirror that shows us the truth about our world, keeping our politicians responsive, our government accountable, and our society functioning. Our work is important; we must never forget this,” he says.
“I completely agree.” Wendy gazes admiringly at him. I am less impressed. Sure, he’s handsome. Sure, he’s charming. Sure, his voice is magnificently deep.
But he also knows all these things, and covers himself up so completely with his good looks and good talk, it’s all you can see of him.
As if he is aware of my skepticism, his expression darkens. “Of course it’s not just fun and games. It can be a thankless job. You’re juggling your sources, your editors, the bureaucrats, the corporations, and the public. Half these people want to kill your story. Half of that half wants to kill you. And it’s not always the half you’d expect.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten a scoop from a reliable source and my bosses refused to go public. You must never forget that to the people you work for this is a business, or else you’ll get crushed by their agenda. If you’re going to make it in this world, journalism has to be your passion.” Carlos Cruz sighs and leans back in his chair, evidently exhausted by his passion for journalism.
“Wow!” says Wendy. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah,” I say, less enthusiastically.
“I’m sorry for going on and on like that. Obviously I’ve got a bit of a chip on my shoulder. How embarrassing,” Carlos says. But he smiles in a way that makes it clear he is actually neither embarrassed nor sorry. “Now what can I help you with? You’re writing about memory keys?”
I nod. “I have a friend who works at a retirement home and I was surprised to learn that several of the residents don’t have keys. So we’re writing a piece about the different attitudes different generations have toward medical technology.”
“Is this on or off the record?” he asks.
Wendy and I glance at each other.
“Whichever you prefer,” she says.
“Are you going to record our conversation?” he asks.
“Um . . . I forgot our tape recorder,” I say.
“We’re kind of new at this,” says Wendy.
Carlos smiles indulgently. “Everybody’s got to start somewhere. Let’s talk off the record. We’re all journalists here.”
Wendy’s face is very red. I suspect my face is even redder.
“I like your story angle,” he tells us. “Memory key use does drop off among the elderly. You must remember that keys have only been in production for the last fifty years or so but still . . . You’re writing for your school newspaper—yes?—I expect your peers will find your article quite illuminating. Besides, it is odd that keys aren’t more popular among the older generation since they were the ones who lived through the worst of the Vergets epidemic.”
“It could be they’re just paranoid,” I say.
“Sure, that could be it.” He looks directly at me. His mouth twitches and he shows me his white teeth. It’s a sort-of grin, but there is something disbelieving in his expression. I become very aware of the fact that we are two girls in a stranger’s home. I glance at Wendy, but she is gazing raptly at Carlos.
“Do you think Keep Corp would talk to us about this?” she asks.
“Maybe you could get some public relations nonsense from them. That would probably be sufficient for your purposes,” he says, his eyes so steady on me that I feel smothered by his gaze. “Wouldn’t it?”
“But I’ve read your articles. I know you’ve gotten some good information from them,” Wendy persists. “Could you put us in touch with someone?”
“Those days are over.” His face abruptly changes, features drawing closed. For a moment he is no longer handsome, he’s just some middle-aged man. “These past couple of years, Keep Corp has tightened up, information-wise. All employees have to sign nondisclosure agreements—well, they always had to sign them, but the new contracts are even more restrictive. Now the only people who’ll talk are from the PR department.”
“What changed?” asks Wendy.
“I suspect it has to do with their new line of keys. There have been whispers about a big innovation, a development that ranks right up there with P. B. Fishman’s work. You’re familiar with P. B. Fishman?”
We nod. We’re familiar with P. B. Fishman—inventor of the memory key, national hero, and subject of my bedtime stories and middle school essays.
“A couple years ago, when the most recent line of keys came out, the industry gossip was vicious and the press was mostly negative. The public went hysterical. Keep Corp almost had to pull the line. I’m guessing they don’t want a repeat of that situation, so they’ve plugged the boat tight this time and it seems to be working. No leaks,” he says.
“But there’s always someone willing to talk,” I say. “Isn’t there?”
He shakes his head. “Not since your mother died.”
I stare at Carlos Cruz, and he stares right back at me.
“What do you mean?” I ask lightly, try to ask lightly, but my words thud out.
“You,” he says. “You’re Jeanette’s daughter.”
“How did you . . . ?”
“I was at the funeral. I’m good with faces,” he says. “It helps with the job. Not to mention—there’s a resemblance.”
“So all this time, you’ve been playing around with us?” snaps Wendy.
“You were the ones pretending to be journalism students.” He sighs. “No hard feelings, all right? Jeanette and I were close friends.”
But I am full of hard feelings. “If you were so close, how come I didn’t know about you?” I say, wanting to insult him.
“You were a child. You think she’d tell you everything?” he says, and I’m the insulted one.
“Lora, let’s go.” Wendy stands up.
“Don’t,” says Carlos. “You came here for a reason. You wanted to ask me questions. Go ahead. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Why would you do that?” My voice is rough, my tone is rude.
But he answers gently: “Jeanette was a good friend to me. Let me return the favor.” Carlos stares out the open window, where faded blue curtains swing gently with the breeze. Against my will, I am softened by his sadness. He is so clearly sad.
“All right,” I say. “How’d you meet my mother?”
He tells us they were students
together at Middleton University. After graduation, they lost touch until several years later, when Carlos was a cub reporter working on a story about Keep Corp’s new heart-reg device. He heard through a friend that Jeanette Lee, now Jeanette Mint, worked at Keep Corp, so he called her to see if she had any information for him. She gave him a nice quote about the rival company’s product—nothing that would offend Keep Corp, while still adding interest to his article—and after that they met regularly to talk shop.
“What did Keep Corp think about that?” I ask.
“At first I always referred to her as an anonymous source, though she never said anything negative about the company. We both thought it best. But they tracked her down somehow, and told her if she was going to talk to the press she’d have to go through PR training. So she did.”
“They weren’t angry?” says Wendy.
“If they were, she never mentioned it. Jeanette was happy there. She loved her work. She was a loyal employee,” he says. “Now let me ask you something—what are you after? These questions about Keep Corp, what’s it about?”
Wendy looks at me and I look at her. I raise an eyebrow. She shrugs ever so slightly. I speak carefully: “I think there’s something strange about what happened to my mother.”
“You think the car accident was not an accident,” he says.
“Is that what you think?” I say.
“No, I thought that’s what you meant,” he says, but I don’t believe him. He had spoken too fast, as though the suspicion had long been waiting on his tongue, ready to leap forth at the first opportunity.
I sit up straighter and nod at Wendy. She takes out her sketches of the two strangers. “Do you know these people?” she asks.
He studies their faces for a long time before shaking his head. “Who are they?”
“I read your article about people angry at Keep Corp over privacy issues. Do you think their anger could have been directed at my mom, since she was a public face of the company? There’s a guy you interviewed who sounds kind of fanatical. Jon Harmon?”
