by Liana Liu
“You remember that?” I’m shocked she remembers, and shocked she thought it was excellently researched, and shocked she remembers thinking it was excellently researched. I am also embarrassingly pleased.
She nods, but her gaze drifts past me. “Look who it is,” she says.
We all turn around to watch as Raul approaches. He is wearing his blue jacket. The sight of it makes me not like him, and I don’t want to not like him, so I concentrate on his cheery face as I grin and wave and call out his name. I am very aware of the fact that Tim is sitting just three feet away.
“I was hoping you’d visit today.” Raul smiles his nice smile at us. At me.
“Of course,” I say, smiling nicely right back.
“Hey, Raul. This is my brother Tim,” says Wendy, and the two of them grip hands—half handshake, half high five, as guys do—and it makes me feel funny. Weird-funny, yes. But a little ha-ha funny, too.
We make plans to meet for lunch in the dining room. Then Raul has to go back to work. But before he leaves he sets his hand on my shoulder. “See you later,” he says.
I glance at Tim. He is looking at me. Our eyes meet. Tim glances away.
“Raul is such a nice young man,” says Ms. Pearl. “Isn’t he a nice young man?”
The gentlemen friends, Earl and Henry, grunt in agreement.
I nod at Wendy. She takes out a folder from her bag. “Ms. Pearl, do you know these people? We think they might work here,” she says.
Ms. Pearl lifts her glasses from her chest, where they hang on a thick gold chain, and sets them on her nose. She examines the sketches while Earl and Henry peek over her shoulder. Tim is so unperturbed I wonder what Wendy has told him. I look inquiringly at her, but her gaze is conveniently steady on the old folk.
Earl, who has been dozing on and off during our conversation, becomes animated. He points excitedly at the sketch of the woman. “That young lady is familiar.”
“She works here?” I lean forward in my chair.
“No, I don’t think so.” Earl slumps back into the sofa. “I believe I knew her a long time ago. I’m sorry, my memory isn’t so good.”
Ms. Pearl pats him consolingly on the knee. “Girls, I’m afraid I don’t recognize either of these people. Are you sure they work here?”
“Five years ago they worked here, maybe,” I say.
“I wasn’t here then, but Henry was,” she says. “What do you think, Henry?”
Henry strokes the few hairs he has left on his head. “No, I’ve never seen these two before. I’m sure of it. Absolutely sure.”
“Absolutely sure?” I remember Raul telling me one of the men has a mild case of Vergets, and neither of them, like Ms. Pearl, have memory keys. I’m trying to figure out which man is which, but perhaps it doesn’t matter because they seem similarly incapacitated. It makes me angry. It’s irresponsible of them not to have keys. An essential, preventative measure, I hear my mother say.
“Absolutely sure?” says Henry, sounding less absolutely sure than before.
“May I ask why you don’t have memory keys?” someone says in a loud voice. “After all, your memories are your most precious belongings; they make up your sense of self. Memory keys preserve that, they keep you you. And you’re not the only one who benefits, it benefits those around you, all your loved ones.”
It’s my mother. It’s my mother’s words, it’s my mother’s voice, but when I look for her I don’t see her. I decide it was an aural memory.
Then I notice everyone is staring at me.
Because it was me. I was the one speaking her words, in her voice.
Ms. Pearl smiles gently. I know that look. It’s the look she would give a student who tried hard but ultimately gave the wrong answer. “You make some good points, Lora, but I must admit it can be nice to forget a few things every once in a while and just live in the present,” she says. Her gentlemen friends grunt in agreement.
“I’m sure that’s true.” I am mortified by my outburst.
“So you haven’t seen these people here before?” Wendy points everyone’s attention back to the sketches, and I’m grateful.
“Perhaps they worked in the south wing,” says Ms. Pearl.
“There’s different staff for each wing?” asks Tim.
“Oh, yes. In the south wing, everything is different.”
“How so?” asks Wendy.
Ms. Pearl glances at Henry, who glances at Earl, who glances at Ms. Pearl, who glances back at Henry. Then Ms. Pearl speaks. “People go there when they’re gone.”
Wendy gasps. “You mean, like, dead?”
“No, no. When they’re very sick. Or the Vergets advances to the point that they need more care.” Ms. Pearl gently clears her throat. “Children, you must excuse us. We have a lunch engagement. But perhaps we could meet here later for a game of cards? Yes?”
“Yes, Ms. Pearl,” we say in unison.
She rises, and is followed by her two gentlemen. When Earl turns, I notice the broad scar on the back of his hairless head. It’s curved like a smile, a painful, red smile. So Earl is the one who had to get his key removed because his body rejected it. And Henry is the one who has Vergets.
Wendy sighs. “That was disappointing.”
“You’ll probably have better luck asking the staff,” says Tim.
“Raul might know who to talk to, don’t you think?” says Wendy.
“How much did you tell your brother?” I ask her.
“She didn’t tell me anything,” says Tim. “But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the two of you are up to no good. So fill me in already.”
“It’s none of your business,” I say.
“Come on. Don’t you trust me?” he asks.
I blink. There’s Tim with his new girlfriend, their arms around each other, their faces so close together they might as well be kissing, and the sight hurts so much that when I turn away and glimpse my reflection in the hallway mirror, I’m shocked that I’m not bloody, I’m not bruised; I’m shocked that I can appear so normal on the outside when I’m breaking on the inside.
I blink. There’s Tim on the porch swing, his lips against mine, his mouth slightly beery, but not unpleasantly so, and I cannot believe this is happening, finally happening; I am feverish with happiness, I feel it sparkling in my cheeks and chest and fingers and toes, I feel it in my lips against his lips, and I’m so happy.
I blink and there’s Tim, opening the door for me, grinning.
I blink and there’s Tim, scowling because I laughed at his haircut.
I blink and there’s Tim, waving his water gun as I run away shrieking.
I blink. There’s Tim gazing at me, his eyes steady, his face hopeful as he apologizes for hurting me, saying that it was just bad timing . . .
And I feel as if I’m about to shatter into pieces, cracked apart by all my contradictory feelings for him. My hand slips into my pocket, fingers curl around cool plastic, and I close my fist, clutching so tightly to the bottle of pain pills that my nails cut into my palms. I compose myself. Then I look at him.
There is Tim, sitting in a brocade-upholstered chair in the recreation room at Grand Gardens, looking at me inquisitively. He asked me a question, I remind myself, and now he’s waiting for the answer.
What did he ask? He asked if I trust him.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“But Lora . . .” says Wendy, smiling a concerned smile.
This time, I sense it coming and I grit my teeth. I straighten my shoulders.
But I can’t push back the past; the memories are too strong.
Wendy is smiling a concerned smile. But also frowning in frustration. But also pointing a nagging finger at me. Wendy is rolling her eyes while I’m talking. I’m mid-sentence and she walks away.
I blink.
Wendy bangs on the door, then comes into my room scolding: Why aren’t you coming, Lora? You promised you’d come! She says it with such outrage, as if I’ve heartlessly betrayed her,
instead of merely canceling the double date we had planned with her singer boyfriend and his drummer friend.
I’m sorry. I’m tired, I say.
That’s not allowed. Wendy glares, but then she notices my swollen eyes and red nose and blotchy face. Her expression softens. Lora, what’s wrong? she asks.
And I’m already struggling to hold in my sadness; I cannot hold in one thing more. It’s Tim, I confess, and I tell her about seeing him with his new girlfriend, I tell her about the night we kissed, and I tell her that I’ve liked him for a very, very long time.
Wendy rubs my back while I cry and I’m glad I told her.
I’m glad until she sighs and says, I can’t believe you like Tim. You know better, Lora, you really should know better.
“Lora?” says Wendy, smiling a concerned smile.
I grit my teeth. I straighten my shoulders.
But I can’t push back the past; it’s too strong.
The memories are perfectly clear, painfully clear. They fall like an endless line of dominoes, each one knocking down the next, and I am flattened by every one.
Greg Lange asks me how serious it is between Wendy and her boyfriend . . .
Nick Jordan tells me Wendy is the most talented person in the whole school . . .
Girls cluster around Wendy, oohing over her dress, ahhing over her shoes . . .
Wendy complains about yet another boy who likes her . . .
Wendy advises that I should try being friendlier . . .
Wendy says she’s trying to keep me from moping around . . .
And on, and on, and I hate it, and I hate her.
My best friend. I hate her.
But I also hate my jealousy, my insecurity. I hate how she bosses me, but I also hate myself for letting her boss me. I hate how she wants attention and gets attention, but I also hate myself for pretending that I don’t want it when I don’t get it. Yes, I hate Wendy, but I hate myself more. Much more.
“Lora, are you all right?” says Wendy, smiling a concerned smile.
My hand hurts. I’m clutching the pill bottle so tightly that my fingers have cramped around the narrow tube. Still, I don’t let go. I don’t let go even as the pain strikes my skull, pain like a punched face, a snapped limb, a broken heart. Pain like a dead mother . . . almost.
Now Wendy is speaking, and so is Tim, but from inside my headache it sounds like they’re yelling at me from some vast distance. I can’t understand what they’re saying, and I don’t want to understand. All I want is to get away from here, from them.
I prop myself up to standing and stagger out of the room. Down the long hallway I go, feet stumbling over air, one hand stretched forward, fingers feeling for direction, while my other hand stays wrapped around my bottle of pain pills.
Footsteps echo behind me. Voices call out my name.
I tell them to leave me alone. I shout it.
Then there are no more footsteps, no more voices, nothing.
I swallow five small tablets, one at a time and haltingly, for I don’t have any water and my mouth is dirt dry. I’m not quite sure how I managed it, but I made it outside, and now I’m sitting on a wooden bench, listening to a thundering chorus of bird chatter—there must be dozens of them around, yet I can’t see a single one—while the breeze cools my flushed face. The pain seeps away so slowly, I don’t notice it going until it’s nearly gone.
“Lora?”
I don’t answer. I don’t look to see who it is. But the person walks over and I’m relieved to find it’s only Raul. There are no memories with Raul. He is a blank slate, a new beginning, a clear conscience.
“Can I sit down?” he asks.
“Of course.” I wonder how he found me. They must have told him I was out here. I wonder what else they told him. He looks worried. I wish he didn’t look worried. “Did you see Wendy and Tim?” I ask.
“Yeah. Wendy said you weren’t feeling well.”
“That’s all she said?” In the midst of all my anger, I’m grateful to her, and the feeling makes me flinch.
“She told me you went out for some air.”
I nod. I sigh. “I’m sorry about all this trouble,” I say.
“What trouble?” he asks.
“I guess, uh, nothing.”
Raul seems disappointed that I don’t tell him more—that I don’t tell him everything—but he’s too nice to insist. Instead he asks what I think of Grand Gardens. I say I certainly wouldn’t mind living here one day.
“Me too. It’s expensive, though. Better start saving now.”
“Except for the south wing. Ms. Pearl made it sound scary.”
“That’s because she’s worried she’ll end up there. They’re all worried. Really, the south wing isn’t scary at all, except the residents are older or sicker, and need more care. They don’t have all the socializing and activities and field trips.”
“What do you mean no field trips?” I ask with mock-outrage. But it’s not much of a joke, so he answers me with serious explanations about wheelchairs and medical equipment.
After a while, Raul asks if I’m feeling better. I tell him I am.
“Should we meet Wendy and her brother in the dining room?” he says.
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“Well, I should eat something before I get back to work.”
“Of course,” I say sheepishly. “Go. I’ll stay here.”
“You’re sure?” He looks puzzled.
“What time do you get off? Can you give me a ride home?”
“Yeah, but I’m here until four. You want to wait till then?”
“I don’t mind.” I grin broadly, perhaps too broadly.
“But what are you going to do for all that time?”
“I’ll walk around Grand Lake. Maybe I’ll visit my aunt. She lives nearby.”
“You must be really mad at your friends,” he says.
I feel a fresh rush of anger. Then one of remorse—all those memories, those screaming, kicking memories, happened so long ago that any hurtful offenses should already be forgiven and forgotten. But if I can’t forget, how can I forgive?
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
After Raul goes back inside, with instructions to tell Wendy and Tim they can leave without me, I get up from the bench. I walk across lush grass, past stately trees; I circle the fish pond and pause to study the orange fish glimmering at the bottom of the shallow pool, unmoving except for an occasional flick of fin or tail.
But all the while I’m thinking about the man who fell off the ladder and damaged his memory key. The man who damaged his memory key, attacked his wife, and had to be physically restrained for his own protection.
Why do I refuse to get my key fixed?
It’s madness.
It must be madness to sacrifice my health and my friendships and my father’s trust for the sake of a memory. It must be madness to exchange all that is real for dreams of the past.
And when I told Wendy I’d figured out how to control my key, that I could stop and start it on command—that’s no longer true, if it was ever really true. For while it’s become easier to summon memories into being, it’s become harder to send them away. I obviously wasn’t able to manage it in the recreation room.
I look up. I’m at the other end of Grand Gardens now. Although Raul said there’s nothing really scary about the south wing, I imagine people moaning in pain, bodies crashing against the walls in attempts at escape. But of course there’s nothing like that. The windows are dark. The place seems uninhabited. Or abandoned.
Until I hear a sound, a squeaking. I tilt my head and see a man on the second floor, straining to open a window. It doesn’t open far. The man disappears. My gaze drifts and lands on another window, caught there by a sense of movement. The blinds are up, but I can’t see inside; it’s too dark. I step slowly forward.
A moment passes before I make out what I’m seeing. The picture assembles slowly, like those optical illusions that require minutes of staring bef
ore the image becomes clear. A figure by the window. A woman. One arm across her chest, the other arm folded up so her fingers can gently tap against her cheek, as if she is in deep thought.
I’ve seen this pose a hundred times before, and all those hundred times beat through me at once.
She is standing at the window, tapping her face in deep thought.
She is sitting at the kitchen table, tapping her face in deep thought.
She is reclining before the television, tapping her face in deep thought.
She is pacing across the room, tapping her face in deep thought.
My mother.
15.
THE WHITE-HAIRED WOMAN BEHIND THE RECEPTION DESK, THAT same impossible woman from an hour ago, an eternity ago, stares up at me. I grip the counter and glance at the doors to the south wing. They’re closed. I wonder if they’re locked. But I make a second attempt at speech because my first attempt was—I admit it—fairly incoherent.
“I’m here to visit someone.” I’m still talking too fast, but now she raises one brown-penciled eyebrow and I take this as a sign that she understands. “On the second floor, in the south wing, please,” I say.
“Name of the resident?”
For a second I don’t know what to say.
Then I say, “Jeanette Mint.” Then I say it again. Then I spell it. Then I begin spelling it again. She tells me she got it. She clicks through her computer. I notice I’ve left smudges on the countertop and attempt to wipe them away. I smudge it worse. She clears her throat. I stop wiping.
“There’s no resident here with that name,” she says.
“What?” I say.
She gives me a look that is her response: she knows I heard what she said.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Jeanette Mint. Will you please, please look again?”
The woman heaves a ten-ton sigh, but returns to her computer. A moment later, she shakes her head. “There’s no one here with that name. No Jeanette, no Mint.”
My voice is half shout and half whisper. “But I saw her.”
No, that’s impossible. All of this is impossible.
Without thinking, I step toward the closed doors. Perhaps the woman says something, though if she does, I don’t hear her. I reach for the handle and push with all my weight. Perhaps the woman yells for me to come back, though if she does, I don’t hear her.
