by Matt Richtel
“Newton!” A friend screams
He turns to them. “I’ll be there in a moment!”
“Why do they call you Newton?”
“I like science.”
“Me too. Why did you think we were real estate agents?”
“Because you stop living here when you can afford anything else.”
I consider it. “Is Ms. Pederson too rich for these digs?”
“Her first name is Lulu,” he says. “But she hates it. She thinks it makes her sound like an airhead.”
“Lulu Pederson?” I ask. L. P.
He doesn’t respond.
“Have you seen Ms. Pederson around?” I ask with as much nonchalance as I can muster.
“Not for a few days. She tutors me in science on Wednesdays, but she didn’t show up last night.”
“So you think maybe she moved out of the neighborhood?”
“Newton!” a friend shouts.
“I would,” he says in response to my question. “Anyway, I gotta run . . .”
I interrupt him. “Any idea where can I find her?”
“Nathaniel, you ask a lot of questions,” Grandma inserts.
Newton laughs. “She’s funny.”
“It’s really important that I find her,” I say.
He looks at me cautiously, measuring me now.
“She’s pretty smart—a genius. I assume she’ll find you if she’s interested.”
“Please,” I say. “It’s critically important.”
He’s had enough, and now one of his friends is striding purposefully towards us to retrieve him.
“Try her company. It’s called Biogen,” he says.
“Biogen?” I make sure I heard correctly.
He nods.
The biotech giant.
He’s walking away.
“What does she do at Biogen?”
He shrugs.
“Is she a scientist?” I shout after him. I start to walk around the side of the court, to find an entrance.
Newton’s friend—the one who came to retrieve him—takes a step in my direction. He’s much bigger and less friendly.
“Can we get back to our game?” he asks. It sounds rhetorical. He wants this interview to end.
“Newton, please. This is important. I need you to help me.” I’m using an adult voice I’m surprised to know I’ve got inside of me. I’m asking this child to behave reasonably.
“I’m not supposed to talk to strange adults.” Trump card. Smart kid. “If you see her, tell her Newton says hello,” he adds.
I pull out my business card. I wave it, and stick it in a gym bag left where Newton was sitting.
“This is my phone number, Newton. Call me if you want to talk about Lulu.”
Grandma and I are sitting back in the car. I cup her chilly hands in mine and blow on them, then gently rub, feeling the frail bones beneath.
“Congratulations, partner,” I say.
“Harry doesn’t have trouble hiding his excitement. He always seems calm, even when he’s not.”
“You just played Good Cop,” I say.
“I’ve never had a problem with people in law enforcement.”
We finally have a lead.
“Have you heard of Biogen?”
“What?”
“It’s one of the most respected biotech companies in the world. I think it’s the biggest.”
No response.
I look at the clock. It’s 4:20. Probably too late to get to Biogen, which is located in South San Francisco. But it’s not too late to call.
I call Directory Assistance and get Biogen’s main number. I call the company, suffer through instructions from an automated attendant, and hit zero for a live human. When I get one, I ask for Lulu Pederson. The human operator transfers me. The phone rings three times, then goes to voice mail.
“You’ve reached Adrianna Pederson in Biogen’s Advanced Life Computing department. I’m not available right now; leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Did I hear right. Did the voice mail say “Adrianna Pederson”?
Adrianna. That was the name Grandma was muttering.
Maybe I’m imagining things.
I call Biogen a second time and ask for Lulu Pederson. I get her voice mail and realize that, indeed, I hadn’t imagined a thing.
“You’ve reached Adrianna Pederson in Biogen’s Advanced Life Computing department. I’m not available right now; leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
I leave a message.
“Adrianna, this is Nat Idle. I’m hoping that means something to you. Please call me—day or night. Anytime.”
I leave my phone number and hang up.
“Grandma, who is Adrianna?”
No response.
“Wait here.”
I step out of the car, lock Grandma inside, and walk to the basketball court. I approach the in-progress game.
“Newton!”
The players pause.
“Does Lulu use the name Adrianna?”
He nods. “I told you already: she hates ‘Lulu.’ Adrianna is her middle name.”
I shake my head.
“Leave him alone,” one of the other boys says. “We’ll start screaming if you bother us anymore.”
I nod and put out my hands—surrender.
The boys start playing again. I turn to see Grandma in the car, and let the latest revelations sink in. I try to make sense of the disparate pieces. I received a mysterious computer memory stick from someone with the initials L. P. That person appears to work for Biogen. And she has the middle name Adrianna, which happens to be the same name Grandma has been muttering. How and why is Grandma connected to any of this? Does Grandma know the answer—somewhere in her damaged gray matter?
And what has happened to Adrianna? Why did she miss our meeting?
Inside the car, I stare at Grandma, who stares straight ahead. Then looks at me and cocks her head.
I bite the inside of my lip to keep from conveying my shock and the depth of my curiosity. A woman named Lulu Pederson—who may have written me a mystery note with a mystery attachment and knows I went to the Galapagos—shares the name of a woman who is haunting my demented grandmother. And now Lulu Adrianna Pederson seems to be missing.
I need help.
I dial Chuck. He doesn’t answer. I leave a message telling him I’d like his help following up on a lead in our story.
“Lane smooched a colored boy,” Grandma says.
“Lane, let’s go home, get some rest, and try to avoid any more nasty surprises. On the way, we can make one more stop by that dentist’s office.”
“No thank you.” Emphatic.
I look at her. She blinks twice rapidly, betraying some discomfort.
“What’s wrong with the dentist?”
“I said no.”
“Grandma?”
No response.
Her silence speaks volumes. I have to check out that office.
Chapter 19
I weave through a few side streets, and take a right turn onto Geary, a fat thoroughfare thickening to a crawl with commuter traffic. We slip into the mess. We putt along in silence for a few blocks, and then I see something troubling in the rearview mirror, one lane over to the right.
There’s a Prius several cars behind us. Its driver looks like the lovechild of a circus clown and Bigfoot.
I turn off my engine, yank out the keys, and put on the hazards. I open the door and start hustling toward the Prius.
I am thoroughly pissed off, but I still realize I have two big problems.
One is that my move prompts an eruption of honks. The collective angst of several dozen drivers already frustrated by life’s deep unfairness—traffic, the Bay Area cost of living, the fact they don’t yet own an iPad—spills out into a symphony of honking harangues.
The second problem takes a moment longer to materialize.
I zigzag to the driver’s-side window of the hybrid. I peer inside at the face o
f a man in his mid-twenties with a soul patch, hefty sideburns, ring-pierced lower lip, and an ostentatious hairy wig. He holds a dime-store clown mask he has pulled from his face, leaving it dangling from his neck by an elastic string.
He looks startled, then menacing, like a guy who goes to Oakland Raiders games just for the fights in the stands. His speakers thump with hip-hop.
He rolls down his window. He starts to speak. Starts to, then pauses, turns down the hip-hop, and makes an impassioned plea.
“I am one hundred percent sober.”
On the passenger seat I see a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, half drained. The bottle is open, tilting to the side, dribbling out its contents.
“Who do you work for?” I ask.
“What?”
“Are you following us?”
Then something dawns on him.
“You better be a cop,” he says. “Or I’m going to drive my forehead through your forehead. You ever see the Ultimate Fighting Championship?”
Something dawns on me too. This is not the hybrid I saw in the park. And there is little likelihood its driver has been plotting my demise, at least not until this very moment.
“Undercover pre-Halloween law-enforcement brigade,” I say.
I sprint back to my car, start it, and pull hard into the right lane. I then yank a sharp right onto a side street to get out of the traffic jam.
I don’t fully exhale until I realize that the hybrid driver has, apparently, decided not to follow us.
“You’re frightening me,” Grandma says.
“I’m sorry. My imagination’s in overdrive.”
“Ha!” Grandma says declaratively. “You seem like you’re enjoying yourself.”
This time, it is I who uses Grandma’s regular refrain.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I say.
“The Idles like to run after things.”
“The neurologist is right.”
“What?”
“You’re away from Magnolia Manor and you’re getting more lucid.”
“If you say so.”
As we drive, I call Magnolia Manor and ask for Betty Lou, Grandma’s close friend.
“Where’s Lane?” Betty Lou asks immediately.
“We’re going to hang out for a few days. Her doctor says she needs some concentrated time with her grandson. But I need a few changes of clothes for Lane.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well then why not just come back here and get some clothes yourself?”
“Betty Lou, you’re a clever old lass.”
“Bring her back here, Nathaniel.”
“Please, Betty Lou,” I say. I want to add: I know what I’m doing. But I’m not sure that I do. Instead, I say: “I’m taking great care of her, and she’s doing fine.”
“Then why are they looking for her, and you?”
“Who is?”
“Vince and the rest of those a-holes.”
I tell her I don’t have time to explain. I ask her to meet me on the street in an hour.
“Harry is worried sick,” she says.
“Don’t tell anyone we’ve talked.”
“What’s going on, Nathaniel?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Young people are so patronizing.”
Click.
Half an hour later, I pull into the dental office. It’s just after 5:30, getting dark, and the lot has largely cleared out.
“Sit tight for just a second, Lane.”
“I’m bored. Can I use the computer?”
I hand her the video-game phone.
“No, the computer!” she says.
“It is a computer.”
“What?”
She’s staring at the screen.
“I’ll be back in just a second.”
I walk up the stairs and I notice the office door is ajar. I push it open. Inside, the office is quiet, dark, and appears to be empty.
I feel along the wall to my right, and flip on the light.
There is a small waiting area at the entrance, ringed by white chairs with white seat cushions. On a coffee table between the chairs sit copies of Newsweek, Sports Illustrated, and other magazines. I’m struck again that there is little else to define the place—nothing on the walls, no signs with appointment directions or instructions on dental care.
Also missing is the woman behind the counter, the one I’d argued with earlier. Her desk has been emptied out. There are no papers, computer, office supplies—just a single black ballpoint pen lying on a stark white counter.
Next to the counter is a doorway leading to the back.
“Hello,” I say loudly and directed to the back. “I’m here for my appointment.”
No answer.
I walk to the door that leads to the back and open it. Behind it, two doorways, presumably to examination rooms.
I open the door to my right. Behind it, a small white room, completely empty. Not even an examination chair.
I step back into the hallway and walk to the second door.
I put my hand to the knob, and hesitate. Will I find Adrianna, unable to breathe?
Is Grandma okay outside? I shouldn’t be leaving her in the dark.
I push open the door. I feel along the wall for a switch and turn on the light. Another small examination room, also abandoned. Mostly.
A high-backed chair faces a wall on which there are taped three images that look like they’ve been cut from old magazines: an ad for a 1960s red Chevrolet, a picture of an old television with rabbit ears, and a photo of the first moon walk. There are also two New York Times front pages tacked up, one announcing the attack on Pearl Harbor and another of Jackie Robinson rounding third base, hand pumped in the air in celebration.
From outside, I hear a high-pitched sound.
Screaming.
Chapter 20
I sprint into the darkness.
The piercing sound comes from directly below me. I squint to get my bearings.
“Grandma?!”
I fly down the stairs. I make out someone standing near the door of a ground-floor office. The figure is hunched. Grandma.
I hustle to her.
She stares into the office’s plate-glass window.
“Adrianna can’t breathe,” she says.
“It’s okay. I’m here.”
I gently put my hand on her back. She flinches and her hand whips up and slaps my arm away. She’s strong.
“Grandma, it’s me.”
“I’m not going inside.”
“Absolutely not. We’re not going inside.”
I put my arm on her shoulder. She’s quivering.
“My father drove a red Chevrolet,” she says.
“Deep breath, Grandma.”
“My family came from Eastern Europe.”
“Poland, Grandma. You’re absolutely right.”
“Irving wore a suit to our wedding.”
She’s all over the place.
“Grandma,” I take a step back, and hold her hands. “What happened here?”
“I did my best to love Irving. I made him tuna casserole, which I hate. I just didn’t fit into that kind of life—a casserole life. I know you know what I’m talking about.”
“What happened here, Lane? Please focus.”
“There are some things I’d prefer to forget.”
“Did you see something happen to Adrianna? Did she . . .” I pause before saying the words, “Why can’t she breathe?”
“Do you know what it’s like to feel suffocated? Do you know what it’s like when you’re trapped? It’s like being anesthetized. Do you know what that word means?”
“Grandma . . .”
“You want to feel thrilled. Isn’t that what it means to be alive? You know that, Nathaniel. That’s why I can tell you.”
She’s meandering, anxious, confused, pouring out and swirling together memory, philosophy, fear, anger, raw emotion.
“Pigeon.”
Pigeon. This doesn’t ring the remotest bell.
“Pigeon—like the bird?”
“Pigeon, take me someplace warm.”
I take a deep breath.
“Shhh,” she says, animatedly.
“What?”
“Is there something there?” She’s looking out into the parking lot.
I look in the darkness. I hear nothing, see nothing.
“Harry, take me someplace warm, please.”
“I’m Nathaniel.”
She does not respond at first.
“You should marry that friend of yours,” she finally says. “There are ways you can have everything, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
I take a deep breath. The San Francisco air hangs dusty wet with incoming fog and night.
My cortex clicks through dozens of seemingly unrelated details and events. I can’t grasp the connection but I know there is one. I notice I’m rubbing my thumb against my index finger, an old habit that happens when I’m close to figuring something out.
“You’re saying a lot of different things, Grandma. But I have this strange feeling that there is some connective tissue. There are clues in what you’re saying. But I have no idea how to assemble them—and which are clues, which are . . .” I stop, because I don’t want to say the word “nonsense.”
“Nathaniel, you were always close enough to see the truth.”
“What truth, Lane?”
Chapter 21
TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE.
MAY 20, 2010
WELCOME BACK LANE IDLE. WHILE I LOAD YOUR FILE, PLEASE ENJOY THESE VIDEO IMAGES OF AMERICA’S RICH PAST. THE LATE 1940S AND 1950S WERE A TIME OF GREAT PROSPERITY AND GROWTH FOR THIS COUNTRY, PARTICULARLY AFTER A HARD-FOUGHT VICTORY IN WORLD WAR II. TENS OF MILLIONS OF AMERICANS GATHERED AROUND RADIOS TO LEARN ABOUT PEARL HARBOR, AND, SIX YEARS LATER, THE ALLIED VICTORY. THEN THEY CELEBRATED IN THE STREETS, RINGING IN A PERIOD OF COMMON PURPOSE, AND EXTRAORDINARY PROSPERITY.
That’s true, I guess, and a little schmaltzy, if you don’t mind my saying so.
WHEN WE LAST SPOKE, YOU TOLD ME HOW YOU LEARNED OF PEARL HARBOR LISTENING TO A LARGE BLACK RADIO IN YOUR HOUSE IN DENVER. WOULD YOU LIKE TO ELABORATE?
I don’t remember that particular time very well, or that incident. I’m trying to talk about something else.
