The Forgetting Curve (Memento Nora) (11 page)

AIDEN

Dad and I didn’t say much at breakfast today. Cook made me coffee and something that approximated apple strudel. Dad just sipped his tea and read messages on his mobile. He grumbled about “breach of contract” but clammed up when I asked about it.

He flipped open his phone, told someone he’d “fight it” and he’d “tie them up in court for years,” and then threw his mobile onto the table.

Dad flicked on the big screen at the other end of the room and put on a sports ’cast.

Dad hates sports.

And I didn’t really want to talk to him, either.

This left me too many idle processing cycles to mull over things. I picked at the tough strudel crust. I’m much better at trusting my instincts (and the universe) than actual deductive reasoning. That was usually way too much work.

Okay. Focus. Sanity check. What are my data points?

One. There’s a chip in Winter’s (and Velvet’s) heads that they don’t remember getting.

Two. The chip only works with Nomura phones (for now, anyway).

Three. These phones are coming out early because of a TFC app—which must erase memory.

“Dad, how does the new TFC application work?” I asked reluctantly.

He looked away from the screen. “It’s supposed to be like visiting a forgetting clinic,” he said carefully. “You recount the memory into the app, and then the chip releases the neurochemical equivalent of the TFC drug to prevent the memory from resticking. The app also takes care of billing and reward points.”

“But does it—” I was going to ask if it could plant memories as well. That might be data point four. The chip
could
reinforce memories. Theoretically.

He waved me off. “I don’t understand the technical details.”

Like hell he didn’t. He knew exactly what was going on, and there was no use denying it to myself anymore. Dad was making a chip (and mobile) that could manipulate memories. With TFC.

I stabbed the strudel with my fork.

Dad took a renewed interest in some news item or message on his mobile.

I should confront him. But then what?

The strained silence between us was smashed by Uncle Brian and Aunt Spring rushing into the breakfast room. I immediately thought it must be about Winter.

Man, was I wrong.

“Ichiro, we’re so sorry, but we didn’t remember until this morning.” My uncle looked like he actually wanted to kowtow to Dad.

“Aiden-kun, we know this must be a difficult time for you. And we feel terrible for not acknowledging it sooner.” Spring casts a look in Brian’s direction. “We’re here to help with whatever preparations you’ve planned.”

Dad and I shared a look of total blankness.

“What are you talking about?” I asked finally.

“It’s been a year, Aiden-kun,” my aunt said gently.

“A year?” I was feeling really stupid. I had no clue what she was talking about.

“I can’t believe we almost forgot,” Brian said, incredulous. “We couldn’t be here then, but we’re here now.”

Dad rose, slipped on his jacket, and headed toward the door. “I do not have time for whatever this is,” he called over his shoulder.

My aunt and uncle looked stunned.

“But, Ichiro, your wife died a year ago today,” Brian said.

That stopped Dad in his proverbial tracks. I think I dropped my fork.

“You must have planned a memorial service,” Spring added.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dad demanded as he crossed the room.

“Gretchen. The car accident in the Alps,” Brian said uncertainly.

Dad hit the speed dial on his mobile. Brian and Spring looked at me.

“Mom is not dead,” I managed to say. “She picked me up at school and took me to the airport. I’ve talked to her four or five times since then.”

Brian and Spring stared at me and then each other, like they weren’t sure whether to check me or themselves into a mental ward. I glanced at Dad, who was still talking to someone. Mom, I presumed. He nodded at me and flipped his mobile shut.

“Your mother is in a meeting now, but she’ll call you tonight,” Dad told me with a profound (for him) look of relief on his face. Then he turned on his brother.

“What the fuck was that about, Brian?”

I saw Uncle Brian flinch, and I didn’t have to see Dad’s face to know what it looked like. I’d gotten that face many times. Although Brian was probably getting it tenfold.

“But we remember the…” Aunt Spring trailed off.

“Wait. Did you say you just remembered it this morning?” I asked. “Both of you? At the same time?”

I did look at Dad now. His face was ashen.

Holy crap.

Dad’s mobile buzzed, and he stood looking at the message for at least thirty seconds. Then he dashed out the door.

New data points.
Four. The chip does plant memories. Five. Ichiro Nomura is scared.

AIDEN

Sometimes the universe slaps you across the face, and all of the pieces click into place—and the picture wasn’t what you’d thought it was. At all. Brian and Spring in “Japan.” Mom and I getting shipped off to Switzerland. Winter on meds.

Dad wasn’t in bed with TFC to make money. He was there because he didn’t have a choice. He sent Mom and me away to protect us.

Only he hadn’t gotten to Uncle Brian and Aunt Spring in time. They’d been “disappeared” to Detention. And when Winter remembered the truth, Dad had his doctor dope her up.

Dad never wanted to be part of TFC’s plans for this chip. Or for whatever else they had planned. He was trying to protect all of us.

I felt both profoundly relieved and scared shitless at the same time.

My mom being “dead”—that was a threat.

Aunt Spring and Uncle Brian stood there, blinking at me. “Okay, what just happened?” Spring asked.

I didn’t tell them.

I didn’t know if I could help—or trust them. (Steven might have a point about people with chips in their heads.)

But it wasn’t too late for Winter.

AIDEN

I told Jao to take my aunt and uncle back home, and then I took a cab to see Mr. Yamada. I had to be sure of something first. On the way, I checked a few records. Then I stopped by the drugstore and bought a bottle of vitamins. D, I think.

Mr. Yamada answered the door in his track pants and a sweaty T-shirt. Winter had told me all about the obstacle course he’d built to work out on. He led me into the kitchen and motioned for me to sit at the counter.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked as he peeled off his half-fingered gloves and tossed them on the counter. I’d seen rock climbers wear those kind of gloves. They protect your hands while letting you grip ledges and handholds. That must be some interesting course.

“Coffee, if you have it.”

He pushed a cup and a plate of cookies in my direction. “Is Winter okay?” he asked.

“No.” It hurt me as much to say it as it did to watch his reaction.

He sank onto the other stool, and I told him about my last visit to her house.

“We went through this when I took her to a doctor years ago. We tried the meds for a while, but Winter said she couldn’t think straight. And I agreed to let her stop taking them. I guess I shouldn’t have, but it was so hard to watch her foggy and listless.”

“What did the doctor say she had back then?”

“Bipolar disorder—more manic than depressive. He said it was very manageable, though. The art helps her focus her energy.”

“This new doc is treating her for paranoid schizophrenia, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Winter. Except that she’s overmedicated.”

“What makes you say that?” His eyes narrowed. At least he didn’t call me crazy.

“Winter was right. Spring and Brian weren’t in Japan.”

Mr. Yamada got to his feet. “They were in Japan working for the company, but they’re home now. Everything is finally okay. Winter can get on with her life. Forget about art. Work hard. Go to school. A good school. Work for the company.”

Déjà vu.

I thought about asking him if my mom was alive, but he saved me the trouble.

“I have no idea why I said that.” He shook his head and sank back onto the stool. “It’s like some little voice is whispering it in my head, but deep down I know it’s not true.”

“Do you feel like you’ve been brain-bleached?”

He’d been told he was in the hospital with a concussion. Another lie.

Mr. Yamada nodded. “My friends say I was but they’re afraid to tell me more. Trying to protect me, I guess. And this is going to sound weird, but especially after I work out or get into the groove tattooing, I feel like some of my memories aren’t really mine. They’re hazy ghosts of memories.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Like the mugging. The whole Japan thing. I remember the intense emotions—the anger, the stress, the fear. I felt like something had happened to Spring. I wake up at night dreaming about finding Winter alone in her house, hiding in the dryer. That doesn’t match this hazy memory I have of dropping Spring off at the airport. It’s like someone told me about it.” He rubbed behind his ear absently.

“When did you get that ID chip?” I asked. From what Winter had said, Mr. Yamada wasn’t the type to have one.

He turned pale as he carefully felt the outline of the chip under his skin. “Is that what it is? The doctor told me someone cracked me on the head when I was patrolling the neighborhood. Damn. I’d never get an ID chip. Especially in my head.” He paused. “Winter has one, too, doesn’t she?”

I nodded. He swore softly in Japanese.

“Ready to get our Winter back?” I shook the bottle of vitamins I’d bought earlier.

“What are they?” he asked.

“Vitamins,” I said. I pulled out the pill I’d taken from Winter’s medicine cabinet. “They just happen to look exactly like meds for a so-called paranoid schizophrenic.”

VELVET

We’d gotten pretty ballsy about handing out the MemeFest flyers. Since school was out, I hit the lesser shopping centers—the ones without much security—and left the flyers in the bathroom stalls. (Becca said that had a certain symmetry since that’s how
Memento
started.) The flyers didn’t have the place or time on them. You had to listen to the MemeCast to get the concert dates. We now had several planned, with the first being on June 30—the eve of D-day for the new ID chips. D-day for those going off-grid.

Even though D-day was only a few days away, Mom was still deciding about the chip. Or still putting off deciding, which amounted to the same thing. Tick tock.

The guys and I were hanging out in the food court of the Valley Ridge Mall. A short bus ride from downtown, the place is a run-down shopping center that doesn’t even require an ID to get in the door.

Richie and Little Steven were talking about which actress they’d have an affair with: Mercedes Rios of
Behind the Gates
or Carmen Washington of that new ’cast,
Under the Dome
.

Spikey was intent on replacing his back skateboard wheels with a new set he’d just traded for.

I stole a greasy chili fry off his plate as I watched people filter by. They were mostly kids like us. No money, no chips (that they officially knew of), and no place else to hang out in the growing heat. A few older women in sneakers power-walked laps around the mall. A guy dozed upright on the bench across from the DQ. His head bobbed and he caught himself every few minutes. The minute he lay down security would toss him out. Even in this mall, they didn’t like homeless people camping out during the day.

Then I saw her and her BFFs sit down, bags in hand, by the fountain.

It was Nora James.

She was eating a cookie and laughing with her friends, Maia Jackson and Abby Delgado—like nothing had ever happened to her. They were admiring a pair of red shoes, and I heard “Quinceañera” and “party” rise above the din. Abby must be having her Quince this summer.

How was this possible? Duh. I knew how. Nora’s memory got whitewashed, and they let her go on her merry popular-girl way.

Still. I wondered if she’d come to the concert. If some of that old Nora James was lurking in there.

The BFFs made like they were leaving.

Now or never.

I peeled my ass off the hard plastic chair and moved toward them. Spike caught my hand.

“Careful,” he whispered, glancing up at the security cams.

I leaned over to kiss him on the forehead, and he placed a folded up flyer into the palm of my hand. This time I kissed him on the lips. He tasted like chili fries.

Spike was a little rough around the edges, but you knew where you stood with him. Aiden was smooth, too smooth, but when you peeled back his glossy exterior, he was intriguing, unpredictable, and intense.

This was not a problem I’d expected to have. Ever.

But I’d deal with it later.

I had something more important to do just then.