The Memory Key (2 page)

“LORA? WE'RE HERE.” WENDY IS STARING AT ME WITH WORRIED
eyes, and I see her worried eyes and that we are parked in the driveway of my house, but I also see something else, somewhere else. I see a dark-haired little girl sitting next to me on the first day of school.
My name is Wendy
, she says.
What's your name?

Her face is all cheery smile, but I'm scared of her. I'm scared of everything: this unfamiliar room, the teacher with her powdered face, even this wooden chair I'm sitting on, which seems unnaturally hard.
I want Mama
, I think. My desire is so strong it makes my head ache. The dark-haired little girl is still talking.
Lora
,
let's be friends, okay? Want to draw?

“Lora? Are you all right?” she asks.

I want Mama
, I think. But then I see Wendy's worried eyes, and I see that we are parked in the driveway of my house, and I know my wanting is useless.

“I'm fine,” I say.

Despite my protests, she comes inside with me, into our two-story, one-family house. Wendy lives on the other end
of the same neighborhood, a residential area in the southern part of Middleton, a city appropriately named for two reasons: because it's located in the middle of the country, almost exactly; and because it's midsized, smaller than the big cities on the coasts, bigger than the small cities scattered between us and the coastal cities. My entire life I've lived here, in Middleton; here, in this house.

Wendy helps me upstairs to my room. “Should we call your dad?” she asks.

“No, he's got a class now. He'll be home soon enough.” I ask Wendy to get some pain medication from the bathroom, then I stretch out on my bed and close my eyes. My head hurts, it hurts, it hurts so much.

Wendy returns with a bottle of drugstore pills and a glass of water. “I'll stay with you until your dad gets back,” she says.

“You don't have to.” I swallow one tablet with one sip of water. “And what about our dinner?”

“We'll reschedule.” She pats my shoulder.

“We can't reschedule, your whole huge family is coming.” I swallow another tablet with another sip of water. “I'm fine.”

She looks skeptical. “Are you sure?”

“Go home and get ready. I'll see you tonight.”

“You better rest till then.”

“I promise I'll do nothing more than lie here and ponder my near-death experience and human mortality and the possible meaning of my existence,” I say.

Wendy groans, but doesn't argue. She tells me to call if I
need anything, anything at all. Then she finally leaves. Then I'm finally alone.

I make the mistake of glancing at the dried flower pinned on the corkboard above my desk. It's a mistake because once I see it I'm not just looking, I'm leaping, I'm twirling. There's a pink fluff of tutu tight around my waist. The music trills to an end. All us girls march carefully off the stage while the audience cheers. My parents are waiting. Mom holds out a bouquet of pink roses.
Lora
,
that was wonderful. You were wonderful
.

Then I'm back in my bedroom, in my bed, and smiling. It's been years since I've remembered her so clearly. Closing my eyes, I summon her back.

I'm slouched in my chair at the funeral home. The casket is closed. My father sits on my right side and Aunt Austin sits on my left side. My black dress is too small; it pinches at my arms and waist. My aunt had offered to buy me a new one, but I refused. I didn't want a new one. I stare down at the floor. The carpet is a wine-colored paisley that matches the wine-colored walls. I rub my sore eyes and find that I'm crying.

Then I'm back in my bedroom, in my bed, and crying. I crush my face into my pillow, trying to smother away the grief.

I'm at the department store downtown, standing in the bedding aisle, squishing all the different pillows. I decide they all feel the same and grab the second-cheapest one from the shelf. The cashier is a middle-aged man in a red sweatshirt. He grunts and asks me if it's started snowing yet.
Not yet
, I say.

Then I'm back in my bedroom, in my bed, and frowning.
The pillow-buying episode is so unimportant, so uneventful, so unworthy of being remembered. Yet here I am, recalling every detail. The checkout clerk's name tag read
MICKEY
. Next to his register was a rainbow display of bubble gum. And it's not just that I can remember all these stupid, insignificant, little details. I can see them. I am seeing them. I am standing at the register. Mickey the cashier grunts.

I sit up in my bed, so fast, too fast, and have to lie immediately back down because of my poor pounding head. But I don't much notice the pain. I've figured out what's wrong with me: it's my memory key.

Vergets disease, the forgetting sickness, is a degenerative disorder that affects the brain and causes severe memory loss. For most of history, the illness was endemic in our country, primarily afflicting older people. But sixty years ago, the disease began spreading, and it was no longer just the elderly who suffered; more and more of the middle-aged were being diagnosed with Vergets, including several members of my family, most on my dad's side but a few on my mom's as well.

The reasons for the epidemic are still unclear. Most scientists blame pollution and genetics. Some believe that lack of exercise and bad diet were contributing factors. A few religious sects declared we were being punished for our heathen ways. A report circulated that an extremist group, the Citizen Army, had poisoned our water supply. Then there are the conspiracy theorists who believe our own government poisoned our water
supply. But most scientists blame pollution and genetics.

Whatever the reason, the whole nation was in crisis (other parts of the world, mostly first world countries, were also affected, though not to the same degree). The workforce was shrinking. The economy deteriorating. The population was afraid and who could blame them? How frightening it must have been to watch their loved ones' brains turn into zombie mush. How terrifying it must have been to wonder if their own brain would be the next to turn traitor.

When I was in middle school, I wrote an essay about the man who invented the memory key, P. B. Fishman. He was not one of the many doctors or scientists or researchers toiling tirelessly toward a cure for Vergets disease, funded generously by the government or private foundations. Mr. Fishman was a technician for a manufacturer of computer chips. He worked at home on his dining room table, ten feet away from his wife, who sat in her recliner knitting sweaters that—despite the beauty of the color work and stitches—no one could wear because the sizing was incomprehensible: sleeves long enough for a giant attached to a body made for a child's narrow chest, or vice versa. She no longer remembered her own name.

Mr. Fishman created a silicone computer chip that was responsive to neural activity, and programmed it to detect and record the patterns of neuronal communication associated with memory. The chip then encoded and stored this information—which was what the Vergets-affected brain was unable to do.

When his invention was made public, the investors appeared, Keep Corp was founded, and just two years later, the first generation of memory keys came onto the market. These were specifically made for those already suffering from Vergets; they did not restore older memories, but enabled the patient to create new memories after implantation.

The impact of this new technology was immediately evident. People with Vergets were able to take care of themselves again. Some even went back to work, like my father's grandfather. After five years in an assisted living facility, my great-grandpa Joe moved home and got a job at a hardware store (he had previously been a lawyer, but he couldn't remember that).

Of course there were side effects. The minor ones: headache, nausea. The less minor ones: rare seizures, the complications of only being able to remember the recent past. The major one: the complications of being able to remember the recent past unnaturally well. For unlike human memory, which softens and distorts and blocks, this first line of memory keys preserved everything without discrimination. Patients complained their heads felt busy—but it was a choice between busy brains and bumble brains. My father says his grandpa Joe never regretted getting one of those early keys, even though he suffered from migraines for the rest of his life.

A decade later, Keep Corp unveiled their new, groundbreaking invention. The H-Filter transformed immaculate artificial memory into something that mimicked the imperfections of
human memory. Flawed and fading. Shortly thereafter, memory keys started being used as part of a precautionary program; they were implanted in people not yet suffering from Vergets.

At first keys were prescribed only to those who had a family history of the disease, but because the illness was so widespread, this included nearly every adult. My grandparents' generation all had their memory keys implanted during middle age. My parents' generation all had their memory keys implanted before the end of adolescence. My generation all had our memory keys implanted by the age of four.

It's a normal thing now, like vaccinations or seat belts or an apple a day. An essential preventative measure against Vergets disease, is what my mother used to say. Skeptical as she was about early implantation, she wholeheartedly believed in the necessity of the memory key. Mom also owned three biographies of P. B. Fishman, which came in handy when I was writing that essay about him for my middle school history class. That was before she died. Those books are now boxed up in the attic with the rest of her belongings. Dad kept everything: her jewelry and sweaters, her collection of romance novels. Even her socks. Even her oldest, holey socks.

Only her notebooks and papers are gone. After the car accident, two solemn, suited men came for those things. My father protested until they showed him Mom's contract, which stated all work done while she was employed by Keep Corp belonged to Keep Corp. Then he gave way, as he always did in those days.

The two solemn, suited men were kind. They apologized for the intrusion, offered their condolences, and presented us with a giant fruit basket.

The problem with my key must be its H-Filter, the part that is supposed to keep artificial memory as distant as natural memory. I know I should go see a technician to get it fixed. Keep Corp headquarters are located just north of Middleton, only forty minutes away by car.

But medical procedures make me nervous, they always have.

Don't worry. You won't feel a thing
, says the doctor.

I stare at him, disbelieving, while Mama squeezes my hand. Her fingers are cool, her palm is firm. I scream as the needle sinks through my skin.

I felt a thing
, I say accusingly. My mother laughs. The doctor apologizes and gives me a lollipop, a green one that sweetly stings my tongue.

Then I'm back in my room, head throbbing, mouth thick with the taste of green lollipop. I grab my water glass from the nightstand to drink away the sugary flavor, drink away the sound of my mother's laughter.

But the cup is empty. So I set one foot on the floor, and the other. Careful out the hallway, careful down the stairs. In the kitchen I refill my water glass. Sip. Sip. Sip. It seems if I focus completely on what I'm doing, I can keep myself in the present. Thank goodness.

The front door creaks open. “Lora?” calls my father.

“I'm here! What are you doing home already?”

“Wendy called me.” He comes into the kitchen. His gray hair is rumpled as it always is at the end of the day, and his eyeglasses sit askew on his nose. He looks exactly like what he is: the absentminded professor. My mother called him that, she called him
my
absentminded professor, Dr. Kenneth Mint.

“I knew I couldn't trust Wendy,” I say, making myself smile. “It's really just a tiny bump on the head.”

“Let me see.” He stands behind me, inspecting. “I don't see anything.”

“Told you so. Don't you have office hours now?” I ask. My dad teaches contemporary literature at Middleton University. Their summer session just started.

“Canceled for a family emergency. Lora, are you sure you're all right?”

“Positive,” I say.

“That's my girl, rescuing little old ladies.”

“I'm sure Wendy exaggerated,” I say.

“I'm sure she didn't. We still on for dinner?”

“Of course.”

“Good, I'll tell Austin,” he says, and I'm surprised, but pleased. Aunt Austin is a congresswoman, so she is very, very busy, and usually out of town. But Dad calls and she confirms she'll be there, though she might be late if her meeting runs late, and if that happens, she apologizes in advance.

My father goes into the den to watch the evening news, and
I go sit with him. They're doing a segment about the proposed economic bill. According to one commentator, the obstinacy of the conservatives is getting in the way of the legislative work that needs to be done; the bill must pass. According to another commentator, the obstinacy of the liberals is getting in the way of the legislative work that needs to be done; the bill must
not
pass.

“It's always this same story.” Dad sighs. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands.

The show goes to commercial. A man with white hair and white teeth is at the beach with a little girl. They build a sand castle. The little girl giggles. She's television-adorable with her brown braids and round eyes, but there is something vaguely menacing about her tiny pointy teeth. Before I can point this out to my father, the old man and little girl disappear, replaced by the octagonal Keep Corp logo and the caption
THESE MOMENTS ARE FOR KEEPS
.

My breath tangles up in my throat. I get the absurd idea the commercial is chiding me about my damaged memory key. But of course I'm being ridiculous. It was just a commercial, a commercial coincidence.