okay?
My mother tells me the story of the man who invented the memory key, and itâs a tale as good as any fairy taleâthe clever technician, the forgetful wifeâuntil 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 sheâs 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. Itâs easy now that I know how.
Mama says good night. She says sweet dreams. And I donât let her go.
9.
WHEN I WAKE UP, I FEEL WORSE THAN IâVE EVER FELT BEFORE. Worse even than at Nick Jordanâs 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 wonât 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.
âBack to sleep? You just woke up.â Dad looms over me.
âItâs my vacation, Iâll sleep if I want to.â I close my eyes and wait, hoping heâll go away. He goes away. Then my cell phone starts ringing. The sound rips up my eardrums. I wait, hoping itâll go away. It goes away. My arm is numb, but I cannot find the energy to turn my body over. I wait, hoping itâll go away. It goes away.
Then finally itâs the pain that goes away. I sit up. Very carefully, I ease myself to standing. I shake out my deadened limbsand go upstairs to phone Wendy.
âI called you,â she says. âYou didnât answer.â
âSorry, um, I wasnât feeling well.â
Her voice softens. âIs it your memory key?â
âI had a bad night of sleep, thatâs all. Are you going to the lake?â
âTim has to work. Itâs 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?â
I tell her yes. I eat a small bowl of cereal, take a quick shower, and by the time Iâm ready to leave the house Iâm 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 Wendyâs house, and it takes five seconds to find Carlos Cruzâhis phone number is listed online. Wendy volunteers to call. She tells him weâre journalism students working on an article about memory keys, and simple as that he invites us over.
âGood news,â she announces. âHis voice is really sexy.â
âStop it,â 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 weâre on our way, I turn down the volume on the car radio.
âWhat are you doing?â says Wendy. âI love that song.â
âWhat are we going to say to this guy?â
âDibs if heâs single, okay? I know you donât mind, since you have Raul.â
âWendy . . .â I hate how she is not taking this seriously. But she never takes anything seriously.
I blink. Weâre in the bathroom during a middle school dance. Iâm scrubbing at the orange soda stain on my white dress, the paper towel crumbling as I scrub and scrub, and I canât seem to erase either color or smell, that citrus syrup
Cinda Richards, Cheryl Reavis