Memento Nora (11 page)

That night I dreamed about kissing Micah at the prom. His tux was from Goodwill, and it smelled vaguely of old books and rosemary.

17

Therapeutic Statement
42-03282028-13
Subject:
NOMURA, WINTER, 14
Facility:
HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42

Step. Whir. Step. Whir
.

I saw the figure in black run along the rooftops. Then he grabbed on to this curtain that was hanging there between two buildings; and he started Tarzaning across, handful by handful. Just as he was halfway, he looked down at me. It was Sasuke-san. He smiled. Then I heard a horrendous sound. The fabric ripped under his weight. He grabbed another swath of curtain, but it tore free as he swung himself in the direction of the other building. Grandfather tumbled toward me.

I woke up in a panic. I ran through the house looking for Grandfather, the
step-whir
in my head growing louder with each empty room. The sound blurred into the frenzy of hummingbird wings fighting against a strong wind. I found him in my gazebo, a pot of tea in front of him, his head resting on his hand, his eyes closed. He was dressed in black.

“Ojiisan,” I whispered.

“You haven’t called me that since you were a little girl,” he said, his eyes fluttering open.

Ojiisan
is about the limit of my Japanese. It means “grandfather.” He’d offered to teach me, but I’d always resisted learning more. I thought if I knew the language, my
ojiisan
might send me far, far away from him, all the way to Japan, where he thought I’d be safer.

“What’s wrong, Win-chan?” he asked. He poured a cup of tea, chamomile by the smell, and pushed it toward me. “Talk to me.”

Feeling very much like a little girl—and not really minding it—I sat down at the low table in front of my grandfather.

“I dreamed I lost you,” I said in a small voice as I stared into the depths of the teacup. He put his hand over mine. “On the stupid Curtain Cling,” I added, feeling much more my cranky teenage self.

He laughed. The
step-whir
in my head disappeared, and I noticed his hands weren’t rough like they usually were. He was wearing his gloves, the half-fingered leather, grippy ones. He only wore them for one thing.

“I hope you weren’t patrolling by yourself tonight,” I said, squeezing his hand. I knew Grandfather had been doing the neighborhood watch thing after curfew for a while now. He didn’t like to talk about it.

Grandfather nodded wearily. “You know, you look like your mother,” he said as he peeled off the skintight gloves, changing the subject like always.

“Talk to me, Ojiisan,” I said, pouring him another cup of tea.

“I’m just tired, Win-chan.” He took a long sip of tea. “Tired of watching and waiting. Tired of feeling like there’s nothing I can do.”

I knew he wasn’t talking about patrolling the neighborhood. He was talking about the “it” we never talked about. The big, all-devouring it. The fact that Spring and Brian Nomura are never coming home. No matter what we do. No matter how much money and how many lawyers we throw at the system. It had ground them up. Not even the mighty Nomura Corporation, the biggest mobile company in North America, could buy Mom and Dad out of whatever trouble they were in.

The
step-whir
was back. I kissed my grandfather on the forehead and told him to go to bed. I had to go do something. Anything. Tinker in my shop. Work on a sculpture. Print more comics. Just like my
ojiisan
. He worked, patrolled, and ran that damn Sasuke course to escape the all-devouring it of our lives.

Looking back at him, still half dozing at the table, I knew it wasn’t enough for either of us. But what else could we do?

“By the way,” he said, yawning. “My support group wants to talk to you.” He said it as if the thought both amused and exhausted him.

Damn. I thought he’d quit that stupid group. Not long after Mom and Dad disappeared, Grandfather joined this support group for the families of the missing. I thought it was a colossal waste of time. It couldn’t bring my parents back, and there was no way I was going to some touchy-feely, wallow-in-each-other’s-pain group therapy thing. He looked so tired, though, I didn’t have the heart to argue about it then.

“It’s not what you think,” he added.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” I said. My plan, however, was to be out of the house long before he got up. I had shit to do, anyway.

Later, I stuffed the latest issue of
Memento
into a hollowed-out copy of
Kinetic Sculptures of Twentieth-Century Europe
.

Not that this will do any good
, I thought.
Nothing ever changes for the better
.

The comic’s pages smelled like a new tattoo.

18

Therapeutic Statement
42-03282028-11
Subject:
JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15
Facility:
HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42

The next morning, with a couple hundred freshly inked copies of
Memento
hidden in hollowed-out library books, we approached the bag search at the security checkpoint into school. The sandy-haired cop—Officer Bell, his tag said—searched my bag personally.

“
Medieval Churches
?” he asked, an eyebrow arched.

“Art history project,” I said calmly. I waited for him to open it, ready to run if he did. He didn’t.

He put it back in my bag and moved on to the next kid.

I left a stack of papers tucked behind a toilet in the second-floor ladies’ room. And when I bumped into my girls before homeroom, I whispered that I’d heard
Memento
was back in school. “A brand-new issue. Check the bathrooms.” I assume Micah and Winter did something similar. By Spanish class the school was awash in paper. Our paper. And it was all anybody could talk about. But they didn’t stop with
Memento
.

“You know, we ought to do something, too,” the kid behind me said to his friend when our teacher left the room. We were supposed to be watching a ’cast about Costa Rica. In Spanish.

“But what?”

“We could boycott TFC,” the girl next to me said.

“Or we could petition to bring back the school paper,” another girl said.

“Or we could plan an epic Senior Prank,” a senior interjected from the back of the room. His friends “oh-yeah”ed in response. One of the guys had on an ugly yellow Homeland Inc. shirt. He and about a dozen other students had worn
Memento
T-shirts this morning, but the principal confiscated them and made the kids wear Homeland ones instead.

I concentrated really hard on the screen.

Still, no black helicopters or SWAT teams swept down over the school that day. I did see the rent-a-cops searching lockers—and Micah—again, but I wasn’t worried this time.

At least not until I found Officer Bell waiting for Micah and me in the library after school.

19

Therapeutic Statement
42-03282028-11
Subject:
JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15
Facility:
HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42

At first I didn’t realize it was him. He was sitting in Micah’s usual spot with one of the big coffee-table art books propped up in front of him. One about surrealists, I think. I sat down beside him just as Micah breezed into the library on his skateboard. That’s when the book came down, and the door closed behind Micah.

“I’d like you two to come with me,” Officer Bell said firmly. He looked more annoyed than anything. “And don’t think about skating out of here. I know where you live. Both of you,” he said, looking meaningfully at Micah.

So, I thought, it had finally come. My father would storm into the police station. We’d be expelled or grounded or both. I resigned myself to my fate. And Micah’s. He held my hand as we walked out of the library. I let him. It didn’t matter now what anyone thought about Micah and me.

Officer Bell locked up the library—Ms. Curtis was nowhere in sight—and let us stash our stuff in our lockers. “Leave your mobile,” he added before I closed the door. He directed us out the staff entrance to the parking garage where his car sat idling. No one saw us.

He drove for about ten minutes with the back windows of his patrol car blacked out. Then he let us out in an alley behind a brick building.

“Is this a police station?” I whispered to Micah.

He shook his head. And I knew what he was thinking, what I was now thinking. Detention. The big
D
variety. It wouldn’t have a neon sign or valet parking. It could be anywhere, look like anything.

We both glanced up and down the alley. No cars. No people. We didn’t have mobiles or any money. And I certainly didn’t know where we were or where else to go but home or school—and as Officer Bell had so kindly pointed out, he knew where we lived.

He guided us toward some stairs leading to a basement. Micah squeezed my hand before we started down the steps. A bare bulb hung over a rusty metal door. And on that door was taped a piece of paper that said:

Memory Loss Support Group. 4 p.m.

Micah pulled open the door, and I could smell coffee. Burned coffee. And I could hear the sound of metal clacking against concrete or linoleum.

The cop gently pushed us into the room. It was long and narrow, with a little kitchen at one end. Fluorescent light bounced off freshly waxed floors. The walls were covered with kids’ drawings, everything from colorful construction paper Noah’s arks to macaroni crosses.

We were in a church basement.

“Help yourself,” Officer Bell said, finally cracking a smile. “We’ll be starting soon.” He walked over to where people were setting out doughnuts and coffee on the breakfast bar in the kitchen.

Micah and I still didn’t move. A handful of middle-aged men and women milled around, talking and sipping coffee. Some nodded in our general direction. One of them was the school librarian, Ms. Curtis. Micah nudged me and pointed toward the man setting out folding chairs. Vintage black hat. Tattoos snaking down his arms. It was Winter’s grandfather.

“Mr. Yamada?” Micah moved to help him with the chairs, and I followed.

“What’s going on?” I wanted some answers first.

“The group wanted to talk to you.” Mr. Yamada acknowledged the cop with the slightest of nods. “Some thought it might be best to scare you a little first.”

“Is Winter here, too?” Micah asked.

“Yes, I pulled her out of seventh period,” Mr. Yamada said as he set a chair on the floor with a smack.

Micah seemed relieved, but my fear was quickly turning into anger.

“A memory loss group?” I pressed.

Mr. Yamada set the next chair down more gently. “It started out as a support group for those of us who lost someone to Detention,” he explained. “Then others joined, mostly to vent about the way things are. And then it kind of grew into something else.”

A man moved to the front of the room.

“Winter’s over there,” Mr. Yamada said, pointing toward the kitchen. “Showing them how to make proper coffee.” He laughed.

His tone relaxed me somewhat, but I still wanted answers.

“Grab her and then come sit with me,” he said. “The group will explain the rest.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “They’re harmless. Relatively. But they’re a bit full of themselves.” He winked.

We did find Winter brewing her god-awful coffee. She started to say something, but Ms. Curtis told us to grab a doughnut and go sit down; Winter, too. Micah seized two chocolate crullers, and Winter grabbed a Styrofoam cup of her bitter brew and six sugar packets. Micah inhaled one of the crullers before offering me the other. I shook my head. I couldn’t stomach anything. I watched him stuff the second cruller in his mouth and head back for more.

“I see you and Micah have worked things out,” Ms. Curtis said. I had the feeling she’d seen me watching Micah. “You make an interesting couple.”

“Oh, we’re not—” I stopped because I knew I was busted.
Interesting
?

“I won’t tell anyone,” she whispered as Micah and Winter worked their way back toward us. Ms. Curtis herded everyone into the front row of seats.

Winter sat next to her grandfather, then Micah, then me. The librarian sat in one of the chairs by the podium at the front of the room. An older man stood at the podium and banged a gavel. Officer Bell slipped into the seat next to mine. He offered me a soda. I just shook my head.

“I call this meeting of the Memory Loss Support Group to order. Madam Secretary will review the minutes of the last meeting.”

Ms. Curtis stood up and began to recite, “The MLSG met on February fifteenth at the Southside Methodist Church. The meeting lasted approximately fifty-three minutes. The Right Honorable Chairman Wilson Carver presided. We covered the following agenda items.”

The librarian then rattled off a list of actions. The Black Van Committee reported three sightings last month, each in the vicinity of a later incident. (Micah caught my eye at the mention of the vans.) The Phone Tree Committee practiced a “fire drill” scenario. The Refreshment Committee decided to purchase doughnuts rather than bagels. Then she went through a litany of such-and-such moved this and such-and-such seconded it, this was tabled, and that was so noted.

“Is this a student council meeting?” Micah whispered to me.

“More like my parents’ home owners’ association,” I whispered back. We’d had them at our house many, many times. Very dreary. I didn’t know how they ever got anything done.

The cop stifled a laugh. Mr. Carver glared at us.

I looked at the old metal clock on the wall. Ms. Curtis had been going for ten minutes. And she was doing it all without looking at a piece of paper or a mobile. Pure memory.

“We don’t commit anything to paper,” the cop leaned in and whispered as if reading my thoughts. “Not that there’s anything significant to put down.”

The chairman glared at us again. Ms. Curtis sat down after another minute of yeahs and nays.

“We have a number of new items to cover today,” Mr. Carver said without getting up. “We need more money for the Jonas Defense Fund in order to help the Trujillo family. Luis has been ‘away’ for nearly a year now, and Mercy was let go—again—last week. And we—”

Ms. Curtis leaned over and whispered something to the chairman. He sighed and nodded.

“Yes. Maybe we should dispense with our old business for the moment,” he said, looking at us. “Our guests are getting restless. And I believe we need to get them back before their bedtimes.”

Now I was really angry.

“Moving on to new business,” the chairman said, looking at me. “We want you kids to stop producing your comic.”

“What?” Micah almost spat out his fourth cruller.

“Sasuke-san?” Winter turned to her grandfather. Clearly she was as clueless as we were.

I stood up. “Excuse me, who are you guys anyway? And why the hell should we do what you say?” I kind of surprised myself.

Winter nodded at me as if she was actually impressed.

The chairman glared at Officer Bell again. “Didn’t you tell them?”

“No.” The cop shrugged. “This was your idea. You tell them.”

Mr. Carver groaned. I kept standing.

“We’re the underground,” he said.

Winter snorted at that.

Mr. Carver visibly bristled. Then he focused on me and spoke calmly but firmly. “Young lady,” he said.

I decided to sit down.

“We are an underground group of concerned cit-izens. . . .” He paused, looking for the words. “Let’s just say we’re more than a support group.”

Ms. Curtis stood again. “In the beginning, all of us”—she looked at Mr. Yamada and a few others—“lost somebody to Detention. We all had a loved one or friend who was ‘away,’ as George so delicately put it. So we got together to support one another mentally, emotionally, and even financially. We still do that.”

The chairman lowered his eyes.

“So?” I asked.

“The financial thing is the tricky part,” Officer Bell said to me.

Mr. Yamada nodded. “It’s illegal to give money to suspected terrorists.”

“Koji and Doug are correct,” Ms. Curtis said. “Which is why the Jonas Defense Fund—our legal defense fund—is so important and quite enough to get us all sent ‘away,’ too.”

A strange look came over Micah.

“There’s so much else we do—or could do,” the chairman said. He looked like he wanted to say more but thought better of it. Plus, Ms. Curtis was glowering at him. “But let’s not get into it right now.” He turned to my friends and me. “The bottom line is that your activities, no matter how admirable, put ours at risk. That comic of yours has spread way outside Hamilton and DC, even beyond the East Coast.”

I still didn’t get how we put them at risk, but that was all they would say. They refused to tell us what else they did. They just made us promise to stop what we were doing. Micah was oddly quiet during the whole thing.

“And if we don’t?” I asked.

“Officer Bell will have to do his job,” the librarian said curtly.

Officer Bell shook his head slowly. ”Katie, don’t use me to threaten them.”

Ms. Curtis did not look happy with him.

“I’ve had enough of this crap.” Mr. Yamada stood up. “I only agreed to bring Winter to listen. You kids don’t need to promise anything. We’re leaving.”

“Koji,” the cop said, rising. “Let me take these two back to school.” He and Winter’s grandfather exchanged a look, and Mr. Yamada nodded.

“It’s okay,” he reassured us. “I trust Bell.”

Winter just stood there next to her grandfather, staring at the cop with her X-ray vision as if trying to gauge his intentions. She didn’t say a thing.

Micah and I ended up back in the cop car again. I wondered why Mr. Yamada—whose daughter and son-in-law had disappeared into Detention—would trust this cop. Why would any of them? And why would he be part of this so-called underground?

So I asked Officer Bell.

And to my surprise he told us.

“It was the black vans,” he said without taking his eyes off the road.

Micah sat up when Bell said that.

Last year, Officer Bell said, back when he had still been on patrol, he’d noticed that whenever there was a bombing in his area, some witness always reported seeing a black van. None of the detectives had seemed to take this seriously. There are dozens of black vans at any one time in the city, they’d say. Then he’d seen one leaving the area near a bombing right after it happened. So he followed the van back to a building downtown and saw it go into an unmarked parking garage next to Tiffany’s. He’d called it in, thinking the store might be the terrorists’ next target. Nothing happened, though, and the next day he’d been bumped down to searching bags at our school.