Memory Girl (10 page)

She says “boys” as if they're youths, but they're clearly age twenty-fives like their mother.

“You, Arthur, and I have rooms on the top floor,” she continues. “But Arthur has temporarily moved in with my boys.”

“Arthur?”

“He wanted to greet you today but had to oversee a constructing project. He was sorry to miss your Celebraze.” Rosemarie speaks with such affection that I guess Arthur is her husband.

The solar coach turns into a lighted entrance with an archway sign announcing “Cross” in large flowy letters. The road is bumpy, rougher than the paved road we left. We pass dark-wood square dwellings with corralled livestock, barns, and gardens. Rattling, rumbling, and an occasional bump lead us farther down the road until we curve and rise toward red-trimmed wood buildings: not one dwelling, but three squeezed together.

The solar coach jerks to a stop, and a spotted,
short-haired dog chases over to us, tail wagging.

“Felix, you sweet boy!” Rosemarie says, scratching the dog's head.

I reach out to pet Felix, but he sniffs at me and growls, baring his teeth.

“You're not fooled by her, are you?” the unfriendly woman says with wicked delight, kneeling beside the dog.

A dog lover, but a Jennza hater (or is it Milly she hates?), the dark-haired woman ignores me as she hurries up a stone trail and into the house, with Felix scampering after her.

“Guess I'm not her favorite person.” I say wryly.

“She needs time to adjust,” Rosemarie says apologetically. “This is all confusing for Daisy.”

“Daisy? You mean … Milly's—
my
daughter?”

“I thought you knew.”

No, I did not. But I'd rather die than become her mother.

Just strike me down now with all Three Dangers.

I sense someone coming up behind me and turn to find Leader Cross, so I give him the customary head-tuck of respect.

“We're gratified to have you with us, Milly,” he says with a smile that doesn't touch his eyes.

My new name feels wrong. “I'm honored to be with your Family.”

“Your Family now,” he says. “Come inside where we can sit down and introduce ourselves properly. Do you play chess?”

I shake my head. “I tried once with a friend, but I wasn't very skilled.”

“Pity.” He shrugs. “Still, you will find my collection
of chess sets fascinating. My oldest dates back to 1820, Chinese-carved, a rare ox bone chess set. Chess is a strategic game like a civilized war, placing men in the line of fire and never underestimating your opponent.”

There's a gleam in his gaze that makes me hope I never become his opponent. Smiling politely, I follow him up steep wooden steps into a house with ceilings twice as tall as Leader Cross. Walls are painted white and decored with stunning, realistic retro photos. One photo shows Leader Cross, standing tall and proud in a blue uniform with military patches. There were only a few photos on display in the Edu-Center. I read in a lesson book that a chemical for photo processing isn't on our island. But this is no loss since faces never change after age twenty-five.

As I go down a hall, I stare at sculptures of machinery and tools. On one wall is a quilt made of work gloves. The furniture is heavy, dark wood. When we enter a dining room, there's an elegant oval table with fourteen chairs. Leader Cross pulls out a chair for me, then sits at the head of the table. Others take positions around the table too—except my hostile daughter. Glances shift toward a closed door, and I realize they're waiting for someone. I hope not for Daisy.

When the door opens, a woman hobbles in on a cane. She's wrinkled, with dark bruising spots on her blue-veined skin, and her back is humped.

“Grandmother,” Leader Cross says in a gentle, respectful tone, “allow me to help you into your chair.”

She snorts, slapping his hand. “I don't need help.” She hobbles to a chair, leaning one gnarled hand against a handrail, before sinking down into a chair so only her
shoulders and head are visible.

A real living elder person! Not merely over twenty-five like Grand Sarwald but body withered and bent with a vast age. To see one up so close and hear her speak, well, it's amazing. I can't take my gaze from her. Blue veins rise on her hands like swells in a rough sea, and dark spots dimple her face, arms, and hands. I can hardly believe she moves and speaks like a normal person.

“I'd like you to meet our new Family member, Milly,” Leader Cross says with a gesture toward me. “Milly, this is my grandmother, Ida Mae.”

The old woman squints at me. “That's not Milly,” she says, scowling.

Leader Cross shares a tired “do we have to go through this again?” look with the others around the table. “Gram, I've explained this to you.”

“You don't need to explain anything. My eyes may not be what they used to be, but I can see clear as daylight that this scrawny child isn't my Milly.”

“You will call her Milly,” he says forcefully.

“I'll call her mud if I've a mind to, and I won't be bullied by a snit like you.”

“I apologize for this rudeness, Milly. Forgive her poor manners. She forgets to take her medis and becomes unsensical.” He turns back to the old woman. “Gram, we'll talk about this later.”

“Talk all you want,” the old woman says with a sly grin. “If you say something interesting, maybe I'll listen.”

I cover my mouth so I don't laugh. Gram is one opponent Leader Cross should never underestimate.

Rosemarie enters the room, balancing a tray with
steaming cups of cinnamon apple cider followed by a blond woman who carries a basket of warmed scones. I have no idea I'm hungry until my stomach rumbles. When I bite into a scone, buttery sweetness melts into my mouth.

Rosemarie sits beside a man with a red mustache, calling him Arthur.
Her husband,
I think. She glances at him, smiling, but she doesn't touch him intimately like “soul mates” Greta and Monroe.

No one talks for a while, and the only sound is soft chewing, until Leader Cross taps his fork against his coffee cup.

“As is customary,” he says with a gesture to me, “we gathered here to welcome Milly back into our Family.”

“I am honored,” I say politely.

He glances down at his silverware, frowns, then rearranges the spoon and knife so they are positioned side by side opposite of the fork. He looks up at me with an assessing gaze, as if trying to gauge my position too. “Your records show a lack of preparation and low marks. Still, you seem bright enough. What do you know of Milly's history?”

All eyes fall on me. “Um … not much. But I can learn.”

“Certainly you will,” he says. “Our Family is respected for our strenuous work. We repair community roads, machinery, roofs, and pipes, and we maintain the Fence and the Gate. We rise early and work till dark.”

I nod, pressing my lips tight to hide my anxiety. I look at the men, their deep tans and rugged hands. The fair-haired man with a reddish mustache is especially muscled and nice-looking, with a dimpled chin and pleasing smile. Even the dark-haired woman beside Leader Cross has strong hands and broad shoulders. Only Rosemarie has softness to her slim figure and smooth skin.

“Rosemarie will explain your role,” Leader Cross goes on. “Your duties will be split between communal and home. Communal duties aren't scheduled until your trial period ends, but you'll begin house-crafting duties tomorrow.”

“Milly was highly skilled in cookery,” the red-mustached man says.

“My sister could whip up fabulous recipes of her own invention,” Rosemarie adds with a wistful glance at me. “I've tried to recreate some, but it's not the same.”

I have zero cookery skills. I was barred from the kitchen after the cinnamon cookie incident. I had no idea stove fires spread so quickly.

Rosemarie reaches for one of my hands. “I've been carrying a heavy load since you … well, since I've had to take care of duties alone. It will be wondrous to share duties with you.”

“She won't be any help until after completion of all three memdenities.” Leader Cross snaps a scone in half and plops it in his mouth.

“I'll teach her,” Rosemarie offers.

“Still, it's inefficient to wait a month for the first memdenity.” Leader Cross taps his fingers on the table. “I'll consult the health-keepers and request them to schedule an appointment soon.”

“I don't mind waiting,” I say quickly.

“Memdenity is painless,” Rosemarie tells me. “There are only minor side effects with the first insertion. Did your Instructors explain what will happen?”

I nod. I had listened to that lesson without staring out the window even once, dreading my future, yet also fascinated.

Memdenity is a simple process: a device is inserted into the brain to transfer memories of a Lost One. The first
insert contains memories to age fifteen. Next is fifteen to twenty-five. Third is the most important, from age twenty-five to death.

Knowing what will happen should make things easier—but not much.

Rosemarie squeezes my hand. “Once you have memdenity, you'll be as talented as Milly.”

“Still, I need time to … well, to get to know everyone. I don't want to hurry the memdenity.”

Leader Sarwald frowns. “Your opinion was not asked.”

“I was just pointing out—”

“I make the decisions here!” Leader Cross smacks the table, silverware clattering. “Milly would never argue with her Leader's decision. Didn't your Edu-Center teach you respect for Leaders?”

“Yes, but I thought—”

“You're here to serve your Family. Arthur will need to use a firm hand with you,” Leader Cross says, gesturing to the mustached man.

“Relax, Ryan,” Arthur says with a dimpling smile. “If Milly wants to wait, that's fine with me.”

“Then I won't interfere.” Leader Cross pats Arthur on the shoulder. “But say the word, and I'll schedule her first appointment.”

Arthur twists the end of his red mustache, turning to me with an expression of longing. He's pleasing in appearance and manner, and I'm warmed by his attention. I've never had a twenty-five-age boy … man … show interest in me, as if I'm no longer a youth.

“Arthur there will be time for
that
later,” Rosemarie says sharply, then turns to me. “Come along, Milly. I can see you're
tired. I'll show you our room.”

“Thank you,” I say, suddenly aware of overwhelming fatigue.

I start to leave, but Arthur comes around the table, standing close to me. “Milly dear, before you go,” he says seriously. “I have something for you.”

“For me?” I ask, surprised. “But Rosemarie has already gifted me.”

“This isn't a gift. It's already yours.” His voice thickens with emotion. “I've waited long to return this to its rightful place.”

Arthur grasps my left hand and slips a diamond and gold ring on my finger. A wedding band.

Arthur isn't Rosemarie's husband.

He's mine.

Staring at the ring steals my breath. So small, yet a heavy anchor dragging me somewhere I'm not ready to go. If only I'd been chosen by the Treveno Family where I'd have no marriage partnership.

“It's too big.” Arthur sighs as he slips the ring off my finger, then tucks it into his pocket. His gaze sweeps over me with disappointment before he turns away.

Rosemarie, who has been tapping her foot impatiently, tugs on my hand and leads me out of the room, then up a stairway and through a maze of halls. I fix each turn in my memory.
In case of a quick escape
, I think, until I remember there's no escape. This is my new life. I will never see my cave again.

The second floor has so many similar doors I'll need a compass to find my way out. “I'll show you where you and Arthur will stay afterward,” Rosemarie says, and I know “afterward” means after the memdenity.

She leads me to the second floor, passing through a narrow living room with a rectangular table, four chairs, and a bookshelf.

“Did Milly … I mean, I, like to read?” I ask, gesturing to the books.

“Cookbooks, although she rarely followed other people's recipes. She stirred up her own delicious creations.”

“I don't know much about cooking.”

“You will,” Rosemarie assures.

I'll know much more,
I think, with an uneasy glance at my ringless finger. What does being married actually mean?

Rosemarie stops before a door. “This is the room you and Arthur shared. But he moved in with my boys after you … after Milly left.”

“How long ago?”

“Seventy-three years and four months.” She clutches the door knob as she stares beyond me. “She fell from a ladder, striking her head on the stove. To lose her after we'd survived so much together made me wish I'd died too.” Rosemarie looks directly into my face. “But you're bringing her back.”