The Memory Key Read Online Free

his hair. He tells us it’ll be hot and humid for the next few days, with possible storms coming in over the weekend. Then the picture flickers, then the screen empties.
    â€œI’ll get it,” I say. I run down to the basement and reset the breakers in the fuse box. The past few months, we’ve been having power problems. Dad called the electric company and they told him it was a statewide issue and they’d send a technician as soon as possible. That was weeks ago. I return to the den to check that the TV is back on.
    â€œThanks, Lora,” says my father.
    â€œWelcome, Dad.” I tell him I’m going upstairs to get ready, and I go—carefully again: careful up the stairs, careful down the hallway, careful into my room. Yes, it seems if I focus completely on what I’m doing, I can keep myself in the present.
    I pull my blue dress from the closet. On it goes. I smile for the mirror. I look fine, but only fine, and fine is not enough because Wendy’s brother will be there tonight. Not that I care about him, not really. I flip through my other clothes, but everything seems wrong: too fancy, too casual, too tight, too loose, too long, too short.
    Finally, in the farthest, darkest corner, my hand slides on something soft. I pull whatever it is into the light and find peach silk with tiny printed flowers, cap sleeves, and a fluttering hem. The dress is not my dress, but it’s not unfamiliar. It belonged to my mother.
    The memories avalanche. At a cousin’s wedding, she twirlson the dance floor, the peach dress floating above her knees . . . I’m sitting on the floor with my babysitter, and my mother in the peach dress stoops to kiss me good-bye . . . It’s her birthday and Dad and I are dressed up and waiting. He’s wearing a tie and smells of his spicy aftershave. She comes down the stairs, blushing in her peach dress, her hair curling soft around her shoulders, lips pinked with lipstick. She is beautiful.
    Why is her dress in my closet? As soon as the question forms in my mind, the memory answers. I am twelve years old. I’m in my bed, waiting for her to kiss me good night. Mom? I call out. Mom! Finally, she comes. Over her arm is the peach dress, scrunched and limp around her elbow.
    What’s that? I ask. Are you going out?
    This is for you. I don’t need it anymore.
    I laugh. That won’t fit me . It’s way too big .
    It’ll fit you one day. And if not, you can keep it to remember me.
    Okay , I say happily.
    She kisses my cheek. I love you, Lora , she tells me. Don’t ever forget.
    I blink. I’m back in the present. I take off the blue cotton and slide on the peach silk. The dress fits me as if it were mine. And I’m pretty in it. Even I can see that, and I rarely think I’m pretty. My hair seems darker and shinier. I have a waist. I don’t look like her, no, I’ll never be as beautiful as my mother was. But in her dress, I am pretty.
    Still, I’m unsettled by my memory of that night. It’s not grief; it’s not only grief. There was something odd about whatshe said, and the way she said it. There was something odd about the fact she gave me her dress. It still fit her. She still wore it.
    Then I realize that night was the last night I saw her.
    That night was the night before the accident.
    I don’t need it anymore , she had said.
    I love you, Lora, don’t ever forget , she had said.
    And the next morning, she was gone.

3.
    MY FATHER IS CALLING FOR ME. I GO DOWNSTAIRS AND FIND him at the front door, tying his shoes, scrambling around for his keys. He looks at me. He looks at my dress. My mother’s peach dress. He turns away. “Let’s go,” he says.
    I follow him outside and we get into the car. I can’t tell if he is sad or angry or annoyed. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the dress. I want to apologize, but I’m not sure how to do it without mentioning Mom and making it worse.