Free The Memory Key by Liana Liu

ringthe bell, smiling as if this is a treat he has saved especially for me. As if I’m seven, not seventeen. I dutifully press the button. Bells chime.
    â€œRight on time,” says Aunt Austin as she swings open the door. She is wearing a black shift dress that is as no-nonsense as her workday suits. “Come in, come in. Are you hungry?”
    In the dining room, the table is set and covered with food, far too much food for just three people. There’s a rice noodle salad and cold chicken and sweet-sauced mushrooms and a meat and vegetable braise. These dishes resemble the foods my mother used to make, but Aunt Austin’s versions are more complicated, with more ingredients and garnishes. Mom never had the patience to spend hours in the kitchen. To her, food was fuel. Dad always did more of the cooking.
    Once we’re seated, my aunt lifts her glass of sparkling water. “A toast,” she says. “Congratulations to our darling Lora. I know your successes in high school will only be exceeded by your success at university, and in life.”
    â€œThanks.” I’m embarrassed by her mention of my “successes,” when I was only a good student, nothing exceptional. But this is how my aunt always talks.
    â€œNow please, eat!” she says, so we do. The food is delicious, of course. Everything Aunt Austin does she does well. I tell her how good it all tastes.
    â€œI do love to cook. I only wish I had more time to do it,” she says.
    My father proposes an intricate theory about the economicbill, and I smirk. Like a kid cramming for a test, he had spent most of the morning with the Middleton Tribune. When I tried talking to him during breakfast, his answer was a grunt and the crackle of newsprint; when I frowned at him, annoyed by his nonresponse, he was protected by his shield of paper. All I could see was the fluff of his hair and the headlines: CITIZEN ARMY BOMB PLOT SUSPECT QUESTIONED ; UNEMPLOYMENT RATE REACHES NEW HIGH ; 600 ARRESTED AT ANTIWAR MARCH .
    As the two of them discuss the economy, I think about the increased security downstairs, and consider the possibility that those two strangers were politically motivated, and their target was my aunt. When their conversation shifts to the bitterness between the two parties—as conversations about current events inevitably become about the bitterness between the two parties—I interject: “Is it really that bad? Does everyone get so personally involved?”
    â€œLora, you’ve pinpointed the problem exactly, it’s that everyone gets so personally involved. But it shouldn’t be personal. It should be about what’s best for our country,” says my aunt.
    â€œDo you have enemies?” I ask.
    â€œI certainly have enemies.” She sounds almost proud.
    â€œThat doesn’t scare you?”
    â€œSometimes. But I know it’s because I’m doing important work. I’ve had to make sacrifices, some really difficult sacrifices, and I can’t let my fear endanger all I’m trying to accomplish.” A look of misery flits so quickly across her face that I wonder ifI imagined it, especially since misery is an emotion that seems incompatible with my aunt’s disciplined personality.
    â€œYou are doing important work.” Dad nods. “The main problem is, that’s what the other side thinks too. So what do you do then?”
    â€œYou do what must be done,” she says.
    We are in the car, on our way back to Middleton, when my father repeats what my aunt said. “You do what must be done,” he intones, mimicking the solemnity of her voice, his eyes wide and earnest. Then he chuckles. “Austin’s great, but she’s such a politician. She can’t ever turn it off.”
    I laugh. It’s true. And it’s true it’s difficult to have a personal conversation with someone who speaks primarily in platitudes, so I ask my dad the questions I