“Oh, Lulu. It’s not your job to worry about me. What can I do to help you? Do you still want my stories?” She takes my hand and squeezes my fingers.
I nod, fighting the prickle of tears behind my eyes. Love swells against my chest, each breath drawing out the stinging pain of it.
“Then have them you shall. Of course, you must keep in mind that they might bore you. I’m no Judy Blume.”
I giggle. “I know that. I don’t need it to be fancy.”
Gram rubs her hands together. “Where shall I start, then?” She glances over at the chest in the corner.
I hold my breath. What if she decides to look for the book? How will I tell her what I’ve done?
She looks back in my direction and pats the edge of her bed. “We’ll keep this first story short since it’s your bedtime.”
I wiggle against the headboard, adjusting the pillows until I’m comfortable. The scent of lavender and vanilla with a hint of hair spray floats in the air around me.
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she asks, “Did I ever tell you about my friend Jacob?” She says this in a rush of words, like if she doesn’t get it out fast, it might not come out at all.
“No,” I say.
“We were best friends.” One side of her mouth tilts up in a smile that’s not quite happy or sad.
“Like me and Olivia?” Click. The memory of today punches me out of nowhere. Of Olivia looking anywhere but at me. Of her driving away with Piper. The memory stops there, but my imagination keeps going, and I see Piper and Olivia swimming in Piper’s pool like new best friends.
She nods. “Yes, like you and Olivia. Our families were very close. Our apartments were next to each other’s, and our fathers worked together.”
“In San Francisco?” I ask.
She frowns at me. “It doesn’t matter. Do you want to hear about Jacob or not?”
Her sharp words sting, and I sit back. I’m not used to Gram talking like that. “I want to hear,” I say finally.
I can’t help wondering why my question upset her. I’ve been told all my life that Gram grew up in San Francisco, so why do I get the feeling that isn’t true? If not San Francisco, then where?
Her voice softens, losing the sharp edge of seconds ago. “Jacob was extremely smart, but he could never beat me in chess. It used to upset him whenever I won. Then one day he figured out how to distract me enough so he could beat me.” She laughs and slaps her leg. “He told me I looked pretty in my blue sweater. After that he flattered me whenever he wanted to beat me at anything, the cheater. I’m still a sucker for a good compliment, yes?”
I grin. There’s a lightness to her, and I can imagine her as a young girl with her blue sweater and sparkling eyes. “What did he look like?”
“Oh, he was tall and quite dashing, with dark hair and light-blue eyes. He saw everything. Nothing got past him.…” Her words fade along with her smile. “Poor Jacob. He was the one who needed protection, not me.”
I wait for her to continue, but she’s lost in her thoughts. Finally, she shakes her head and claps her hands together. “Enough for tonight, yes? I will share more tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks, Gram.” I kiss the papery skin of her cheek. “Love you.”
“Love you more.” Her soft reply fades behind me with the click of her door.
9. Declarative Memory
Our declarative memory is in charge of events and facts that go into our long-term memory. It’s made up of our knowledge and experiences. People used to think this kind of memory was fixed, but our memories actually change each time we speak about them. Each memory wrestles with another to be the one remembered, like a thumb war inside our brain. Little details can change every single time we revisit them. The very act of remembering can change our original memory.
* * *
I lock my door and open the Russian book gingerly. I use Google Translate and try to find Jacob’s name, but the words swirl in a mess of confusion, mimicking how I feel.
Instead of answering my questions, Gram’s opened up a whole wide world of new questions. Why not tell me where she lived when she and Jacob were friends? What if the book belonged to her mother and not her? Why hasn’t Dad said anything to me about his mom or his grandmother knowing Russian?
I make up my mind to ask Gram the next morning. I shut the book and it slips out of my hands, bouncing lightly on the soft carpet next to my bed. When I reach down to pick it up, I notice a bulge in the back.
Was it there before?
Slowly, I pry open the back. A seam comes undone, and I tug on a piece of thick cardboard stuck inside. It slides out to reveal a small booklet with Cyrillic letters scrawled across the front. Inside there’s a picture of a girl who looks just like me.
It’s a Russian passport, and the girl in the picture is Gram.
I can barely breathe. I look at it closer, examining each line of her face for differences that might give an explanation. I poke the space where the passport was hidden, fishing my finger in the pocket and feeling the hard edge of another booklet. I find a pencil and use the edge to work it out.
Another passport slips free, but this one has a French seal on the cover. The picture inside is of Gram as a young woman, about the age my mom is now.
I’m sweating. I can’t ask Gram any of this. Not without knowing what this even is. I sink to the ground and clutch the passports to my chest. The pencil I used to pry them out rolls along the floor away from me.
Dad has to know something about this. If I find out what he knows, then I’ll know what to ask Gram without her getting upset or sad… or forgetting who I am.
I close my eyes. Dad told me once that Gram used to travel for her job and that there were times she was gone for days. He said Grandpa would make hamburgers every night for dinner. To this day Dad is still sick of hamburgers.
Finding Gram’s traumatic memory will be almost impossible if she won’t say anything about her past. And how can I even trust that she’ll tell me the truth? She’s kept a book written in Russian with foreign passports hidden underneath the cover.
There is so much I don’t know. I don’t know what her job was or why she traveled so much. I don’t know why she never told me or if my dad even knows any of this. The more I find, the more I don’t know.
I need a plan.
* * *
“Dad.” I smile sweetly and hand him a plate of chocolate chip cookies I’ve baked. “These are for you.”
It’s not that Dad won’t spend time with me if I ask. He loves me, I know he does. But there’s a chance he’ll say he’s busy, and this is too important to leave to chance.
He grabs two cookies and ruffles my hair. “Thanks, sweetie. These look delicious. What’s the occasion?” Suddenly his eyes widen in alarm. “Did I miss your riding competition?”
“No,” I quickly say, even though he has every right to feel guilty. He’s missed more than he’s made. “I just wanted to make you something.”
“That’s very sweet of you.”
“And…” I take a breath. This has to be delivered right or it’ll be a “we’ll see,” which everyone knows really means no. “I was thinking about how much I miss you. We never hang out anymore, and I’m super interested in your job. I was thinking I might want to be a teacher.”
“Really?” His jaw-popping smile means my compliments are working. “You know, if you really feel that way, you can come with me one day. Watch me lecture, and we can eat lunch in the cafeteria. I remember how much you loved that.”
A memory sparks. Click. It was after Mom had Clay, and Dad had taken me to work with him for most of that summer. He and I ate ice cream while we watched students walk by. I thought then he wanted to spend time with me. I know now that he was just trying to keep me away from Mom.
What would he say if I told him that three years ago on Friday, June 24, we ate green Popsicles and he spilled coffee on his blue dress shirt? Or that the following Wednesday he forgot me in his office and drove ha
lfway home before he remembered? I had to wait with Doug, the custodian, in the front office, and we watched a show about mining for gold in Alaska.
I pull back on the memory, tucking it away again before the rest of the calendar distracts me. I’m still learning how to navigate the maze of pictures and emotions. Sometimes I feel that I might get sucked into one and lose myself completely.
“That would be amazing,” I say, refocusing on Dad. “Can I? That way I can finish my summer essay. I bet my teacher will love it.”
I wonder if I’ve gone too far. He studies me, but then he grins and does one of his winks where half his face scrunches in a funny imitation of an actual wink. “My class is going to love you. When were you thinking?”
“Well… is tomorrow too soon? I would love to start working on my essay so I can just enjoy summer without worrying about it, you know?” My voice is too peppy, but I can’t seem to control it.
“Tomorrow?” He considers it while he takes another bite and chews. “I don’t see why not. Remember it’s a summer class, so it’s not as full, but there are some promising students that can really make the discussions lively.”
“That sounds so fun.” I dial back the bright smile when he stares at me a little too long.
“Are you okay, Lulu? Is there something else bothering you?”
“No.” I shake my head and go in for a hug. Even though I try not to rely on him or Mom too much, I sink into the hug. The world seems quieter when all I can smell is his aftershave and a whiff of coffee.
He kisses the top of my head before we’re interrupted by Clay’s shrieks of joy. He runs as fast as his legs will carry him and barrels into Dad. “Up, up!” he shouts until Dad swings him up and tickles him.
I head off to put the second part of my plan in motion. I can’t leave Clay alone with Gram all day. I hate to admit it, even to myself, but he’s safer with Mom right now. At least until I fix Gram.
I tap on Mom’s studio door, nerves zipping up and down my arms. This next part depends entirely on her mood.
Mom opens the door and waves me in. “Hey, kiddo! Come see what I’m working on.”
Every color in the world seems to be splattered across the canvas. It’s blended in an unusual and interesting way that’s unique to Mom. She can make things that shouldn’t work together and turn them into paintings so beautiful, it hurts to look at them too long. “It’s really pretty, Mom. I love it.”
“Yeah?” Two spots of pink bloom like roses on her cheeks.
People say Mom is one of the most beautiful women in the world. Dad loves to tell the story of when they first met. How he actually couldn’t speak once he saw her. But his shyness didn’t stop him from writing poetry about her and leaving it at her door. She loved the poems so much, she tracked him down and asked him out. In a way he tricked her—she thought she was getting another artist, one who would understand the world she disappeared into so frequently. Instead she got a history major who ripped off his roommate’s poetry trying to win her love.
Mom said it was too late once she found out. She’d already fallen for him. Dad’s complete devotion to her overshadowed his lack of poetry. She was, and still is, the most important person in the world to him.
“I love all the colors,” I say.
Mom beams at me and it’s like sunshine. She focuses all her attention on me as if she finds me fascinating. I warn myself not to fall for it. It’s how she is with anyone admiring her art.
The squares of memories beckon me. Go back to when she loved you most, they say. Remember how she painted with you? How she taught you how to mix color? I work to push the memories away, but my brain won’t let me. They play out in front of me while I try to pay attention to Mom. It’s weird to see her in the past and now. The contrast is like one of her paintings—colors dripping across the canvas and fading into something else entirely.
“I knew you’d get it. You have such a wonderful eye.” Mom tugs me into a hug, the soft curve of her arms cushioning my cheek. When I first started preschool, I used to lean against her just like this while she practiced the alphabet with me. Learning to read is forever linked with her cool, silky skin.
I close my eyes, but it doesn’t shut out the memory. Young Mom kisses me on my forehead.
I open my eyes, looking past the memory and into the present. “Mom, can I ask you something?”
Present Mom leans back, just enough to peer down at me. “Anything, Lulu.”
I have to be careful. I can’t just ask her to watch Clay. She’ll have an excuse and then get all misty as she stares at her newest painting. Even before Maisie died, Mom was easily distracted. The artist in her longed to create. It’s part of her, so how can I hate it?
“I’ve been missing you,” I say. “Can we spend a day together, just us?”
“Oh!” Her smile hitches higher. “Maybe we can go shopping tomorrow? And then get our nails done. How does that sound?”
It sounds perfect. My heart squeezes, and I suddenly want this to be real. But it’s not. It’s not. It’s not. It’s not.
“That would be awesome,” I say, and I hear the excitement in my voice. I stopped pretending sometime after her hug. “Can we talk about your art, too? I need to ask one of my parents about their job and sort of shadow them, you know?”
“You want to interview me?” She places a graceful hand over her chest as if she can hardly hold in her joy. “That would be wonderful. How long would it take?”
“All day.”
Her smile slips, as I knew it would. For someone who spends all day in her studio, a whole day is too much to spend with anyone else. This is her refuge, her space that she’ll share for a moment or two, but not longer than that. I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t want to, or if she really can’t. I only know this is how it’s been since Maisie died.
“I love that you want to know more about my work,” she says with a dip in her voice. “But…”
“Dad says he wants me to shadow him that day.” I make a face like I’m unsure, ignoring the dull pain blossoming like a flower across my rib cage. I can’t seem to stop it, even though I planned this.
“Dad?” She grabs hold of the idea. “You can’t hurt his feelings, Lulu. He misses you so much. I don’t want to be selfish and keep you all to myself. You go with him while he teaches. Remember how much you loved it when you were little?”
“I guess.” I force a smile.
Her eyes drift to the canvas.
“I guess it might be fun to go to school with Dad,” I say, and her eyes snap back to me, her shoulders dropping in relief.
“Yes, that would be so good for you both.”
“But what about Clay?” I say in a monotone. “Gram has lunch with her friends tomorrow. I was supposed to babysit.”
Mom waves a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll paint when he naps. It’ll be fine.”
I hug her, clinging harder than I should. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll tell Dad and Gram.”
She pats me absentmindedly, her attention no longer mine. I try to hold on to the feeling of success I had just a few seconds before, but it hurts even more with the contrasting memory next to it. Young Mom holding me tight and refusing to let me go.
When present Mom walks to her painting and picks up the brush, I know it’s my cue to leave. I pretend to go, but I leave the door open a crack, just enough to peek into a world I’m no longer part of.
Sometimes I want to hate her for how she shuts me out, but my heart won’t let me. I still want to talk to her about boys, to giggle with her like I see Olivia and her mom do.
But Gram never turns away from me. I race down the stairs, my half-formed plan spiraling in a tornado of fear. If I can’t cure her, who will see me?
10. Golden Gate Corpus Callosum
Fun fact about me: I write with my left hand and do everything else with my right. They’ve found that ambidextrous people––those who can use both hands—have a thicker corpus callosum, which is a bridge that helps the tw
o parts of the brain talk to each other, like the Golden Gate Bridge connecting San Francisco to our county (Marin County).
The left side of the brain is the scientific, logical part and controls the right side of the body. The right side of the brain is in charge of creativity and controls the left side of the body. Does that mean the left side of my body is the creative part? Is that why Mom paints with her left hand?
* * *
Gram says her mother, my great-grandmother, cried the first time she saw the Golden Gate Bridge. She’d imagined it as a bridge made of solid gold shining the way to her new life in America. The dull red was a disappointment. She saw it as a sign that life isn’t made of dreams. You have to make your own.
I love driving over the bridge when the fog hides it from view and all you see are the tips of its rust-colored towers. When the sun peeks through, the rust becomes a brilliant red color, better than any gold-colored bridge. It whispers to me, telling me to dream big and never give up.
I’m not sure why my great-grandmother couldn’t see that. But if all she saw was a dull red bridge and she still wanted to make her own dreams come true, then I can understand why Gram loved her so much. She sounds like the kind of person who doesn’t give up easily.
All my life Gram has told me her mother was from a little village in France. Dad says he loved her accent and how it made everything she said mysterious. Could the accent he remembered actually have been Russian?
“Dad?”
He sips out of his coffee cup and changes lanes after a quick glance in his side mirror. “Yeah?”
“Did your grandma ever speak French to you?”
“That’s a random question,” he says with a laugh. “Well, let me think. Now that you mention it, I’m not sure she ever did. Your gram was always on her case about speaking only English. By the time I was born, she’d been in this country long enough to be somewhat fluent. And you know she died when I was pretty young. I think I was seven or eight.”
The Memory Keeper Page 5
