The Memory Keeper

by Jennifer Camiccia

  To my mom, for always seeing me

  1. Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory (HSAM for Short)

  Turning thirteen and becoming an official teenager in two months is weird enough without having my brain go haywire. But I, Lulu Rose Carter, have a memory that won’t shut up.

  There are some people who remember everything—or almost everything—about their pasts. It’s called highly superior autobiographical memory, or HSAM. It’s really rare, like fewer than a hundred people in the world have it. It’s not the same as eidetic or photographic memory. A person with HSAM has memories specific to their past. They might forget little things like where they put their phone five minutes ago, but they can remember nearly every day of their past in vibrant detail.

  Not everyone develops HSAM the same way. Some develop it slowly with age. Others might have part of it and then all of a sudden—BAM—the full power of it flips on. Anything can act as the trigger—maybe a stressful event, or maybe something happy like falling in love for the first time. It might even be something like getting lost in a mall parking lot.

  Only one person in the whole world knows the secret of my memory. I’m just not sure how much longer she’ll remember it. And if she forgets my secret—if she forgets who I am—then who else will know the real me?

  * * *

  My world implodes the week school lets out for the summer. It figures it would happen at the mall. My best friend, Olivia, says anything significant in life usually starts at the mall. She probably didn’t mean the parking lot, though.

  Gram, Clay, and I have wandered around for the past hour. The summer heat turns the mall lot into a wasteland of melting asphalt. Sticky globs of tar stretch and snap with each step, and they cling to the soles of my shoes like a giant web. It’s what I get for texting while Gram parked. I wasn’t paying attention, and now we’re lost.

  “Lulu, take the baby’s hand.” Gram thrusts Clay’s hand in mine.

  “No baby,” Clay shouts.

  “I swore it was here,” Gram repeats for the thousandth time. Her hands push against her eyes like if she presses hard enough, she’ll remember. “I parked right here. I know I did.”

  The sweat on Clay’s palms makes them as slippery as butter. I tighten my grip and squint at the sea of cars. We may as well be on a different planet.

  I pat Gram’s arm softly. “Gram, I think we should go back inside and get something to drink. Clay doesn’t look so good.”

  She glances down at him, but her eyes aren’t focused. They’re filled with the same fear my horse, Remy, has when he sees a snake—before he takes the bit in his mouth and bolts.

  Clay’s whimpers soar to wails, his face a kaleidoscope of red and purple. With all his hollering there should be tears, but his cheeks are as dry as the asphalt. The heat has sucked the tears straight out of his body, right along with Gram’s memory.

  “I know it’s here.” Gram turns in a circle; her shopping bags hit my shoulder and tip me into the roasting metal of a car. Clay’s hand slips from mine, and he tumbles to the ground.

  Before I can pick him back up, a blue truck slows down and idles next to us. The tinted window rolls down, and Mr. Rodriguez, the manager of the riding stables, smiles at us, his mustache dancing as he talks. “Hey there, you need help?”

  “Mr. Rodriguez.” I smile and try to look normal. Please don’t let Max be with him. Please don’t let Max—

  “Hey, Lulu.” Max leans across his dad and smirks at me. “You’re looking hot. Get it? Because it’s ninety degrees and—” Max’s dad pushes him back in his seat.

  Max’s smirk is an exact replica of the one he wore when we first met three years ago, on the Saturday of my first horseback-riding lesson. He’d worn a Giants T-shirt with a matching hat and made riding look so easy. It was like he could read the horse’s mind and make it do anything he wanted. I, on the other hand, could barely stay in the saddle.

  Since then he’s teased me without mercy. No matter how well I ride now, every time I see his smug face, I’m reminded of the embarrassment of that first day.

  “Is he hurt?” Mr. Rodriguez points to Clay, rolling around on the ground and sobbing.

  “We can’t find our van.” The words sound ridiculous as soon as I say them, and if it weren’t so hot outside, my red cheeks might be a dead giveaway.

  Mr. Rodriguez waves us over. “Hop in, and we’ll help you find it. The truck has air-conditioning.”

  Gram shakes her head, her jaw thrust out with a stubbornness that mirrors my baby brother’s. I pick Clay up and stagger to the truck. At almost three, he’s getting too big for me to carry, but sometimes it’s faster to lug him around than expect him to listen. As soon as I open the door, cold air wraps me in a hug. Clay slumps over and presses his flushed cheeks to the cool leather.

  “Stay here,” I say needlessly. He isn’t going anywhere.

  Max hops out to help. He smiles at Gram. “Hi, Mrs. Carter. It’s Max from the stables. Let me help you inside.”

  “Come on, Gram,” I say. “It’s okay.”

  She blinks at me, confusion blanketing her. I want to shake her. I want to make her snap out of this fog she’s in. She’s been forgetful before, but not for this long. Not like this.

  This isn’t the Gram I know. The one who takes charge and bosses everyone around. The one who moved in after Mom had Clay and made me feel loved again. But her blank expression is the same one I’ve seen more and more lately. And it scares me.

  Max murmurs something to Gram as he gently helps her into the car, and it reminds me of his kindness to the horses at the stables. I guess it’s just me he teases.

  Mr. Rodriguez shifts the truck into gear and flicks a concerned glance at Gram. “Do you remember anything about where you parked?”

  Gram’s lower lip trembles, and I know I have to do something. I can’t let her cry in front of Max and his dad. Gram never cries.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and picture driving here earlier this morning. I’ve always had an outrageously good memory, but I’ve learned to keep it to myself. When I was really young, I thought it was something everyone had. I found out the hard way that people think it’s weird when you remember what they wore six Thursdays ago or what they ate for lunch a year ago from Monday.

  Gram is the only one I trust. The only one who really knows about my memory. And she needs me now. She needs me to remember where the stupid van is.

  I’ve become so used to ignoring my memory that it feels strange to work to remember something instead of pushing it away. Even when I don’t use it, I always sense it’s there. Somewhere in my brain. Waiting.

  In the past, some memories would filter through: dates, names, what people did or said. Usually, it was because the day was an emotional one for me. Sad, angry, happy—it didn’t seem to matter what emotion as long as I felt it deeply.

  But it isn’t until right now that I make myself remember every second of this day. I’ve never tried to recall something that happened only a few hours ago. I concentrate, forcing myself to open up the part of me I’ve kept tightly shut. Scenes of today appear like a movie in my mind. Each scene is separate; each hour has its own place. I experiment, moving the scenes around as if I were watching them on TV. I rewind one and I can see every minute, every second. I don’t stop until I find the moment I’m looking for.

  My brain skids to a full standstill, and something cracks wide open. I can almost hear the sound of glass shattering. A part of my brain that’s been blurry is now completely in focus. Like when Remy breaks into a gallop and the wind hits my face, sweeping away the clutter from my brain.

  Click. When I open my eyes, a 3-D map floats in front of me. It’s the exact route we took here, right down to the parking spot on the
other side of the mall. I blink, but it stays put. I almost ask Max if he sees it too, but then he smirks at me and I know he doesn’t. It’s as if my vision is divided into a split screen, with one side playing the memory of our van parking three hours ago and the other side showing what’s happening this very second here in Mr. Rodriguez’s truck.

  I know the memory is not really in front of me, but it may as well be. I can see every street, every sign, every car we passed before Gram finally parked earlier this morning.

  This is different from anything I’ve experienced. It’s one thing to close my eyes and remember a date or what someone wore, but this is every single thing. It’s like I have a remote control that changes the channel of my memories. Click. Driving to the mall and every turn. Click. Every brick, every tree, every store. Click. Exactly where we parked, down to the pole two spots to the right of our car. Vivid pictures snap into place; memories line up to wait their turn.

  I read somewhere that our brains are like computers. After trying to ignore my memory for so long, did the act of forcing it to work give mine an upgrade? Supersonic Memory Plus, downloaded and complete. Everything is crystal clear, like I’m seeing it all for the first time. And I don’t just remember the details. I also remember the feelings that went along with each memory, right down to how I felt when we parked—my excitement at shopping for new boots, my impatience with Clay’s whining, my happiness that Gram seemed to be her old self mixed with my worry about her growing forgetfulness. The accompanying sensations wash over me, the blast of heat hitting us as we got out of the car, the smell of popcorn from the movie theater next door, the faint whiffs of cinnamon buns, and the chill of the air-conditioning when we first walked in. It’s as vivid as if it were happening to me now.

  Or am I imagining it all? There’s no way I can really remember everything this clearly. Maybe the heat is making me see things that aren’t really there. That’s what I want to believe. Anything else is too much to think about right now. But no matter what it is, I need to get out of this truck with Mr. Rodriguez’s overly concerned expression and Max’s know-it-all smile. My hand clamps down on the door handle, and I imagine—just for a second—opening the door and jumping.

  “Our car is near the Cheesecake Factory entrance,” I say, trying not to sound too desperate. “Third row to the right and five spots down.”

  Max glances over at me, and I bet he wonders why I didn’t remember sooner. Why I let my baby brother and Gram wander around aimlessly in the baking heat. Clay slouches on me, his warm cheek pressed against my arm. His breaths come out in soft, shuddering sighs that signal he’s asleep.

  Every nerve of my body quivers as if my skin were too weak to keep all my feelings inside. I blink away a prickle of tears. I can’t cry. Max will think I’m as much of a baby as Clay is.

  I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. Olivia says the trick to not crying is to distract yourself. She usually does this by online shopping with her mother’s credit card. Olivia is the happiest person I know, always smiling and joking, so there must be some truth to it.

  We find our van exactly where I said it would be. The floating map folds behind another memory of how to get home. I want to examine it, poke at it, see how far the map goes. I’ve tried so hard to ignore my memory in the past, but pushing away the need to replay a random day that happened a year ago, two years ago, five months ago is nothing compared to this. I rub my forehead and wonder what specific part of the brain is beneath my fingers. Which part is responsible for what’s happening right now? I’m afraid I’ve unlocked something that I won’t ever be able to ignore again.

  I help Gram find her keys, and she finally snaps out of her daze.

  “Thank you,” she says to Mr. Rodriguez. “I think we’ll be fine now.”

  He opens his mouth to say something but shuts it when Gram frowns at him in that way she has. Even befuddled, she has a dignity that makes you trust her. He nods and heads back to the truck.

  I help buckle Clay into his car seat. Gram looks down at the key in her hand for several seconds before she finally turns it in the ignition. A gust of hot air hits us in the face, and I quickly adjust the vent to face away from her.

  “You okay, Gram?”

  “I’m fine,” she says, but her voice shakes as she backs out of the parking space. I watch her carefully as she drives around the lot, searching for the nearest exit. She squints at the signs, rubbing her eyes as if her sight is the problem.

  “This one.” I point to where she should turn. She obeys with a small cluck of her tongue. It’s the sound we use on the horses to soothe them, to let them know they don’t need to worry.

  Click. The day Gram moved in with us two years and six months ago. Click. What I wore that day, how she made me feel, what the weather was like. Click. The day Gram forgot Clay’s grilled cheese sandwich on the stove and the fire department had to come. Click. The way Gram looked at me with growing alarm for a whole minute last week, as if she didn’t know who I was. As if I were a stranger.

  2. The Brain

  Some things I know about the brain: it’s pink, it’s about the size of a head of cauliflower, and it weighs around three pounds for the average adult. Our brains won’t allow us to tickle ourselves—it predicts the sensation and cancels the response to our own touch. It also generates enough electricity to power a light bulb.

  If I found this information with one quick search on my phone, what will a more thorough study of the brain uncover? I can find why my memory upgraded and maybe even discover what’s making Gram lose hers.

  * * *

  When we get home, Mom’s in the kitchen with Dad, laughing while they make dinner together. This is how they’ve been since Gram moved in with us. They’re still busy, but they smile more, spend time together. The sadness is still there, but it’s not all the time; it only leaks out every now and then.

  One of my first memories is of my baby sister, Maisie. Dad doesn’t believe I really remember her. He says I was too young. But I remember missing the way Maisie stared up at me like she knew what I was thinking. I remember the night she died without any warning—when the ambulance came and my parents cried and cried. I remember not understanding why Mom wouldn’t play with me anymore, why she stopped looking at me altogether.

  Dad told me I needed to stop talking about Maisie in front of Mom, that it upset her too much. To him, my mom’s happiness is the most important thing. It’s bigger than mine or Clay’s or even his own. He doesn’t understand that to someone with my memory, the sorrow of the first day is always there. It bleeds across time and fills every crack of every day afterward. It stays with me no matter how much I try to get rid of it. How can you get over loss if it doesn’t ever fade?

  When Gram first moved in with us, I told her about Maisie and the night she died. She listened patiently as I told her that memory and so many more. She didn’t shake her head and explain why they couldn’t be real.

  I’d been too young to know exact dates, but I could keep track of the days from when the ambulance came. I could remember that the bell down the street rang twelve times the morning after—which made it a Sunday. That I didn’t know how to read yet but I knew my letters—which made me three. I could remember how the sun beat down on my head when I sat outside but the breeze was icy—which made it winter. How Dad took apart the hand-painted crib and wept when I asked him to make me lunch. How to this day, whenever he fixes me a sandwich, I worry he might cry again.

  Gram pursed her lips when I told her all this. “You have an extraordinary memory, Lulu,” she said. “Amazing, really. Have you told your parents?”

  I thought she could make my parents understand. But not soon after, I overheard Dad and her arguing. “She was too young to remember that, Mom. She was barely three when it happened. We have enough on our plates without you filling her head with nonsense.”

  When Gram tucked me in later that night, she kissed my forehead. “Some people can only see their own sadness,”
she whispered. “One day they’ll be ready. In the meantime, you tell me. You can tell me anything.”

  That was enough for me. I didn’t need everyone to see me. It was enough that she did.

  And now the house is filled with laughter again. Mom plays with Clay instead of acting like he doesn’t exist. She and Dad listen to us talk with a lightness I hadn’t realized I missed.

  But I can’t forget how easy it was for them to turn away and act like Clay and I weren’t there. If the brain can predict when we’re going to tickle ourselves, then shouldn’t it also predict when we know we’re about to get hurt and cancel out that reaction too? How can we protect ourselves if our brains won’t let us?

  “Get anything good at the mall?” Dad’s wide grin crinkles the skin around his eyes with genuine humor. Olivia says he’s handsome like Josh Duhamel, but I don’t see it. He’s way too goofy. He’s always doing things like going on weird diets where all he eats are beets for three days and then bingeing on ice cream when he’s finished. Mom says she loves him with extra weight, but I don’t think he believes her.

  “What’s wrong with Clay?” Mom rushes forward and swoops Clay up in her arms.

  Gram starts to explain. “I was a little—”

  “Nothing,” I say. “It’s just really hot out and Gram’s tired. Why don’t you lie down, Gram? I’ll bring you some water.” Before she can say another word, I grab her hand and head down the hallway.

  I glance behind us to make sure we weren’t followed. “Gram, I don’t think you should tell them about the parking lot. Remember how worried Dad got after the fire?”

  Gram’s normally clear blue eyes are bloodshot, and lipstick has settled in the wrinkles around her mouth. I concentrate on the neatly made bed in the background instead. The tightly tucked corners and perfectly placed throw pillows are who my grandmother is. Not this confused woman.

  She straightens her blouse and pats the droopy white curls curved about the tops of her ears. “Your father is a good son and he loves me. I’ve taught him to never turn your back on family.”