“Dance party rules,” Gram says with a smile as she turns the music down. “Big boys must take their naps or no more dancing later on. You don’t want that, do you?”
Clay stops in his tracks and puts his hands up. “Nap, Gwam.”
Gram pats the top of my head before moving to wipe Clay’s hands with a washcloth. “You two are the best things in my life,” she says. “You do realize that, Lulu?”
“Yes, Gram.” My feet tap to the music still playing softly in the background.
Gram picks Clay up and kisses his bright red cheek. “Why don’t we start with my stories after I put him down for a nap? I have the best story about your dad at your age.”
It’s strange to think of Dad as a child. He’s such a grown-up, and there’s nothing that would hint he was once ever anything but a history professor.
“I think we should start with your childhood growing up in San Francisco,” I say. “Then work our way up.”
In all my reading, one article gave me hope that what Gram has might be curable. It said that sometimes someone becomes forgetful because of a traumatic memory. Something your brain wants to forget, so it forgets everything.
Maybe—just maybe—if I can find that memory, then I can help fix Gram’s forgetfulness.
I know it’s a long shot, but sometimes extraordinary things can happen. I was alone and invisible for years. Fed, clothed, but passed over like a forgotten sock behind the dryer. Gram swept in with her rules and practicality. She opened the blinds and let sunshine spill in to help find the part of me that was lost.
I can’t have this highly superior autobiographical memory for no reason. I must have it to solve this puzzle. If there’s the smallest chance a traumatic memory from Gram’s past is the reason she’s losing her memory, then I owe it to science and to Gram to rule it out.
“Gram,” I say, “what was your childhood like?”
Gram’s lips tremble, and her eyes glisten. “I’d rather not talk about that. Some things should stay in the past.”
5. Limbic System
The part of the brain that creates memories is found in the limbic system. Sometimes something happens where a person can’t remember huge chunks of their life. In most cases, they’re diagnosed with dissociative amnesia. Usually it’s because something happens that’s so bad, the brain shuts off the memory to protect itself. Brain scans of patients with this kind of amnesia show they can’t remember emotional memories, no matter how hard they try. The traumatic memory changes the actual structure of the brain.
* * *
Gram doesn’t want to talk about her childhood, and just mentioning it upsets her. I knew it! Gram doesn’t have Alzheimer’s at all! There’s a memory in her past she’s buried so deep, it’s making her forgetful. If I can help her find the traumatic memory, then everything will be fine.
“But…” I search for a reason that might reach her. “I trusted you with my secret. Don’t you trust me with yours?”
“Of course,” Gram says, shifting Clay to her other hip. “But I would rather remember happy things. That is better I think, yes?”
“What about the book in your treasure chest?” I ask. The words slip out before I can stop myself.
Gram stops and turns around, the lower half of her face hidden behind Clay’s head. “What book?”
“The one you showed me when you first moved here. You said it was about a girl from far away. Is it about you? Are you the girl from far away?”
“I don’t know of any book,” Gram says in a shaky voice. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go put your brother down.”
She spins around and rushes out of the room faster than I’ve ever seen her move. Clay waves sleepily over Gram’s shoulder as she practically runs up the stairs. I raise my hand to wave back while my mind races. Dad always said Gram’s mom and dad were the best grandparents ever, so why doesn’t Gram want to talk about when she was young?
And what about the book? Did she forget it, or is she lying? I know there’s a story there, and it could hold the key to understanding what’s happening to her now. What if I took a peek at it without her knowing?
I pace down the hallway and then back. I can’t snoop in Gram’s personal things. She’d never trust me again.
But… the Gram I know is slipping away. No matter how many times I tell myself she’s just tired, I know it’s more. I know it’s serious. What if this book is the only way I can help her?
When Gram goes to Clay’s room, I tiptoe to hers. I hesitate outside the door. Invading her privacy doesn’t feel right, but how else can I help her? I can’t do one without the other. Besides, she said she would give me the book one day. In a way she’s sort of given me permission.
I narrow my eyes at the old chest pushed against the far wall. A white lace tablecloth flows evenly down either side, with four giant stacks of books piled precisely on top. The cloth only just hides the battered wood of the chest.
It looks ancient. Just like a treasure chest.
Clay’s voice filters down the stairs. He always begs for an extra story. It’ll take at least half an hour for him to fall asleep, which is plenty of time to take a peek. I don’t need to read the whole thing—just enough to ask her the right kinds of questions.
I stack the books on the floor and push the tablecloth off. But when I try to lift the hinge, the lid doesn’t budge. I kneel down and notice a small keyhole underneath the latch.
My gaze darts around the room, searching for a key, before coming to rest on my pottery clamshell on the window ledge. I made it for Gram two years ago, and she keeps it filled with buttons, safety pins, pennies, and random keys.
I try three of the keys before one works. Yes! My chest burns, and I let out a sigh of relief. The lid creaks open and I hold my breath, half convinced there might be gold hidden beneath piles of gems.
But there’s no gold. The chest falls open to reveal more books and some old papers. A plain black book with a gold lock rests on top.
Is this the book I need? I remember it being bigger.
I search the clamshell for a smaller key that might fit, but they’re all too big. I’m running out of time—Clay has stopped talking, and I can hear my heart beating in the complete quiet of the house.
I set the book aside and concentrate on putting everything back the way I found it. I have no choice but to take the book with me. I’ll find a way to open it, read what I need, and then put it back later. I doubt Gram ever looks in the chest, so it should be safe to keep it for a day or so.
The sound of her voice calling me from the kitchen makes me jump.
I run to the doorway and turn back to do a quick once-over. Nothing seems out of place. I head down the hall and tuck the book into my backpack before I answer.
“Here, Gram.”
She frowns, and I hold my breath. Does she suspect? I’ve never been able to hide things from her. She always senses when something’s wrong. But she has no way of knowing I’ve been in her room, does she? I wait for her to ask where I’ve been and why I look so guilty.
Instead, she opens the refrigerator and grabs the milk. Her hands are steady as she pours a huge glass and pushes it toward me. “Are you ready for the story about your dad?”
“I don’t drink milk,” I say, hesitant to correct her. Is she testing me? Can she tell I have the book?
“Oh yes.” Her mouth puckers for a second before she smiles. “I’ll drink it. Am I taking you riding today?”
She’s getting that empty look in her eyes again, and something in my chest tightens. “Later in the afternoon. After Clay wakes up,” I remind her.
She wrinkles her nose at the glass in her hands. “Why am I drinking this? I hate milk.”
“You don’t have to drink it, Gram.”
She sets it down inside the sink and starts to wipe the already spotless counter.
“Gram, do you really not remember the book you showed me when you first moved here?” I ask. The same book burning a hole in my backpack
this very second.
She blinks, her eyes going blank. “Where is your brother?”
“He’s taking a nap.” I bite my lip with worry. Is she forgetting because I asked about the book? Did just thinking about it make her memory worse?
“Oh yes!” She smiles, her eyes softening. “He hates naps.”
“Gram,” I press. I hate to bring it up again, but how will I find out if I don’t ask? “Are you the girl from far away?”
She shakes her head. Her lip trembles, and I’m afraid she might cry. “I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Okay.” I smile reassuringly, but I feel like I’m failing her somehow. “Do you want to tell me the story about Dad?”
She nods, the panic in her eyes fading. I only half-listen as she tells me a story I’ve heard a hundred times before.
My mind drifts to the book tucked in my backpack. My feet tap, my legs twitch, and my hands pluck at my shorts until I can’t take it any longer.
“I need to do something, Gram. I’ll be right back.”
“Oh, of course.” Gram waves a hand in front of her face. “Here I am blabbing away when you need to get ready. Go ahead. I’ll just tidy up the kitchen. Clay should be up soon, and then we’ll be off to the mall. We need to get you those riding boots.”
“Yes.” I don’t correct her and say we bought them yesterday and that we’re going to the stables and not the mall. I need to see what’s in the book.
I shut myself in my room and search for something to pick the lock. I try the Swiss Army knife Dad gave me after he and Mom came back from a trip. After half an hour, I’m a sweaty mess and no closer to opening it. How do thieves do it? The lock looks flimsy, but looks are deceiving.
My phone buzzes a few times in a row while I’m turning the book over in my hands. Olivia’s text messages usually come in threes. She can’t grasp the concept of one long text when three or four short ones are so much more dramatic.
Olivia: Guess who is teaching
Olivia: class at the stables?
Olivia: You will never guess.
An idea hits me. Last month she’d jimmied the bathroom door lock when her baby cousin locked herself in.
Me: Do you know how to pick locks?
Olivia: Of course.
Olivia: Why?
Olivia: Max is teaching!! Are we happy for him or mad?
Me: I need you to pick a lock for me. It’s on a book. And what????????? Why is he teaching??? He’s our age!! How is that OK???
Olivia: His dad told him he’d give him a shot at teaching after he turned thirteen. You know Mr. R will be watching Max like a hawk.
Olivia: I can pick it
Olivia: Bring it today.
Olivia: See you later
With Max teaching my riding class, the day promises to stink more than manure. What if he says something about what happened at the mall? Will he make fun of Gram in front of everyone? I rub the ache between my ribs harder than necessary.
I put on my riding clothes and stare at the book. Its dark cover is old with cracks burrowed deep into the leather. What secrets does it hold? I tuck it into my backpack and jog down the stairs to see if Gram’s ready to take me to the stables.
I find Gram sitting on the couch staring blankly at the wall. I walk closer, careful not to startle her.
“Are you ready?” I ask softly.
She blinks as if to bring me into focus, and I can tell she’s trying to work out what we’re supposed to be doing. I push down on my chest and breathe past the building pressure. “You’re going to drive me to the stables. Do you want me to get Clay?”
“Lulu,” she says slowly. A light turns back on. “Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry. Yes, can you fetch the little guy? I’ll get a snack for him.”
I make sure she reaches the kitchen before I run up to get Clay. I carry him downstairs and buckle him into his car seat. Gram smiles at me as she starts the van; the blank look of a few minutes ago is gone, but the pain in my chest is still there.
I think about the book in my backpack, its secrets locked up tight. Like Gram’s memories, waiting for me to break them free.
6. Gone with the Cerebellum
The word “cerebellum” sounds like one of those big Southern mansions, like in Gram’s favorite movie, Gone with the Wind. The cerebellum is the part of the brain that’s in charge of keeping our balance and coordination. It helps maintain our posture and fine motor skills, which can be easy to take for granted. Until something you can usually do effortlessly apparently isn’t good enough for your riding instructor. And he makes you look like an idiot.
* * *
“Chin up,” Max calls out. “Don’t look down, Lulu.”
I can barely hear him above the pounding of my heart. Why is he picking on me? I know I’m not the best rider here, but there are six other girls and I’m the only one he’s corrected the whole lesson. It doesn’t help that Mr. Rodriguez watches quietly from the sidelines.
Olivia looks worried when she meets my gaze. Sorry, she mouths, making a face.
“Okay, let’s call it,” Max shouts, whacking the side of his boot with the riding crop. “Finish up, and don’t forget to groom your own horses. If you love them, show them.”
“Harsh,” Piper says loudly. She’s been trying to get his attention the whole lesson, and he’s barely said one word to her.
“But true,” he says. “Last lesson I had to groom all five horses. Not my job.”
“Pretty sure it is,” Piper says, tossing her perfectly curled hair. “My mom pays your dad to do that for us.” She hands him her horse’s reins and stomps off.
“Lulu and I always groom our own horses,” Olivia says, glaring at Piper’s back.
“Good for you,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. He nods to me and saunters off with Piper’s horse.
“He did okay today,” Olivia whispers as we lead our horses back to the barn. “He was kind of tough on you, though.”
Remy nudges me with his nose. I lean against him briefly. “I guess.”
“I can tell him he was a jerk if you want me to,” she offers.
“No, it’s fine,” I say with a sigh. “He was right. I do need to keep my chin up.”
Olivia puts both hands on her hips. “Whatever. Next time he’s mean to you, I’ll show him how to keep his chin up.”
I shake my head. Now that class is over, Max is no longer important. I change the subject to what’s been on my mind the whole lesson. “I brought the book with the lock.”
“The one you need me to break into? Anything I should know about?”
“It’s an old book I found,” I say with a shrug. “You know how I am with mysteries.”
Olivia takes a rubber curry brush out of the bucket. “You like books too much in general.”
I ignore this and grab my backpack. I pull the book out carefully. “Here it is.”
“Ooh.” Olivia snatches the book from my hands and holds it reverently. “This looks super old! Where did you find it?”
“Nowhere special. Just tucked away.”
“Hmmm.” Olivia puts the lock up to the light. “It seems simple enough.”
“Don’t break it, though. I don’t want the pages ripping or anything.”
“Chill, little Lulu. I’m a master at this kind of thing.” She pulls a bobby pin out of her hair and strips the end off with her teeth. She bends it until it’s one long, thin piece of metal before jiggling it into the lock. “The trick is to get it sharp enough and feel for the little thingy to click.”
I wait while she fiddles with it, her hair falling over her face and hiding the book from me. She makes a sound of triumph and holds the open book up in the air. “Ta-da! I’m a genius, y’all.”
“You are!” I laugh with relief. “Hand it over.”
“I wanna look,” she says, sitting on an overturned bucket. “I did all the hard work.”
I try to tamp down the impulse to rip it out of her hand, and I pull another buc
ket over. She tilts the book in my direction and hesitates before opening it. Even Olivia seems to feel the weight of the moment.
She flips to the first page, revealing what at first looks to be a bunch of scribbles. A jumble of curved letters swoop across the thin paper.
“What is this?” I mumble. Is it in code?
“I think it’s the Cyrillic alphabet,” Olivia says. “My cousins are from Serbia, and that’s what their language looks like.”
Why would Gram’s book be in another language? I’ve never even heard of Cyrillic. I clutch the book so tight, the tips of my fingers turn white.
“Thanks for opening it.” I close it and slip it into my backpack. Remy blows out air softly through his nostrils, drawing my attention back to him. He sniffs, wondering where his treat is.
Olivia pouts. “I wanted to read what was in it. Now we’ll never know what it says.”
“I’ll have to find out what language it is,” I say.
“I know what you can do!” She holds up her phone. “You can totally change the keyboard on your phone and compare the different Cyrillic ones. See which one looks the closest. I can help, if you want.”
“How do I change it?” I ask.
“Go to Settings, General, and then Keyboard.” She leans over my shoulder as I follow her directions. “Try Serbian first.”
I pick Serbian and examine the symbols. “It’s hard to tell if it’s the right one. I bet I can use Google Translate.”
“Try it,” she urges.
“We need to finish with the horses.” I tuck my phone in my pocket. “I’ll try again later and let you know what I find out.”
“I love solving stuff,” Olivia says, pulling a carrot out of her satchel and feeding it to her horse, Brandy. “A book written in another language abandoned at your house. Why don’t things like that ever happen to me?”
My imagination goes wild as I think of all the reasons why Gram would have a journal written in another language. Olivia and I groom our horses in silence for a few more minutes before Max shows up.
The Memory Keeper Page 3