The Memory Keeper

by Jennifer Camiccia

  “Thanks. I’ll take it from here,” he says. “Your grandmother feeling better, Lulu?”

  Heat floods my cheeks, and I avoid Olivia’s questioning look. “Yes. Thanks for your help.”

  “Help?” Olivia squeaks. “What help?”

  Max takes in my wide eyes for a second before turning to Olivia. “I hear you might enter the next jumping competition. I think you’ve got a good shot at placing. Let me know if you want extra time in the arena.”

  Olivia’s mouth opens and closes. “Sure, okay, thanks.”

  Max nods before heading toward his dad’s office. He knew exactly what to say to distract Olivia. She’s completely forgotten to be mad at him and chatters excitedly about the competition while we wait in front of the barn to be picked up.

  I’m also sort of surprised that Max kept quiet about Gram. He could have made fun of her—of me—but he didn’t.

  “I bet if I add another lesson on the weekend, it would totally help me get ready. What do you think?” Olivia asks.

  Before I can answer, Piper stomps out of the barn and drops her bag so close to my foot, the strap whips my leg. “Ugh, I can’t believe the babysitter drove her own clunker when my mom told her she can drive the Audi. So apparently it broke down and I have to, like, wait. Can I just catch a ride, Olivia?”

  Olivia glances at me from the corner of her eye. “Um, sure!”

  Piper flashes me a tight smile. “Seems like Max had it out for you today. Give people power and they turn into complete jerks, right?”

  “He was just doing his job,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth. Since when do I defend Max Rodriguez?

  Piper sniffs and turns her back on me to face Olivia. “I was wondering if we can stop off at this little shop on the way to my house? Their ice cream is so completely amazing. It will change your life.”

  Olivia laughs as if Piper is the funniest person in the world. “I love ice cream!” She leans around Piper so she can see me. “What about you, Lulu? You want to get some ice cream with us?”

  I try to return Olivia’s smile. “If you’re talking about the ice cream shop on the corner of Fourth Street, they’re closed for the next two weeks. They go out of town this time every year.”

  “They were just open yesterday,” Piper says, whipping her head around to give me her famous glare.

  “They always close from the third weekend of June to the first weekend of July,” I say. There’s no way I’m giving in to Piper when I know I’m right. There’s something satisfying about proving her wrong.

  Piper’s eyes narrow. “Is there a sign on the shop window or something?”

  “No,” I answer.

  “Then how do you know?” She folds her arms and nods to Olivia like she’s proving a point.

  Olivia turns to me and waits for my answer. For the logical explanation Piper somehow knows I won’t have.

  “The owner told me,” I say, feeling like I can’t take a deep enough breath. I understand what Piper’s trying to do. She wants to make me look ridiculous in front of my best friend. Piper’s poisoned everyone else against me; it’s only a matter of time before Olivia listens to her too.

  “When did the owner tell you?” Piper’s smile is all teeth and pink lip gloss.

  I slowly close my fingers into a fist and squeeze it tight. “Last year before they left.”

  “And you remembered all this time?” Piper asks, her eyes wide with fake shock. “Do you stalk them, too? Is there anyone you don’t stalk?”

  There’s a pile of horse manure behind Piper. I bet her shiny boots have never once touched any kind of poop, and for one brief second I fantasize about changing that.

  “Remembering when an ice cream store closes isn’t stalking them,” Olivia says. I glance at her gratefully, but she avoids my gaze and bites her thumbnail. If Olivia sees me differently after the smallest glimpse of my memory, what will happen if she finds out the whole truth?

  “Whatever,” Piper says, picking up her purse. “There’s your mom, Olivia. If the ice cream place is closed, you can come over to my place for a swim.” She turns and heads to Olivia’s car without a glance at me.

  “Later, Lulu.” Olivia waves as she follows Piper, but she still won’t look me in the eye.

  I stare as they drive off, the dust from the road kicked up behind the car. With Gram slipping away, I won’t have anyone else if Olivia stops being my friend too.

  When Gram pulls up next to the barn, I try to shake off the sadness that covers me in a film of grit and dirt. She fiddles with the buttons by the steering wheel, her head bent as she tries to find the right one to unlock my door. I knock on her window until she rolls it down, and point to the button she’s searching for.

  She pushes it with a flustered laugh. “Oh, there it is. All these buttons are so confusing, yes?”

  I don’t reply as I throw my stuff on the floor next to Clay. My bag falls over and the book slides out. I shove it back inside with a quick glance at Gram, but her focus is on the road ahead.

  My plan had been to go home and call Olivia so we could find the right language. But now I’m not sure what to do.

  7. Meninges

  Just like a water filter protects us from drinking gross stuff, our meninges are made up of three membranes that protect our brain and spine: the pia layer, the arachnoid layer, and the dura layer, or PAD. These three layers “pad” the brain and spinal cord. They provide a supportive framework for the central nervous system and protect it. The more I think about it, the more I realize I have to be the meninges and protect Gram. No matter what it takes.

  * * *

  Gram smiles when I slip into the front seat of the van. “Good lesson?”

  “Not bad. Max taught it. I guess he did okay.”

  “He’s such a nice boy. Such good manners and so handsome.”

  “Mmm.” I push away thoughts of Olivia and Piper and the hurt that bubbled up when Olivia refused to meet my eye. I have to be even more careful about hiding my secret. No one but Gram can ever know the real me. No one else would understand. And if she forgot who I was…

  I have to find a way to keep that from happening.

  Everything seems to lead back to the book. I could ask Gram what language it’s written in, but I also don’t want to set her off. Just talking about the book earlier seemed to make her memory worse.

  “Gram, do you know another language?”

  She glances at me, her eyebrows rising like they do when I ask for the sugar cereal she never lets me get. “Why?”

  “Max… um… Max speaks Spanish fluently.” Since she seems to think Max is the sweetest boy ever.

  She smiles again. “Of course! He must have grown up speaking it. It will be natural for him.”

  “I was thinking about learning another language,” I say. The lie tightens inside my throat. It feels like the time I drank milk and broke into hives.

  “Perhaps Max will teach you some Spanish.”

  “Maybe.” And maybe I’d rather shove toothpicks under my fingernails. Bad enough he’s teaching my riding lessons with his know-it-all smirk. Being nice for one second doesn’t automatically erase years of lording it over me.

  “I always think it’s good to know more than one language,” Gram continues. “Most people in Europe know three or four. My mother could speak at least that many.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I say softly.

  We pull up to the house, and Gram smiles wistfully. “She had a real ear for language. She always said one day she wanted to learn Chinese. Your great-grandfather used to say she could mimic any accent flawlessly.”

  “What was her first language?”

  Gram looks over at me, but her eyes are out of focus. As if she sees something that isn’t there.

  “Gram?” I press. I don’t want to push her too far, but I really need an answer.

  Clay lets out a screech. “Out!” he yells, kicking his legs furiously against the back of the seat.

  “Than
ks a lot, brat,” I mutter. Gram jerks out of her limbo and rushes around the side of the van to unbuckle him.

  She kisses his cheek. “Let’s get you inside, sweet boy.” He starts to cry when she takes too long to unhook him. Gram mumbles to herself before stepping back and looking at me in confusion. “It’s stuck.”

  I step around her and easily unsnap the buckle with one hand. Clay launches himself into my arms, and I permit his sloppy kisses as I carry him to the porch. He plops down on the welcome mat and waits as I take his shoes off.

  “Lulu!” he shouts, and barrels inside. I kick off my boots on the porch and pad into the house in my socks.

  “Oh good, you’re home,” Mom says, rushing down the stairs. “I need to pop off to the store for ten minutes. Can you watch them, Sue?”

  What does she think Gram’s been doing all day? Her life is spent taking care of us.

  Before Gram came, Mom would sometimes be too sad to even get out of bed. I can understand her sadness about the baby, but why did having Clay make her worse? Sometimes I think she uses her sadness as an excuse to stay away from us. As if Maisie were her one true child and Clay and I will never be enough.

  Gram frowns faintly like she does when she’s confused. My heart thumps hard. What if she has one of her forgetful episodes in front of Mom?

  Mom slips her shoes on and grabs her purse. She waits for Gram’s answer.

  Gram opens her mouth, but I can see the confusion painted across her face, so I start to cough. I cough so loud, my throat hurts with it.

  Mom steps backward. “Goodness, Lulu. Are you getting sick?”

  “Allergies. I get them sometimes after I ride,” I say, moving to the door so Mom faces me and away from Gram. I’ve never had allergies, but Mom won’t know that. She doesn’t like to watch me ride. Her excuse is that she worries about me falling, but it’s kind of hard to believe that when you add everything else together.

  “Okay. Well, I’ll be back in a bit. Did you need anything? I can get you those granola bars you like. The ones with the chocolate chips.”

  I hate granola bars and Clay won’t eat anything with chocolate in it. But this isn’t surprising, coming from Mom. “No, thanks,” I say.

  Mom checks her text messages before flashing me a distracted smile. “Okay, well, text me if you think of anything you might want.” She squints over my shoulder to where Gram is helping Clay pick out books to read. Mom lowers her voice to a near whisper. “Keep an eye on Gram for me, okay? Let me know if she seems… not herself.”

  I fold both arms across my chest. “What do you mean?” I ask.

  Mom waves a hand like she’s painting the air. “Oh, you know. If she gets too tired or confused.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from yelling. “Why do you say that?” My voice breaks and squeaks, like someone playing trumpet for the first time.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mom says, already halfway out the door. “Help her, okay?”

  “I will, but she’s fine. Seriously. I don’t know why you’re even saying that.”

  Mom glances back, her hand on the doorknob. “It’s not a huge deal, Lulu. Dad’s worried that she seems a little tired. But I’m happy to know you haven’t noticed anything.”

  I nod and force a smile. “Yep. Gram’s been great. She said she was going to make her famous lasagna tonight.”

  Mom tucks her thick hair behind one ear. “That sounds wonderful. I’ll call your dad and let him know.”

  I lean against the closed door, my throat still scratchy from my faked coughing fit. I listen as Mom starts the car. What would happen if I told her and Dad the truth?

  I think of our family before Gram showed up—of Mom in bed all day, of Dad trying to keep us out of the way, of me doing my best to take care of Clay. I grit my teeth. They wouldn’t help Gram if they knew the truth. They’d just have another reason to send her away. Away from me.

  I have to hold them off for a little bit longer. Just until I find the memory that will fix Gram. And in the meantime, to show Mom and Dad that Gram is fine, I have to make sure she makes the best lasagna they’ve ever had.

  I peek into the living room on my way to the kitchen. Gram and Clay are cuddled together on the couch, reading his favorite animal sounds book. The sound of Clay’s moos follows me into the kitchen.

  I pull out Gram’s recipe book, the one with handwritten recipes filed behind pictures she’s cut out of culinary magazines. The last time we made one of her recipes together, the measurements confused her and I had to take over. She sat in the chair with a cup of tea and watched as I crushed garlic and sautéed onions, and the smells seemed to wrap around me like a warm hug.

  This time I prep all the ingredients. I chop the onions, tomatoes, and garlic and put the water on to boil. The egg-and-garlic mixture is folded inside the ricotta. My arms ache as I grate a mountain of mozzarella cheese. When I go get Gram, all she has to do is help me layer the lasagna.

  “Oh, Lulu,” she says after tasting my sauce. “This is divine. What a beautiful job you’ve done. Your parents will be so proud.”

  “You made the lasagna, Gram,” I insist. “I just helped like I always do. It’s your recipe and you added the basil I forgot. You made it.”

  She smiles indulgently. “If you say so.”

  I set the timer and start to clean the kitchen. “Promise me, Gram. Promise me you won’t say I made the lasagna.”

  Gram frowns, but nods. “If it’s so important to you, my sweet girl, then I won’t tell them. And you know I am proud of you, yes?”

  This is one of the reasons I love her so much. No matter what I say or do, she tries to figure me out. I hug her tight and feel the thin bones of her back beneath my hands, the aroma of tomato sauce and onions filling my nostrils. Another memory to file away.

  Once the lasagna is in the oven, I leave Clay playing quietly with his trucks and Gram reading in her chair. I run up to my room, back to the mysterious black book.

  I lock the door and open the book to the first page. Click. I memorize the pattern of symbols and try several Cyrillic keyboards on my phone. Then I try Google Translate and Bing Microsoft Translator. Both say the same thing.

  I blink. My grandmother was born and raised in California. How and, more importantly, why does she have a book handwritten in Russian?

  8. Give Me a C

  There is a caudate nucleus on each side of the brain. They are shaped like the letter C and are linked to long-term memory and things you do automatically, like read or tie your shoelaces. The brains of those with HSAM have enlarged caudate nuclei. So, basically, my brain is like a really hyper cheerleader shouting out cheers over and over. Each memory triggering another, like C-shaped dominoes.

  * * *

  Much to my frustration, no matter how many memories flash before me, they don’t help me solve the problem of translating Russian. After spending an hour trying to understand one sentence, I close the book with a thud. The Russian Cyrillic alphabet makes it doubly hard to figure out. At this rate, translating the book will take me all summer. I even downloaded a translation app, but it skipped over words, and I started to get a headache trying to piece the broken messages together.

  I need to find another way—a faster way. I shove the book under my mattress and head downstairs. Mom and Clay are watching some boring kiddie show in the family room, which means Gram is either resting or watching her own shows.

  Mom gives me a sleepy smile over Clay’s tousled curls. Warmth fills me to my fingers and toes, and I smile back. It’s a good day when she cuddles Clay and actually sees me. It reminds me of what used to be.

  Click. Shimmering squares float in front of me. Somehow I know that each one is a memory of what it was like before Maisie died. Instead of appearing in a map or calendar form, these are more like a game board marching across the room. Like a giant Candy Land game, each square a day full of memories.

  It sort of makes sense—my brain must have automatically stored these memories in a way
that made sense to a three-year-old. I reach out and touch one. It opens, and I hear Mom’s laughter, lighter than the wind chimes outside.

  Click. The first square: Mom swings me up in her arms and tickles my chin. The soft scratchiness of her nails against my skin. My own shrieks of laughter echo in the air around me.

  Days line up in colorful cubes. I pick one after another.

  Each memory is another version of the same joy. In every one, Mom spends hours with me. She reads to me, sings to me, brushes my hair, and plays games with me. Then Dad comes home, and we go on walks and eat together. They laugh and kiss and take turns kissing me.

  This autobiographical memory of mine might not be so bad. There are lots of good memories. Proof that my family wasn’t always broken. That maybe, just maybe, we can get back to the way it used to be.

  I close the game board of memories and tuck it back into place. Energy pumps through me, and I hold on to the happiness still tingling in my fingers and toes. The individual memories are filed away, but the warmth and laughter still hang in the air around me.

  I can’t forget how Mom and Dad turned away from me. But I also can’t forget all that happened before they did. Each memory—good and bad—is a part of me. Each feeling stays with me, just as clear as the day it happened.

  * * *

  Later that evening I knock on Gram’s door. She’s getting ready for bed, her hair pinned to her head in tight curls. I’m always fascinated with how different she looks without her hair done and with no makeup on. Even her long blue robe transforms her into a more relaxed version of herself.

  “Night, Gram.”

  She holds out her arms and kisses both of my cheeks. “Good night, my sweet girl. Is everything all right? You seem worried. The lasagna was a huge success.”

  Gram sees all. Even when she’s not herself, she can sense when I’m struggling. I make an effort to smile. “I am a little worried about you,” I admit. “You get kind of forgetful sometimes, and it… I don’t know. I wanted Mom and Dad to think you made the lasagna all on your own because I think they’re worried too.”