The Memory Keeper

by Jennifer Camiccia

  “Did she teach Gram any French?”

  “Why so interested?” He smiles at me like he does when I amuse him.

  I fiddle with my seat belt. “I was thinking I might want to learn French.”

  “It’s a beautiful language. Gram could help you with it. I don’t think you forget your first language.”

  I try to untangle his sentence. “Why is French Gram’s first language? Wasn’t her dad American?”

  “Her stepdad,” Dad says, and I blink in surprise. “Gram lived in France as a little girl. Her biological dad died, and my grandmother moved here for a new life.”

  “What? I didn’t know that!” I twist and stare at him. “You always said Gram grew up in the city.”

  “She did, sort of. She and my grandmother moved here when Gram was a young girl.”

  My mind is reeling. I guess that might explain the French passport. But why the Russian one?

  “Where in France did she grow up?” I ask. “Did she ever tell you about her friend Jacob?”

  “I’m not sure. I think near Paris?” He glances over at me with a funny smile. “Lots of questions about Gram. I have some albums and things in the garage if you’re interested. I’m not sure I remember a Jacob, though.”

  “I’d like that.” I fidget in my seat with all the questions I want to ask. I don’t want Dad to know why I’m trying to find out about Gram’s past, so I need to be careful. But if he knows about France, then maybe he’ll know why she knows Russian. “Did Gram ever live in Russia?”

  He frowns, and my stomach drops. Have I asked one too many questions?

  “Why would you ask that? France and Russia are nowhere near each other. As far as I know, Gram’s never even been to Russia, much less lived there. Matter of fact, I don’t think she’s even left the United States. Not since she arrived here when she was about your age.”

  “Oh, yeah. I was just wondering about the accent she has sometimes. Doesn’t it sort of sound Russian?” I ask. I watch his expression for any sign he knows what I’m talking about.

  “Yeah, your mom and I were talking about the accent thing,” he says. “But I think she’s just been tired lately. And now that you mention it, it might be her French upbringing coming out. When I was a little boy, sometimes she’d say things in French. I used to love that.”

  Dad pulls into the parking lot next to the stucco buildings of the college. A small group of kids call out a greeting to him as they walk by. He waves and grins, his shoulders higher than they are at home, his steps lighter as we walk inside the ivy-covered building.

  Now all I want is to be at home so I can look through the stuff in the garage. Who knows what I might find.

  Dad strides to the front of the classroom and waves me in. “Good morning, hooligans. This is my daughter, Lulu. She’s here to keep you on your toes.”

  Fifty heads swivel in my direction. I try to ignore them as I sit in the chair Dad’s saved for me. But all I can think of is how there’s so much I don’t know about Gram. And I thought I knew her better than anyone.

  * * *

  When we get home, Dad delivers on his promise and shows me the pile of boxes. Most seem to be filled with pictures of people I don’t know.

  I choose a box and take books and albums out one by one to start from the bottom. After a while my neck gets all stiff like it does when I lift my saddle too high, and my eyes burn from studying every picture looking for a clue. It takes me hours just to get through one box.

  I pick the albums up, ready to put them back in the box when I notice two loose pictures wedged along the bottom flap. I scoop them out. One looks like a picture of Moscow, with buildings that are like colorful Hershey’s Kisses. The other is of the same girl in the passport.

  First the Russian passport and now a picture of Gram in what has to be Russia. I can’t ignore the evidence piling up. Dad might not know Gram lived in Russia, but I think there’s a lot that she’s kept from him. That she’s kept from me.

  What else has she kept from us?

  I spend the rest of the night on Google Translate. It’s painfully slow and my brain starts to throb, but I finally manage to piece together the first page of the book.

  January 3, 1958. Mama gave me this journal to help make sense of my life. She say write down what make me afraid, to take away the power from it.

  Tatyana my name is, and I will to turn thirteen soon. I love books and love my cat, name Tiny Gray. He likes to sleep with me when it is cold. And always it is cold.

  I look at the page. The grammar isn’t perfect, but it’s close enough for me to know this book is a journal. Gram’s journal, from when she was my age and living in Russia.

  11. The Brain Stem Is a Spy

  The stem of a flower isn’t the pretty part, but without it the bud would have no way to get water and food from the soil. Our brain stem is like that. It connects the brain to the spinal cord. It helps control our breathing, digestion, and blood movement. It helps the brain read the body’s messages. It deciphers the complex code like a CIA agent.

  * * *

  Once I tell Olivia about Gram’s passports and the journal, I instantly wish I hadn’t. I know how much she loves a mystery, and she’s been so distant lately. I thought if we solved this together, it might bring us back to the way things used to be.

  “She’s a spy,” Olivia whispers, looking around dramatically.

  “Just because she has a passport from Russia doesn’t make her a spy.” My voice squeaks like I’ve sucked helium out of a balloon.

  “It’s like we learned in history. The United States was practically at war with Russia. She must have moved here to spy on America. Like that TV show The Americans.”

  “I’m not allowed to watch that show.”

  Olivia wrinkles her nose. “I’m not either, but do you think that stopped me? This couple sounds and looks totally American, but they’re really Russian spies. They have kids and everything.”

  “Are the kids spies?”

  She frowns, like she’s trying to remember. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure they don’t know a thing. Sound familiar?”

  It did. My dad didn’t seem to know Gram was really from Russia. And she did have a lot of secrets. But it’s Gram.

  “That’s silly. Gram’s too old, and she takes care of us all the time. When would she have time to do spy stuff? Besides, we aren’t at war with Russia anymore.”

  “Not now.” Olivia rolls her eyes. “When she was young, duh. You said she used to travel a ton. Spies have to travel all the time. For missions and stuff.”

  I pat Remy’s neck, taking comfort in his warm breath across my hand. He nuzzles me, searching for the apple I usually give him after riding. “Later, boy. You have to work for it, remember?”

  “Besides,” Olivia continues, leading her horse closer, “they probably retired her or something. Or whatever they do to spies who are too old to do anything.”

  “Who’s a spy?” Max pops his head out of the tack room.

  I jump, and Remy snorts and shuffles sideways at my reaction. “Shh, boy. It’s okay,” I murmur.

  “Her grandmother,” Olivia answers before I can stop her. I flinch. Next she’ll be telling Piper.

  Max holds a hand out to Remy and pulls a face. “Sorry, big guy. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “He’s fine, and Gram is not a spy.” I work to keep calm for Remy’s sake and place a soothing hand on his muzzle.

  Max grins and steps back, holding his hands up as if I’m arresting him. “I’m not the one who said it.”

  I lead Remy out of the barn. The horses’ hooves are muffled in the dirt as Olivia follows behind and chatters excitedly to Max. “Lulu found a Russian passport inside an old journal her Gram wrote as a little girl living in”—Olivia stops and lowers her voice dramatically—“Russia.”

  I take a deep breath like Mom does when she’s trying to stop a panic attack. Remy tosses his head and nearly knocks me over. All of a sudden, I want to be
as far away as possible. I long for the feeling I get when I’m riding and the wind hits my face. I forget everything when I ride. It’s just me and Remy and the soft whisper of wind cleaning out my mixed-up brain.

  “Have you tried googling her?” Olivia asks right before she swings herself up onto Brandy.

  Max squints against the sun as he reaches forward to steady Remy while I mount up. “I’m pretty good at computers. I can look if you want.”

  My chest burns as I look down at him. “My gram isn’t a spy.”

  “So you keep saying. Then why’re you so mad?” He steps back when I urge Remy forward.

  I head out of the paddock without answering. My brain shuffles through the massive amounts of information I’ve compiled the last week, about memory and diseases that can affect it. I’m no closer to finding a way to fix Gram than when I began. I urge Remy into a gallop, my body naturally falling into the rhythmic pattern of his gait. Seagull squawks mix with the low huffs of Remy’s breath, and I feel my breathing slow.

  “Wait up, Lulu!” Olivia giggles when she catches up. “I don’t think anyone’s ever left Max in their dust like that before. You should have seen his face. But seriously, you should let him see what he can find. It can’t hurt, right?”

  “Let’s just ride, okay? I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Fine, but you know what they say about people who don’t face their fears?”

  It’s times like this that I hate the rule Dad has for me about not riding alone. But I know Olivia, and she’s not going to let any of this go. “No. What?”

  “I’m not sure. I just like how it sounds.” She shrugs and giggles again. “Race you to the fence!”

  I hurry to follow, and for the first time since the parking lot, I forget about everything. I laugh as Remy picks up speed; the power of his muscles lengthens his strides until we’re flying, soaring above the golden grass and compact earth, above the barn and trees.

  “You always win,” Olivia says with a good-natured smile. “Remy should have been a racehorse.”

  I laugh, a bubble of pure joy filling me. “He’s the best. But Brandy’s awesome too.”

  “I love her,” Olivia agrees.

  I turn Remy around, and we head back to the stables.

  “Sometimes I wish I could take Brandy and ride off forever,” Olivia says so softly I almost don’t hear her.

  I leap at the fantasy. It’s one we’ve talked about many times. “Life on the open trail, like modern-day cowgirls.”

  “But I’m not sure I could live without shopping.” Olivia giggles again, but this time it’s forced. Is something bothering her? Is it me?

  I squint in her direction, trying to figure out her mood. “You wouldn’t need the distraction. It would be just us and the horses. Sounds pretty perfect to me.”

  “Sure does.” But she doesn’t sound convinced.

  I almost tell Olivia about my memory. It would be such a relief to be able to trust her that much. I waver for a second, considering it. But I can’t get Piper out of my head.

  “Race you to the barn,” I yell instead.

  “You’re on!” Olivia’s reply escapes in the breeze whipping around us. She kicks Brandy into a gallop and leaves me in her dust.

  I urge Remy on, and with hardly any effort, he easily catches up. We gallop beside Brandy and Olivia at an easy pace, but I pull him back at the very end. Olivia cheers as she beats me to the barn, and I’m about to smile until I look past her to see Max watching me.

  Grit settles in my mouth with a tinge of embarrassment. Does he know I let Olivia win?

  This is something I’m not sure how to handle. Olivia and I’ve been friends since the first grade. I want to believe that she wouldn’t drop me even if she knew the whole truth about my memory. But I’m afraid that she might, so I find myself doing things like letting her win.

  Olivia laughs and hugs me when I get off Remy. “Sorry, Lulu. Is it wrong that I’m super excited to finally beat you in a race?”

  “It’s about time,” Max says with his usual smirk turned up even more obnoxiously than usual. “Remy looks mad at you, Lulu. Did you throw the race or something?”

  Max raises one brow like he’s waiting for me to confess. He might be guessing, but I’m pretty sure he knows. My palms start to sweat.

  I narrow my eyes, trying to signal what I’ll do to him if he even thinks about telling Olivia. He just grins and starts unbuckling Remy’s saddle.

  Olivia’s smile slips as she reads her texts. “I have to run. Can you take care of Brandy for me?”

  “Sure.” I grab Brandy’s reins, and Olivia stalks off, her boots kicking at the dirt.

  “Emergency?” Max asks, taking Brandy from me.

  I grab a brush and start on Remy’s back. “I guess.”

  He spins the cap on his head, and it makes the top part of his hair stick out. I wait for him to ask why I let Olivia win, but he surprises me by saying, “Did you want me to see what I can find out about your grandma? I know you guys are close, so I get why you want to know what’s up.”

  I’m about to answer when Clay’s excited shouts grab my attention. Gram’s van is pulled up by the barn, and Clay is holding his stuffed elephant out the window. Gram waves me forward. “Hurry, Lulu, I’m late.”

  “Go ahead,” Max says. “I’ll finish this.”

  “Thanks.” I turn to leave and then pause. “Can you double-check where she was born?” I ask in a rush. “Like, if I can give you a country or some place to search?”

  He holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

  I give it to him, and he punches in his number. His phone vibrates, and he waves it at me. “Text me all the info you have.”

  I shove my phone back in my coat and run to Gram.

  “Hey, what are you late for?” I ask her. I know her schedule as well as my own, and there are no appointments that I’m aware of. I’m usually the one who keeps track of that for her.

  “It’s with my friend who’s a doctor. Remember the one I told you about?”

  “Yeah.” I try not to sound skeptical.

  Gram hands Clay a cracker while I toss my riding gear in the trunk. “Yakov said I could meet him at his office in ten minutes. He’s squeezing me in.”

  “Yakov? What kind of name is that?”

  She’s quiet for a second before she turns on the van. “Just a name,” she says, her voice quivering.

  I swallow past the lump in my throat.

  12. Frontal Lobe

  There are lobes in the brain that are super important. They aren’t like earlobes, with no purpose other than to dangle jewelry. The frontal lobe makes something called dopamine, which helps nerve cells in the brain talk with one another. We use this part of the brain to make plans.

  * * *

  What was Gram’s plan?

  The doctor’s visit lasted all of ten minutes. Gram is back in the car before Clay finishes his juice box. It’s barely given me time to text Olivia to see why she had to leave so quickly.

  “That was fast.”

  “I’m as healthy as a horse,” Gram says with a brilliant smile. “Yakov took one look at me and gave me a clean bill of health. He promised to call your dad tomorrow with the results.”

  “He didn’t need to do any tests?” I know I sound suspicious, but I can’t help myself. I am suspicious.

  “He did, and I passed with flying colors.” She drives home slower than usual, her fingers tapping to a beat only she hears.

  We pull into the driveway, and Gram puts the van in park. She frowns and tugs on the key still in the ignition. When it doesn’t come out, her hands shake and she sits back in her seat. Her eyes close with a flutter.

  “It’s okay,” I murmur. I pull out the key for her and open the back door so I can grab Clay. “I’ll get Clay. Do you want to go inside and ask Mom for a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, thank you, sweet girl. I’m feeling very tired, I think.”

 
“Tired” has become the code word for forgetful or confused.

  I hand Clay off to Mom and make Gram a cup of tea. She settles in front of the television and falls asleep.

  Mom sniffs Clay’s hair. “When’s the last time you had a bath, big boy?” She glances at me with raised brows. “Has Gram washed his hair lately?”

  I bristle. How dare she act like this is Gram’s fault? Gram isn’t his mother. “I think so,” I bite out.

  “Let’s go scrub-a-dub-dub you,” Mom sings, propping Clay on her hip. She gives me a quick smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. They look mad.

  I close my eyes and play back the last week. My memory screeches with hundreds of seconds of rewinding as I search for a time Gram might have given Clay a bath. The last time was nearly eight days ago. No wonder he stinks.

  A peach pit of worry shoves against my ribs. The brochure to the retirement home is torn into bits and thrown away in the trash can outside, and I haven’t seen or heard anything more about sending Gram away. But that doesn’t mean Mom and Dad won’t start thinking about it again.

  I add Clay’s bath time to the growing list of things I need to double-check for Gram. As I think about everything I need to keep track of, I feel a weight settling on me, like when I have to hoist Remy’s saddle on his back. It takes all my strength, and my arms shake so hard, sometimes I’m afraid I’ll drop it.

  As soon as I can, I lock myself in my bedroom. Piled in the corner are the heaps of albums I’ve been going through. Most of them show Dad as a baby, with Gram and Grandpa Daniel smiling and laughing in all the pictures.

  Grandpa Daniel died before I was born, but I can tell I would have liked him. His eyes are smiley all the time, even when he’s looking straight-faced at the camera.

  I take the passport out of the book I hid it in. Tatyana Petrov. I text the name to Max.

  I change out of my riding clothes and grab some of the albums. I need to at least try to talk to her. I don’t want to make her emotional and cause a “tired” episode, but I can’t help thinking about Olivia’s idea of Gram being a spy. I need to find out more about Gram’s past. Even if that means I risk making Gram mad at me.