I keep quiet. Let them think I’ve looked it up on my phone. They don’t need to know about the map floating in the air to the right of me. Besides, lots of people remember things from seven or eight years ago.
Olivia takes advantage of my silence to volley questions at Max about how he knows so much on the subject of espionage. Apparently, Max likes spy novels and movies. I’m taking the word of someone whose only authority is his library card.
“Here we are,” the driver says. We slow down at the empty information booth, and we drive past, even though it clearly states to put the required money in the box.
“Shouldn’t we pay?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
“Not if we’re only going to be here a few minutes,” Max answers.
The driver parks near the creek, and Max pulls open my car door.
“We should still pay,” I mumble.
The scent of the trees instantly triggers the exact memory I had at the park. This time I hear what Gram is saying to me. Don’t worry, Lulu. He isn’t going to hurt you. I won’t ever let anyone hurt you.
“You’ve got that look again,” Max says. “You remembering something?”
I blink him into focus. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
He rubs a quick hand over his head and flings his arm to point out the campground. “Walk around and see if anything else pops up. Maybe you’ll remember something more specific.”
“Watch out for poison oak,” Olivia warns. “Last time I camped, I accidentally touched some, and it was so itchy. So, like, stay on the path and don’t pick up random sticks.”
I nod to let her know I’m listening while I look around for something familiar. Is it weird to recognize a tree in a park you haven’t been to in eight years? I recognize the nearest one, its trunk twisting in a spiral, several branches dipping low over the water.
There’d been a squirrel running between the water and me. I was trying to coax it to me while Gram talked to the man. I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on the words they were saying. Each word slows down, the Cyrillic alphabet punching holes in my memory of then and now.
I repeat the words out loud, the foreign sounds thick on my tongue. When I open my eyes, Olivia is staring at me with her mouth wide open. Max smiles at me while he furiously types on his phone.
“We can translate it later,” he says. “But it sure sounds like Russian.”
Fatigue settles in my muscles like a million pounds. “I need to get home.”
Max finishes typing, and we all pile back in the car. Max asks the driver to stop at the guard gate. He hops out and stuffs a five-dollar bill in the box. His mouth isn’t twisted in its usual smirk, and he meets my eyes only for a second before he looks away.
Most people who don’t have artists for moms don’t know how many browns there are. There is angry brown, mean brown, boring brown, sarcastic brown, gentle brown, funny brown. I used to think his eyes were sarcastic brown, but I was wrong. His eyes are a funny brown, a gentle brown. The kind horses have. The kind you can trust.
I’d rather think about Max’s eyes than the very real possibility that Gram is not only a liar and a spy, but also someone else I’ve never really known. What do I do if that’s true? Do I help her remember something that should stay forgotten?
15. Snap, Crackle, Pop
Synapses are just what they sound like—sizzle and snap. Snap, crackle, pop goes the brain. If the nerve signals are like electricity, then the neurons are like wires. Which would make synapses the outlets we plug our lamps into. Without the snap of the synapses, there’s no way for the nerve cells to turn on and talk to one another.
* * *
My synapses snap, and an electric current of information hums through me.
“Thanks for helping me,” I say as the car pulls along the curb.
“I’ll text you what I find.” Max twists in his seat so he can look me in the eyes. He almost seems worried about me, but I push that out of my mind. It’s one thing for him to not act like a jerk, but it’s a whole other thing to actually be a friend.
Olivia stays in the car as I climb out. “Call me and tell me everything,” she says, grabbing my hand.
“I thought you were spending the night?” I ask.
“My mom texted and she wants me to come home.” Her smile is wide, but her eyes are shiny. Like she’s trying not to cry.
“Is your mom okay?”
Olivia makes a face. “She’s just being needy. You know how moms are.”
I smile, but something twists in my stomach. I wish my mom needed me like Olivia’s needs her. I want nothing more than to find Gram and hug her tight. I wave as they back out of the driveway, my fingers so numb I can barely feel them.
Gram leans against the kitchen counter with her arms folded across her chest. “It’s dark, Lulu. What’s my rule?”
I walk to her, and she automatically opens her arms to hug me. I bury my face against the silky texture of her blouse. The scent of vanilla and lavender smells like home.
“Are you okay? Did something happen?”
I shake my head. “I don’t feel good,” I say. Another lie in the pile of lies building around me.
She examines me. Her fingers are cool against my forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Why don’t you go rest on the couch, and I’ll make you some hot chocolate?”
My smile is wobbly at best. “Okay.”
I curl up in the corner with my favorite blanket. Gram comes in once the hot chocolate is ready and hands it to me. “I know what might make you feel better. Would you like another story?”
Not after her last story. I don’t want to think about anyone’s dad hurting his family. Maybe Gram was right and some things should stay forgotten. Then again, how will I find what might cure Gram if I don’t listen?
“Okay.”
She leans back, and I place my head on her shoulder. Her voice vibrates against my cheek as she speaks.
“One winter day Jacob and I snuck out of school. We spent the day at the park near our apartment building. There was a lake in the park that had frozen over, and the ice seemed to go for miles. He dared me to walk out on it with him.
“I worried it might break and swallow us whole. I remember thinking, will the water welcome me, or spit me back out? It was so cold that ice crystals formed on our eyelashes and I could no longer feel my fingers or toes. We finally went to my apartment. My parents were at work, and we pretended it was just the two of us in the whole world, with the teakettle whistling and my cat begging us to pet him.
“I was anxious that his papa would be angry if he found out that Jacob skipped school. But Jacob told me that his papa wouldn’t care. His smile seemed so carefree, but Jacob could never lie without smiling. I liked that about him. How I could tell what he was thinking or feeling even if his words said something different.
“I was furious at his papa for hurting him. Mama said some men changed when they drank too much. The alcohol changed them to someone else entirely. They could be a person you loved and then switch to someone you didn’t even recognize.
“I wished Jacob had a papa like mine. That night Papa came home early and took Mama and me to the theater. We got the best seats because of Papa. His job made him very important, and people always gave him gifts. And the play was too magical to put into words. The lead actress sang like an angel.”
Gram smiles dreamily, as if she could still hear the actress. She and I sit for what seems like hours after she finishes her story. She breathes like she’s just done the hundred-yard dash.
“Are you okay, Gram?” I finally whisper. I sit up to meet her gaze.
The lines around her eyes droop like the fringe on the throw pillows. “Yes, my sweet girl. How are you feeling?”
“I’m better. I think I’ll go to bed now.”
She smiles. “Go on up and I’ll come tuck you in.”
I climb into bed and read until my eyes burn. After an hour, I finally give up on her coming. It’s one of the first times sh
e hasn’t tucked me in when she said she would. Was it the story? Is telling her memories making things worse instead of better?
Before I go to sleep, I look up articles about Russia in the fifties. The former Soviet Union sounds like something straight out of The Hunger Games. Leaving the country wasn’t allowed—you couldn’t just buy a plane ticket. You needed special permission and a bunch of paperwork. So how did Gram and her mom escape? Were they planted here as spies? And if they were… what happens if the United States finds that out?
I give up on sleeping, but I must drop off at some point. Dad shakes me awake as I’m dreaming about razor wires and machine guns chasing Gram and me as we run.
“Hey, sweetie,” he says. “Did you want to come in to work with me today?”
I blink and try to slow down the frantic beat of my heart.
“Um, I think I have plans with Olivia today,” I say. It’s kind of sweet that he wants me to come to school with him again, but there’s too much at stake for me to take any time off. “Maybe next week?”
“Sure thing. Gram says you weren’t feeling well last night?”
“Yeah, I’m better now.” I smile to prove it.
He ruffles my hair. “Glad to hear it. See you tonight.”
“Dad?”
He pauses at my door and flashes me one of his goofy smiles. “Yeah?”
I struggle with what I want to ask, so I change my mind. “I love you,” I say instead.
He grins, and I’m happy I didn’t ask him if he thought his mom was a Russian spy. “Love you too, Lulu Lemon.”
16. Flashbulb Memory
There are memories called flashbulb memories. They are extremely intense, highly detailed snapshots of a moment that is usually very emotional to us. Like when my parents talk in hushed tones about the terrorist attacks on 9/11 like they happened yesterday instead of seventeen years ago.
These intense memories are often imprecise. We allow details of others’ stories to mix with our own memories. Until we are actually remembering someone else’s experience like it’s our own.
* * *
Max: I translated the Russian you remembered. It means: You are a traitor. It won’t matter where you hide. It will find you.
I don’t tell him that I already translated it. Then I’d have to explain how remembering the Russian was as easy as closing my eyes and listening to my memory. How I could slow down what the man yelled until I heard the words one at a time. My translation was close to his with only small differences: You betrayed me. You can’t hide from it. It will always find you.
I text back.
Me: Yeah. That doesn’t sound scary or anything.
Max: It doesn’t sound good.
Me: I think I’m going to just ask her if she’s from Russia. I’m going to show her the journal and not tell her I found the passports. See what she says.
Max: Dude. Not sure that’s a good idea, but you do what you got to. Do you want me to come over so you’re not alone with her?
Me: Nah. She’s my grandmother.
Max: Still a hard thing to do
Me: I’m fine. I’ll let you know what happens.
Max: Wait! I don’t want to tell you over the phone, but I sort of did some more digging and I found something weird. Can you come to the stables? See what it is first and then talk to her, if you still think you should. I’m working today. You can say you have a lesson. Like in half an hour?
Me: Can’t you just tell me?
Max: No. I need to show you. It’s important.
Me: Okay.
I text Olivia with the plan and tear my bedroom apart searching for my blue top. Olivia still hasn’t responded after I finish getting ready. It isn’t like her to ignore a text. She hates leaving any notifications unanswered.
I head down to the kitchen, where Mom is feeding Clay. He pours orange juice in his eggs and stirs them with a plastic dinosaur.
“Hey, Lulu. I didn’t know you had a lesson today.” Mom motions to my riding outfit. “Gram ran to the store, and you know I hate to go out on a Saturday.”
Or any other day. I try to hide my impatience, but she sees something that gives me away. Her smile falters, and her wrist flicks as if she’s painting. “Can you ask Olivia’s mom to pick you up?”
I glance at my phone, but there’s still no text from Olivia. “Sure, I can ask.”
I text Max instead, my fingers flying.
Me: No way to get there right now.
My phone immediately buzzes.
Max: Sending an Uber.
My lies tumble from me even more effortlessly than before. “Her mom says she will.”
“Great!” Mom’s overly chipper voice hurts my ears. “I’m sorry I can’t take you. I’m feeling stronger lately, so I thought I’d start driving you to lessons during the week. Would you like that?”
I don’t know how to answer. I guess it would be okay if it were just because she wanted to spend time with me. But what if this is about her and Dad shipping Gram off to a home?
“Olivia’s mom will be here in five minutes. I’ll just meet her down the road so she doesn’t have to back up.” I grab a granola bar and duck out the door before Mom can say anything else.
I don’t give her time to ask when I’ll be home or any of the other hundreds of questions Gram would ask. In this instance, it works in my favor. I hurry down the road just in time to see the same Uber driver pull over.
“Hey again,” she says with a friendly smile.
“Thanks for getting me.”
“It’s my job. Where are your friends?”
Even the Uber driver pays more attention to me. I look out the window. “I’m meeting up with them,” I say. I spend the ride twisting my fingers and seeing how far they can bend.
17. Sensory Stage
We store memories in three different ways: first in the sensory stage, then in short-term, and then in long-term for those memories that stand out. Before a memory makes it to the big time, it has to get past the other two. It’s kind of like our memories are auditioning for a bigger role on the stage of our lives. Will they be famous and remembered for all time, or will they be one of those actors no one knows and instantly forgets? To remember something, first we see, smell, touch, or hear something, and it triggers an emotion. The emotion, especially if it’s strong enough, then pulls up the stored memory.
* * *
I see Max smile at me. The stables are filled with the smell of hay and manure. His voice is kind of rumbly, but it cracks and goes higher when he’s excited about something. He reaches over and hands me an envelope, and his hand brushes mine. Sensory memory leaps right past short-term and straight to long-term memory. The moment I stopped thinking of Max as a jerk.
“Open it.” He glances at the envelope I clutch in my hands.
I fold the gold-colored metal clips back so they can fit through the holes, and I take my time sliding the papers out. They slip out, inch by inch, until they’re in my lap.
I glance down and then look up so fast my neck cracks. “What?”
“I know!” he says, his voice sliding up and down like a violin. “This is a file I found on your gram. It’s all crossed out.”
“But—but what does it mean?” I scour the pages for any words that aren’t completely blotted out with thick black lines. I hold the paper up to the light, but there’s no way to see what’s written underneath.
“I think you know.”
A knot sits in my stomach, and I press down on it. “Where did you find this?”
Max kicks at a rock. “I hacked the FBI database. Well, technically I hacked my uncle’s computer. But since he works there, he has access to records the public recorder doesn’t. I kept hitting a wall with how your gram immigrated here. So I offered to walk Molly—that’s his beagle.” He spreads his arms wide. “Then presto. While he played video games, I downloaded everything I could about your gram.”
“A hacker?” I whisper. “What if you get caught?”
; Max shrugs. “I won’t. I’m good at it. I’m like a computer ninja.”
“And so humble and shy about it.”
“Hey,” Max says with a smug grin. “No reason to be humble when you’re the best, and I’m the best. No one will even know. And who are we hurting? No one, that’s who.”
I stare back down at the paper. “But why is it all crossed out like this?”
“This is what they call ‘redacted.’ It’s when the government blacks out things they don’t want anyone to know.”
“Is this something else you learned from watching eighties spy movies?” I ask.
He shakes his head like I’ve disappointed him. “Dude, that hurts. My knowledge is so much more than movies and books. I listen when my uncle talks about his job. I know things. A lot of very important things. Plus, I’m sort of a genius. Not to brag or anything.”
“Okay, I get it.” I fold the paper in half. “Whatever it is must have happened a long time ago. Do you think they still care?” If Olivia were here, this is when she’d roll her eyes and say, Duh, Lulu.
Instead, Max looks at me patiently and speaks very slowly. “They redacted a five-page file. They obviously still care.”
I fumble with my phone, but there’s still no answer from Olivia. “Where is she?”
“Who?” He waves to some girls walking by, and they giggle.
“Olivia. She needs to hear this.”
He ducks his head, his hair flopping over his eyes. “You haven’t talked to her?”
I slip the papers back into the envelope. “Not since last night. Why?”
He won’t meet my gaze. “Maybe you should call her.”
My stomach lurches like I’ve eaten too many gummy worms. “Tell me.”
He glances around to make sure we won’t be overheard. “When we got to her house last night, her mom and dad were fighting. I think maybe Olivia’s mom was kicking him out.”
“What? But they’re super in love!” Olivia always talked about all the flowers and candy her dad brought her mom. My dad only buys Mom stuff on their anniversary.
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