The Memory Keeper

by Jennifer Camiccia

  “And just who do you think I am?” His accent gets thicker, and it makes him sound like one of those bad guys in the movies my dad always watches.

  “We don’t know,” I hurry to say. I’m not about to let Max ruin this whole thing. What if this is the only way I’ll ever know the truth? “I just know she came to see you. And that maybe she wasn’t born in France like my dad always said. I think maybe she was born in Russia.”

  Yakov pushes off the bench and stands up to his full height. Olivia and I back up a few steps. His arms look pretty long. I don’t think he’d have too hard a time grabbing us if he wanted to.

  “This is not my secret to tell,” he says. “Tatyana… Sue must be the one.”

  “But what if she already—” I shut my mouth. If I tell this man anything about Gram, he could use it against her.

  “Tell me why you’re here, little Tatyana,” he orders.

  “Did you know her in Russia?” I ask, pulling myself up and meeting his stare. His eyes bore into mine.

  His hand falls, and a part of his mouth twists in a half smile. “I think you learned your interrogation techniques from your babushka. She could always get answers from me. I will answer your questions when you are honest with me.”

  My heart leaps to my throat. I don’t even know where to start. I point to his tattoos. “Where did you get those?”

  He grins as if I’ve made a joke. “You are so much like her. She always knew how to pivot like a ballerina. How about this, little one? I will tell you this one thing. I received these tattoos courtesy of the Russian army. I am a retired soldier. Does that satisfy you?” He shakes his head and laughs. “No, I can see it does not. You want all my secrets, da?”

  Max clears his throat. “Listen, man, Lulu needs answers. Can you understand that? If you really care what happens to her grandmother, then you’ll tell her what you know.”

  Yakov glances at him before turning his full attention back to me. “I do care about your babushka. This is why I cannot speak to you until I talk to her first.”

  23. Cerebrum

  The largest part of the brain is the cerebrum. It’s folded in ridges and valleys, and if you flattened them out it would take up about two and a half square feet. We really need our brains to be all wrinkled or they would never fit inside our skulls.

  * * *

  Now that I’ve flattened out the problem with Yakov, it’s way bigger than I first thought. I’m never going to get it to fit back into the neat place it was before we came up with this stupid plan. Now Yakov is going to tell Gram. What if the stress makes her memory worse? It seems like every time she talks about her past, she gets more… unfocused.

  “It’s me,” Yakov says, and then speaks rapid Russian into the phone. His eyes narrow on me while he talks.

  I may not understand Russian, but I have a pretty good idea what he’s saying to Gram right now. Max smirks his trademark smirk, and I start to see it isn’t him being a jerk at all. It’s what he does when he’s nervous and not sure what to do.

  Yakov pockets his phone and points to me. “Stay here, little one. Your babushka is on her way.”

  “Great. Just great,” Olivia mutters. “We’re busted.”

  Max shifts from one foot to the other. “Maybe we should get out of here?”

  “She knows we’re here,” I say. “How will running away help?”

  He looks over his shoulder and grimaces. “I guess it won’t, but she sure looks mad.”

  I bite my lip to keep from smiling at Max’s terrified expression. It almost makes the sight of Gram storming down the path worth it. Almost.

  “What do you think you’re doing, young lady?” Gram sets Clay down and faces me with both hands on her hips.

  Yakov chuckles. She switches her glare to him. “How is this funny?”

  He holds his hands up in the air. “Not funny. No funny here.”

  She turns back to me. “Why did you drag Yakov out here? What is going on with you?”

  “He isn’t a doctor,” I say, latching on to her lie to make me feel better about mine. “You said he was, and he isn’t.”

  “How do you know this?” She shakes her head as if she doesn’t recognize me, but it isn’t her memory this time. It’s disappointment.

  “I made her look him up,” Olivia says, her face pinched with worry. “She told me about your visit, and I… I…” Her eyes widen to saucers when she can’t think of a story that fits.

  Clay chooses that moment to fart so loud that Gram jumps. I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle, but it escapes and ends in a high-pitched cackle.

  “I hear a moose,” Yakov says with a bark of laughter.

  Gram’s mouth twitches, and a smile escapes when Clay declares, “I fatted.”

  “Say ‘excuse me,’ ” she instructs. He immediately obeys and then crouches next to a pile of rocks. Sorting rocks is Clay’s passion.

  I’m still giggling nervously when she turns her attention back to me. “I’m still waiting for an explanation, Lulu,” she says.

  How much should I tell her? She seems to trust Yakov, but does that mean I can too? I try like crazy to get my giggling under control, and I finally stop long enough to take a deep breath.

  “I was worried about you,” I say. Do I tell her what I know? “You lied about his being a doctor, so I wanted to know why.”

  The shift in her is visible. Her hands slip off her hips, and she hugs herself.

  “I used to be a medic,” Yakov says. “In the Russian army. I can’t practice here, so I start a business like a real American. Sue knows this, so she asks me to look her over. She is fine. Nothing to worry about, little one.”

  “Yes, yes.” Gram nods hard enough for me to know this is all another lie.

  Why? Gram doesn’t seem afraid of Yakov, and there’s a certain familiarity between them. Her being a spy actually makes the most sense, no matter how much I don’t want it to be true. No one here is telling the truth, except for Clay and his farts.

  “But—” Olivia starts to argue. I grab her arm and she stops.

  “I’m sorry, Gram. I’m so glad you’re really okay. Thank you, sir, for helping her.” I flash my best polite smile and hope Yakov buys it. If he is a spy, then he’ll be able to tell if I’m pulling one over on him. But who ever suspects a kid of anything?

  “Thank you for being so understanding, Yakov. You know how young girls can be, yes?” Gram says with a flutter of her hands.

  Yakov flashes her a wry smile, and they seem to communicate without speaking for a second before he says, “Da. I understand. My own granddaughters would be the same, I think.”

  “You still haven’t explained how you know him,” Olivia says. Her face turns dark red when we all turn to look at her. She avoids my gaze as she continues. “I mean, how did you meet?”

  Gram’s hand shakes as she fixes the one curl that always falls over her forehead. Yakov steps closer to her, as if he’s trying to protect her. I cringe. I’m supposed to be helping her, not hurting her. She shouldn’t need protection from me.

  “You can tell me later, Gram,” I say in a rush. “Let’s go home. Clay’s hungry, and Olivia needs to get back.”

  “Tat… I mean, Sue helped me learn English when I first moved here. We met in college.” He winks at Gram, who is still shaking like a leaf.

  “Yes.” Gram’s lips twist into a semblance of a smile.

  “We stayed very good friends over the years.” Yakov takes both Gram’s hands in his. He seems to infuse her with his strength, and her trembling slowly stops. Gently, he kisses her hands before letting go.

  “Pretty handsy handler,” Olivia whispers, her eyes wide.

  I nod. Was this part of how they kept their real relationship hidden?

  Gram smiles warmly at Yakov. “We’ve taken enough of your time. Please say hello to Margaret for me.”

  He returns her smile before turning to me. “You’re a good granddaughter to try to protect your babushka. I hope we m
eet again, Lulu.”

  I’m not sure what I hope any longer. All I can do is keep pretending I have it all under control.

  24. Hypothalamus

  The hypothalamus is responsible for making most of our hormones. The ones that make you feel like you’re on a carnival ride spinning so fast that you’re not sure which way is up. I guess some of those hormones are necessary for life—just think what would happen if we didn’t have them. None of us would grow, or feel happy or sad. But if my hypothalamus weren’t so excellent at its job, I wouldn’t care that Gram is still lying to me.

  * * *

  We drop Olivia off. She looks happy to be home, which says a ton about how awkward the car ride was. “Don’t give up,” she whispers before hopping out of the car and running toward her house.

  “I don’t like you going behind my back, Lulu,” Gram says, cool as can be, and I shrink in my seat a little. She doesn’t look at me when she talks, and there is nothing hesitant or feeble about her.

  “Sorry.” I don’t know how to reach her. She’s in take-charge-Gram mode. This Gram doesn’t think anything is wrong with herself. This Gram is just fine. But how long before she leaves Clay alone in his high chair again? Or forgets how to get home?

  “I met Yakov when he defected to America,” she finally says. “Back in those days, you couldn’t just fly to America; you needed to escape.”

  “How did you get out of Russia?” I hold my breath. Will she tell me?

  “My mother worked in the American embassy. One of the assistants to the ambassador helped get us out. He sponsored us when we got here.”

  “Mark?”

  She brakes so suddenly, my neck whips forward. “How do you know his name?”

  I pick my words carefully. “You told me. You’ve been telling me stories about growing up there. Don’t you remember?”

  Her breath comes faster. She shakes her head, and the car jerks to the right a little before she corrects it.

  I point to the side of the road. “I think you should pull over, Gram.”

  She listens, her hands trembling when she puts the car in park.

  “Let’s sit here awhile,” I say in my calmest voice. “Clay’s asleep, so we can just stay here until you feel better.”

  Gram drops her head to the steering wheel. “I feel a little dizzy.”

  “You tell me to take deep breaths when I don’t feel well,” I remind her.

  She sucks in air and lets it out slowly. I want to ask her a million questions, but I don’t.

  “When I was very little,” Gram says, her eyes looking past me, “maybe just a little older than Clay, my papa took me with him to visit one of his friends. They were all drinking, and I asked if I could have a sip. Papa thought that was hilarious, so he gave me a drink.” Gram smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes.

  “It burned like I’d swallowed fire. I coughed and coughed so much, I almost threw up. Papa’s friend said I must not take after him, but I wanted so much for Papa to be proud of me. So I asked for another taste. This time I forced myself to swallow the drink and not cough. My eyes wept like waterfalls, but I refused to cough. I smiled and told them how good it was. And Papa laughed. He was so happy that night, and I was happy to be with him. Next to him.”

  I barely breathe as she talks. I can’t imagine my dad ever acting like that. “Why didn’t your dad come with you to America?” I ask when I’m sure she’s finished her story.

  “When I first came to America, I was so confused.” Her hands flex on the steering wheel as if she’s still driving. “I missed Russia. I missed my papa more than I imagined. I wrote him a letter telling him to please come soon. I told him about our new house with a yard. How I can have as much bread as I want. How the weather is always warm. How I made a new friend, Margaret, and she was teaching me how to ride horses. How we lived next to the beach and that I had a bowl full of sand dollars on my dresser.

  “But I knew I’d never send this letter. That Mama wouldn’t wish me to. I knew it, but I wrote him letters anyway and then ripped them up.”

  Gram shakes her head and rubs a trembling hand over her face. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  I glance back at Clay’s innocent face while he sleeps. “You don’t have to, Gram. We can just sit here for a little while and talk about whatever you’d like.”

  “You have nice friends,” she says. She leans her head back against her headrest and closes her eyes.

  “Yeah, they’re awesome,” I say.

  “Even Max?” she asks, her mouth curving slightly upward. She looks over at me.

  “I guess, yeah. He’s not as bad as I thought. He’s pretty cool, actually.”

  “And pretty cute, too, yes?” Her eyes crinkle with humor.

  My face heats up. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  Gram takes pity on me and changes direction. “And Olivia? How is she holding up with her parents separating?”

  I unbuckle my seat belt and twist sideways so I’m facing her. I thought about Olivia’s underlying sadness and how her usual happy smile seemed forced. “I don’t know, and I don’t know what to do to help.”

  One of Gram’s eyes droops a little like it does when she’s tired. “Just be there for her. Listen. That’s what a good friend does.”

  “I’m trying,” I say. “But it feels like I should be doing something more.”

  Gram nods. “Jacob said just knowing I was there if he needed to talk was enough.” She pauses and smiles. “I thought after Jacob that I would never have such a good friend again. But I learned in life you make many friends—some better than others, but all of them important.”

  “Like Margaret, who taught you to ride horses?”

  “Yes.” Gram’s smile slips into a tight line. “She was my first friend in America.”

  “How long were you friends?”

  “That’s another story,” she says. “And a boring one.”

  “I doubt it, Gram. You don’t know how to be boring.” I smile my best smile.

  She grabs my chin and pinches it lightly. “You think you will charm me into telling you all my secrets, yes? I suppose you will, my sweet girl.”

  “Did you meet her when you first moved here?”

  Gram closes her eyes for a second before she answers. “Before I met Margaret, I poured all my thoughts into my journal. It saved me, to be able to write anything I was feeling. Mama would no longer let me speak Russian, so my journal was the only place I could still be Russian.”

  I squirm in my seat. The journal that saved her is currently under my mattress.

  “Back then Russia and America were enemies,” Gram continues. “Mark told us we should say we were from France. Our passports were French, and my mom taught me how to fake the accent. I met Margaret the first day of school, and she loved that I was French. She made it her job to show me how to be an American girl. She even taught me to wear makeup so my mama couldn’t tell.” Gram waggles her finger at me. “So don’t think I can’t tell when you and Olivia wear mascara.”

  I giggle. It’s weird to think of Gram as being my age once.

  “She told me what a period was and that she’d had hers for a year. I was horrified that such a thing would happen to me! I know you understand, Lulu. How scary it can be to have your body change when there is so much else around you changing too. There are always too many things happening at once, and it can be overwhelming, yes?”

  I nod. I want to grow up, but sometimes I don’t like what that means. Gram was the one who showed me what to do when I first got my period. She told me it wasn’t something to be afraid of, and her no-nonsense, practical way of looking at it made it less scary.

  “Yes, I see you understand,” Gram says with a smile. “When it finally happened to me, my mama showed me what to do and welcomed me to womanhood. But I didn’t want to be a woman. I didn’t want to have this happen every month, but Margaret said it would get easier. And since there was nothing to do about it anyway, I mi
ght as well accept it. Embrace it, even. But it was one more change in a sea of changes I didn’t ask for.”

  “Tell me about it,” I mutter.

  Gram reaches out and squeezes my hand. “But I loved American school! I loved how the teachers let us read any book we wanted. My favorite was Jane Eyre. She overcame so much and still hoped for love.”

  “I love that book too,” I say. Gram was the one who bought it for me.

  “Yes, I know you do. I’m happy that we have such similar tastes,” she says. “I loved exploring my school library and learning about anything I wanted to. It was glorious to have such freedom. I did worry that if I changed too much, Jacob might not recognize me when we finally reunited.”

  “Or your dad?” I ask softly.

  “Yes.” She smiles sadly. “I think I knew my papa would never leave Russia, but I still missed him. But eventually my mother remarried. My stepfather was the man who helped us get out of Russia.”

  “Mark?”

  “Yes, he was a very good man. He made Mama happy. But I worried if Papa ever heard about it, he might think I’d given up on him too.”

  “Oh, Gram,” I say in a rush. “I’m sorry.”

  She waves her hand like she does when I catch her watching TV shows that make her cry. “It is done. No reason to be sorry. I think it’s time for me to drive us home, yes?”

  Gram seems steady enough. It feels weird, like I have to give her permission to drive, as if I’m now the adult. But the time talking about her past doesn’t seem to disorient her—it seems to do the opposite. Maybe the good memories help her and the bad ones upset her.

  She pulls the van out on the road, and I stay quiet so she can concentrate. I don’t think she and her mother came here to spy after all. I think her mother came here because she was in love with Gram’s stepfather, Mark.