Relief hits me in waves. I didn’t realize how much it bothered me to think of Gram as a spy. As someone I never really knew. But now I can’t wait to get back to the photo albums and see what else I can find. If Gram isn’t a spy, then maybe I’ve been looking for the wrong memory this whole time.
25. Glial Cells: The Stars of the Show
Glial cells make up more than 90 percent of all human brain cells, but because they don’t have the nerve impulses neuron cells have, they used to be ignored. It turns out they’re pretty important. Star-shaped glial cells, called astrocytes, actually influence how the brain processes information. They are thought to control which messages get sent and when. Without them we wouldn’t be able to learn anything new. Without them we couldn’t change our minds.
* * *
When we get home, Clay is a cranky beast. He is the worst when he wakes up from a nap. I leave him and Gram alone in the kitchen, where she plies him with snacks. She seems to be doing okay, so I have some time to look for clues.
I pull the boxes of albums into the middle of my bedroom. I put aside the ones I’ve already looked through and start on a new pile. A glossy pink one is filled with baby pictures of Dad. It’s like looking at Clay but with old-fashioned clothes and shoes. The next three albums are packed with photographs of trees and mountains. Finally, I hit the jackpot with a weathered brown leather album. Inside are pictures of Gram when she was in high school.
I study a family picture of her with her mother and my great-grandfather Mark. Her mother and Mark have their arms around each other and huge smiles on their faces. Gram looks like a movie star with her glamorous makeup and dark hair.
The next few pages show a vacation to the coast, but the last is of Gram and another pretty girl with blond hair pulled into a high ponytail. I trace a finger over her face, and I wonder if this is Margaret.
Another picture stands out. This one is of Gram with a man who, at first glance, I think is my grandfather. I look closer. It can’t be Grandpa Daniel—this man is much taller. He towers over Gram. I can’t see his expression since he’s staring down at her, but whoever it is, it’s clear he cares about Gram. Maybe it’s in the careful way he leans over her, like he’s protecting her, or how he can’t look away to even smile at the camera.
Did Gram date someone before Grandpa Daniel?
My phone buzzes next to me with a text from Max.
Max: Hey, just checking to see how you and your gram are doing after all that.
Me: It actually turned out okay. She told me some more stories. And you’re wrong about her being a spy. I think the reason they moved here was because her mom was in love with an American who worked at the embassy. Maybe that’s why he helped them get out of the country.
Max: Did your gram tell you that?
Me: No. I think they kept it secret from her.
Max: Sounds like you just don’t want to believe your gram is a spy. I’m never wrong about this kind of thing.
I roll my eyes. It’s comments like this that remind me why I used to think he was such a jerk.
Me: They got married, like, literally, right after they moved here. I don’t think Gram wants to think her mom would do that. But maybe deep down she knows?
Max: But how do you explain the French passport and this Yakov dude?
Me: My stepgrandfather got them into the country by saying they were French, so that’s why she has a French passport. And Yakov is a friend she met in college. I bet she was drawn to him because he spoke Russian. It was a way to speak the language again.
Max: Maybe. But he’s kind of scary, right? He’s huge. Not someone I’d picture your gram being friends with.
I start to answer when it hits me. Yakov is really tall. I grab the photo album and study the picture of the man with Gram. Could this be Yakov? It’s hard to tell since his face is turned away, and this man has a ton of hair and a sweater that would cover any tattoos on his arms.
Me: I think I found a picture of them together. The weird thing is it sort of looks like they’re a couple. Like in love or something.
Max: Yeah? Weird—they don’t look like they’d match.
I close my eyes and try to rewind the day to when we were at the park with Yakov. I don’t know what it is, but I feel like I’m missing something important.
I snag the scene at the park and open it. It plays in front of me—each word, each gesture. I get to the part where Gram tells Yakov to say hello to Margaret for her.
That’s it!
Me: Okay, so I just sort of remembered something. My gram told Yakov to say hi to Margaret. And then on the way home, my gram mentioned one of her first friends here was named Margaret. Do you think it’s the same person?
Max: It might be. I don’t know many people with that name. But I guess it might be someone else. If it is the same girl, that would mean he married her friend but was in love with her? That’s serious messed-up drama right there.
I giggle, imagining Max’s smirk as he types this. I flip through the rest of the album in search of more pictures of the mysterious tall man, but I don’t find any.
I’m about to tackle a new album when Dad hollers that dinner is ready.
Max: Ask your gram about Yakov and the picture.
Me: Haha. You like the drama
Max: He could still be her handler and they fell in love, but they couldn’t do anything about it because of orders. I still think they’re spies. No offense to your gram—she’s awesome. Do you remember your memory of the woods and the man yelling she’s a traitor? And what about how it would get her one day? Explain that.…
I don’t answer him. He’s right—I can’t explain that yet. I’m quiet during dinner, waiting for the perfect time to ask about Yakov. Gram laughs and teases Dad. Clay hides half his food under his plate, and Mom paints in the air with her finger.
Mom once told me she sees colors everywhere. At any given time, she can mix them and pull them together to create art no one else sees. When she does it, it looks like she’s conducting an imaginary symphony. Even when she’s away from her studio, she can create masterpieces in the air around her.
“What does it look like?” I ask, suddenly curious. What’s it like to make art out of everything you see? Is that why it’s so easy for her to shut people out?
Mom startles, as if she’s forgotten I’m there. I nod to her invisible painting, and she smiles. “It’s of you and Clay, of the time we went to the zoo a month ago.”
“You mean five months ago,” I say. “On the first Wednesday, January second, and it was a free day. It rained the first ten minutes and we bought an umbrella, but then it stopped so we didn’t need it after all.”
I look up, and Dad and Mom are staring at me with identical expressions of surprise. My stomach drops to my toes. What did I do?
“That can’t be right,” Mom says. “I thought we went only a few weeks ago.”
Gram smiles encouragingly. She wants me to trust them. They’re my parents after all, so maybe they won’t think I’m weird.
Yeah, right. Sure they won’t.
“I think Lulu might be correct,” Dad says, scrolling through his phone. “I remember I was going to buy the tickets and I didn’t have to because it was free. Yep, here it is. I made a note of it because that was the day before I went to that conference in Berkeley.”
Mom’s eyes go wide. “That’s amazing, Lulu! What are the odds you’d remember with such detail? I think you have a little of my artistic eye, don’t you?”
I open my mouth to tell them it’s so much more, when the doorbell rings. Dad shoves his chair back with a sigh. “Sorry, guys. I forgot that Ben wanted to go over his thesis.”
Mom frowns. She hates when he brings work home. Funny, since she works on her art constantly. “Ask Ben if he wants some dinner.”
Dad kisses the top of Mom’s head as he walks by. In a way I’m relieved for the distraction. I don’t know if I’m ready for anyone else to know what I can do. And honestly, why sh
ould I trust them with my secret when I can’t even trust them with Gram’s?
Gram picks up Clay’s plate and tsks at all the wasted food around it. She seems perfectly normal. Better than ever really. And I want to believe everything will be okay. That the memory loss is no longer a problem and our family will stay just like this forever.
26. Thalamus: The Inner Chamber
Can you imagine never sleeping? Located deep within the cerebrum is the thalamus, which is an inner chamber that helps the brain stem, spinal cord, and cerebral cortex send messages to one another. One of the things it does is regulate sleep.
Total insomnia is what happens when a person can’t sleep. There are studies that say that without sleep, you’ll die within six months. One person, who tried to break the record of the most days without sleep, started hallucinating within eleven days. For kids I bet it happens even sooner.
* * *
The darkness presses all around me. My dresser seems to loom in the shadows as if it’s ready to come alive and eat me. It’s close to three in the morning, and my thalamus is not doing its job. I blame the excitement of today. The park, Yakov, Max and Olivia’s belief that Gram must be a spy—all of this has caused my thalamus to misfire.
I give up trying to sleep and reach for my phone to use as a flashlight. I tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen. Whenever I can’t sleep, I snack.
Gram’s light shines beneath her door. Another person whose thalamus isn’t working properly. I knock lightly, and the door swings right open. Gram stares past me, her eyes wild and unfocused.
“Margaret, why are you doing this to me?” she says, tears streaming down her cheeks.
I place a hand on her shoulder and try to ignore my heart, hammering in my ribs. “Gram, it’s me,” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder. I can’t let my parents hear her like this.
“You lied to us. You told Jacob I didn’t love him. You told him I was marrying Sam. Why did you do that? You ruined our friendship. You ruined our lives.” Her cries quickly turn into sobs.
I close the door behind me and lead her to the bed. “Gram, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
She huddles on the bed. I climb next to her and hug her tight. “He loves me,” she whispers. “He wants to marry me. Why did you trick us? I can’t marry him now. He keeps begging me to, but I can’t. You knew I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Gram, it’s me. It’s not Margaret. It’s Lulu.”
She slowly stops crying and looks up at me. “Lulu?”
“Yes, it’s me. You’re at home and you’re safe.”
“I’m home and safe,” she repeats, one more tear escaping down the lines of her cheek.
“You need to go to bed, okay?” I help her under the covers and tuck them around her chin. Her eyes close, as if her eyelids are too heavy to keep open for one more second.
I kiss her forehead as she’s done so many times for me.
“He loves me,” she murmurs, her eyes still shut. “He still loves me.”
“Who, Gram?”
“Jacob,” she answers sleepily. “But I can’t marry him. Not when he’s married to Margaret.” She snuffles in her sleep, and a rhythmic snoring quickly follows.
I slip back upstairs without getting my snack and stop at Clay’s room. He sleeps in his crib with his butt up in the air, his Pull-Ups sticking out the top of his monster-truck pajamas. His breath comes out in even puffs, like he’s trying to blow out a candle.
I climb over the edge of the railing and curl up next to him. He throws an arm across my neck, and I don’t even care that he smells like pee. The rhythm of his heart rocks me until I finally fall asleep.
* * *
I wake to a low voice saying my name, and I focus in on Dad’s face looking down at me. “What are you doing in here?” he whispers. He moves Clay to the side so I can climb out.
“He had a nightmare.” I can barely look at Dad. I can’t tell him that I’m the one who was scared and lonely. I can’t tell him that his mother is slowly losing her memory and I can’t seem to do a thing to stop it.
“All that talk about the zoo last night at dinner made your mom nostalgic. She and Gram are taking Clay to the zoo today. I’m sure she’d love for you to join them.”
What if Gram has one of her memory episodes in front of Mom? The panic of last night swells like a tidal wave in my blood.
I quickly get ready and run down the stairs.
“Can I ask Olivia and Max if they want to go to the zoo?” I ask as soon as I get to the kitchen. “I, um, think it might help Olivia, you know, take her mind off her dad leaving.”
Gram looks up from where she’s doing the crossword puzzle at the kitchen table. “What a lovely idea, Lulu. You’re such a good friend.”
The image of her frightened and crying last night is in a shimmering square in front of me. My stupid memory seems to be using it as a screensaver that I can’t take down, and I want to crawl into her lap and hug her tight like I used to when I was younger.
Dad swallows a sip of coffee. “Who’s this Max you speaketh of?”
“Just a friend.”
He looks to Gram for a longer explanation. “From the stables,” she says helpfully. “He helps his dad train horses and teach the riding classes. A very sweet boy.”
“Does Rose know him?” He frowns like he does when he’s worried about Mom. “She had a rough night last night. A lot of people might be too much for her.”
“I don’t even know if he can come,” I say. It’s not like I had the best sleep last night either. What about me? Or Gram? Why is he always so worried it will be too much for Mom?
“Go ahead and ask them,” Gram says. “I’ll entertain the kids and let Rose just enjoy taking pictures of the animals.”
Dad takes another gulp of coffee before tightening the lid on his travel mug. “Your call. Let me know if you need me.”
Once he leaves, I text Olivia and Max. I glance at Gram. She bites the side of her cheek as she writes in a word. Does she remember anything about last night?
“Want some breakfast?” Gram asks with a smile. I love her smiles. They fill her entire face and make her eyes almost disappear.
“Yes, please.”
She laughs and pushes away from the table. “So polite. That’s my girl. Pancakes sound good?”
“Yes, please,” I say with a grin. She tweaks my cheek and turns toward the cabinets.
Her phone sits next to my plate. A text pops up from Yakov.
Yakov: Does your granddaughter know the truth?
27. Neurotransmitters
There are gaps between neurons, or nerve cells, and neurotransmitters are chemical messengers that communicate between the nerve cells. Without enough of the neurotransmitter acetylcholine, brains start having difficulty with memory and attention. It’s like reading a text message meant for someone else. The meaning gets lost without someone to explain it.
* * *
Does your granddaughter know the truth? What the heck does that mean? I stand up and then sit back down. I roll Yakov’s sentence around, take a deep breath, and try to calm down.
“Gram, do you still keep in touch with your friend Margaret?” I ask, a vague idea forming. “The one who taught you how to ride and put on makeup?”
Gram slides a plate of pancakes in front of me. She’s made a blueberry smiley face, and all I want to do is cry. Gram knows I hate blueberries; it’s my dad who loves them. I pick them off quietly to avoid making her feel bad.
“Margaret and I lost contact over the years.”
I pour a river of maple syrup over the top to kill any lingering blueberry taste. “But weren’t you super close? What happened?”
“Are you fishing for another story?” She narrows her eyes at me. “Is that what this is?”
“Story!” Clay shuffles in holding his stuffed pig. “Pancakes and story!”
Gram puts her hands on her hips and smiles down at him. “You too? Hop up in your seat.”
Clay cli
mbs into his chair. I put his tray on and slide one of my pancakes onto the plate Gram hands me. He picks up a piece and shoves it in his mouth, syrup sticking to his fingers. “Story,” he says, his words muffled around the food filling his mouth.
“You heard the boy.” I shove a forkful into my mouth and smile my best please-Gram-tell-me-everything smile.
She sighs as she sits next to me. “Why are you so curious about Margaret?”
I shrug and look down. “You might have said she lied to you and Jacob. How he loved you but she tricked him into marrying her.”
“Oy vey,” she mutters, rubbing her eyes. “When did I say all that?”
“Last night. You were sort of upset. Do you remember?”
Gram frowns and stares past me. “I remember that Margaret’s idea of friendship and mine were very different.”
“Story,” Clay shouts.
“No yelling,” she says automatically.
I put both hands together and pout. She rolls her eyes, but I can tell I’ve won her over.
“I think the thing I miss most about Russia, believe it or not, is the weather,” she says slowly. “I miss the crystalized cold of the winters and the white nights of the summers. I could think clearly there. The cold here is wet, and it seeps into my pores. I love it now, of course. Now I see the fog and think of it as something good. It keeps us from getting too hot and nourishes my flowers.”
She waves her arm. “But back then everywhere I looked was fog and rain, and it seemed to mirror my heart. I would take long walks in the redwoods to feel closer to Russia. The trees reminded me of the forest my papa would sometimes take me to when I was a little girl. The trees there were so tall, it was as if their branches brushed the sky.”
Her face turns up like she sees the tops of the trees right here in our kitchen, and I can’t help but look up too. When all I see is our white painted ceiling, I close my eyes. I picture the tall, straight trunks of a redwood with a small patch of green as high up as the clouds. I try to imagine how Gram felt so far from the home she grew up in.
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