The Memory Keeper

by Jennifer Camiccia

  “Say something,” she urges. “You can say whatever you want.”

  I wonder if that’s true. Saying whatever I want seems too much. Like looking at my memory as a whole instead of breaking it up day by day. Maybe, with Mom, I should do the same thing. Take one thing at a time and go from there. I know what it feels like to miss something I used to have and wish I could get it back again. How, sometimes, I feel alone even when there are people all around me.

  “Is depression like how it feels to be lonely?” I finally ask. It might seem like a small thing, but the question is mired deep in my heart.

  Mom’s eyes shimmer with tears. She grimaces, and the pain etched in the spiderweb lines around her eyes deepens. “Oh, Lulu, hon. Have you felt lonely?”

  I shrug and swallow past the weird hollow spot in my throat.

  She squeezes my hand harder. Click. A memory box shimmers in front of me. Ten years ago. Mom holds my hand, and Maisie is on her lap. She’s telling me a story about the best big sister in the world, and I know she’s talking about me. Her eyes are filled with love for Maisie, but when she looks up, the same love is there for me, too. Her hand is tight in mine. She promises to never let go.

  The memory closes. I file it away to the time before Maisie died.

  I tune back in, catching the end of what Mom is saying. “Because I love you and Clay so much. I promise, I am going to try harder. I know you have a very special relationship with your gram, and I don’t want to get in the way of that at all. But I want you to know I love you. I’m so very sorry I stopped being the mom you needed.”

  With each word, I see a hint of the strength behind her fragile beauty, and I want to believe her. Hope is like a butterfly softly fluttering along my cheeks.

  “I love you, Mom,” I say. My words feel new, as if I’m unfurling the fist I’ve held tight for so long and offering her my open hand.

  “I love you too, Lulu.” She smiles past the tears still falling. “I wish you could remember me when I was a good mom.”

  “I do.”

  She shakes her head. “I mean before… before Maisie. I was a way better mom. I promise.”

  “I know what you meant.” Should I tell her about my memory? For the first time, I feel like she might actually understand. Like she might be okay with it. And then maybe I could tell her about Gram, and we could figure out what to do together.

  My phone rings and buzzes noisily in my pocket. I pull it out and glance at Olivia’s text.

  I told Max about the creeper at the zoo. He says he wants us to come to the barn. How long is your mom going to talk to you?

  I wave my phone. “It’s Olivia.”

  Mom wipes the back of her hand across her eyes. “Clay is probably driving her crazy. We can talk more later.”

  She links arms with me, kissing me softly on the forehead before we walk back to the kitchen. I cling to her hand; now that I have her, I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to leave this bubble that’s around us. I’m afraid the second I step outside it, Mom won’t see me again.

  Olivia hops off the counter, her eyes wide. “Max texted and we need to get to the barn. There’s a special lesson that is… special.”

  “I can take you,” Mom says. Her arm is still firmly linked with mine.

  Gram frowns. “Do you have a lesson today? Did we miss it?”

  “It’s a special lesson,” Olivia repeats, smiling her most innocent smile.

  “It would be great if you could drop us off,” I say to Mom, trying to ignore Gram’s confused expression. “You should bring Clay. He always conks out in the car. That way Gram can rest.”

  “How’s that sound, little man?” Mom tickles Clay and swoops him up for a kiss.

  He’s fast asleep by the time we pull up to the barn. Mom smiles. “You know your stuff, Lulu. The best big sister in the world.”

  “Don’t worry about picking us up,” Olivia says. “My mom said she would.”

  Mom waves as she pulls away, and I can’t help the twinge of guilt I feel for lying to her. She hasn’t tried this hard in a long time. Maybe things are really going to be different.

  “You look weird,” Olivia says.

  I pull my hair out of a ponytail and let it fall over my face. “My mom and I just had a really good talk.”

  Olivia slings an arm around me. “That’s awesome. Are you going to tell her about your gram?”

  “I was thinking about it.”

  “I think you should make sure your gram’s not a––”

  I wait for her to finish, but she clamps her lips together.

  “A spy?” I finish for her.

  “Sorry. I know you don’t like when I say it.”

  We’re halfway to the back of the barn when Max steps out of one of the stalls. He leans the shovel he’s holding against the wall. “Hey.”

  Olivia grabs the shovel before it can drop to the floor. “What’s the big thing we needed to rush down here for?”

  Max hands me a paper. “This is what I found. I did a quick search when I went to walk my uncle’s dog.” He sees my look and holds both hands in the air. “Hey, it’s not my fault if he leaves the screen open and his password never changes.”

  “What’s on it?” Olivia hangs over my shoulder.

  I unfold the page to find a grainy picture of Gram when she was younger. Tatyana Petrov is written underneath, along with a phone number.

  30. Occipital Lobe

  Your eyeballs are directly connected to your brain. The occipital lobe (still not an earlobe) helps us understand what the eyes are seeing. If the occipital lobe were damaged, we could still see, but we would have no idea what we were looking at.

  * * *

  “Earth to Lulu.” Max waves a hand in front of my face.

  “This is a picture of Gram. It’s the same as the one in her Russian passport.”

  Olivia hooks her arm through mine and looks closer at the picture. “She kind of looks like you, Lulu. So weird. Do you think the phone number is Russian?”

  “It definitely looks international.”

  “I know what to do,” Max says. “Follow me.”

  Olivia trails after Max, dragging me along. “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Dad’s office. He left to go buy a horse and won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “Why are we here?” I ask. He shuts the heavy wood door, and the scent of horse spray and leather fill the small, musty room. There’s a beat-up desk in the middle of the room and two spindly wood chairs on either side of it.

  “I say we call the number,” Max says, hopping up on the desk and picking up the ancient tan phone next to him. “Let’s see who picks up.”

  “And then what?” Olivia scoffs. “Since you’re so fluent in Russian and all.”

  “We can ask for information about Tatyana Petrov,” Max says, leaning forward and staring right at me. “Come on, Lulu. I know you want more answers. This might be the way we get some.”

  I blink, blood pumping through my veins in a loud ocean of noise. Do I want to know? Is it better to know, or is it better to pretend? If I could go back to when Gram was just Gram, would I do it?

  “Okay.” I stretch the paper out on the desk. Gram seems to stare at me as if I’m betraying her. “Call it.”

  “Wait!” Olivia paces from the desk to me. “What if they trace the call to us? Will we get in trouble? I’m too young for prison!”

  “Chill,” Max says with a grin. “This number is to the barn. We do tons of business with people in Europe. There’re some crazy-valuable horses here. We can just say we dialed the wrong number or something.”

  “Not if you ask about Gram by name,” I remind him.

  He picks up the phone and raises his brows expectantly. “They won’t know it’s us.”

  “But what if it hurts her?” I point to Gram’s picture. “What if we get her in trouble?”

  “With who? You keep insisting she’s not a spy.” Max shrugs. “We don’t know if we don’t try. How ca
n you help her if you don’t know who the enemy is?”

  Olivia claps her hands nervously. “Just call already. Right, Lulu? We’ll totally help you if this goes wrong.”

  “Okay,” I whisper, the familiar ache in my stomach kicking up from mildly nauseous to might-puke-any-second-now.

  Max punches the number in and waits. “It’s ringing.”

  “How weird,” Olivia says under her breath so only I can hear. “A phone that rings.”

  “He’s helping,” I whisper, too nervous to laugh.

  “Hello,” Max says. “Who is this?”

  He hops off the desk and walks as far as the cord will allow. Olivia and I move closer so we can hear. A man’s voice booms so loud, Max holds the receiver away from his ear.

  “Do you speak English?” Max shouts.

  “He’s Russian, not deaf,” Olivia mutters.

  “A little,” the man answers, the words faint but distinct. “You are American, da? Only American will call me in middle of night. Good for you that I’m old man and don’t sleep much.” The man chuckles and then coughs for several seconds.

  My eyes go wide. “The time,” I whisper. “What time is it there?”

  Olivia looks at her phone. “One in the morning?”

  “Sorry about that, sir. May I ask who this is?” Max asks, this time in a normal voice.

  “Sir, may I,” Olivia whispers mockingly.

  Max rolls his eyes, and I motion for her to stop.

  “You called me,” the man says once his coughing stops. “But I will answer if you tell me who you are.”

  Max points at the phone with a questioning look. “Um, a friend of someone we think you might know.”

  There’s silence and then. “This is Alexei Petrov. Now you will tell me what this is about.”

  Max holds the phone out to me. “Ask him.”

  I breathe deeply and take the phone. “Mr. Petrov? Did you ever know a Tatyana Petrov?”

  “Da—yes. She is my niece. She lives in America now.”

  Olivia’s mouth drops open. “What even?”

  Max motions for me to keep talking.

  “Um… Do you…? Um… Are you still in contact with her?”

  “I will need to know who I speak with before I answer this. Is she well?”

  “Um…” Do I tell him? Max nods. Olivia nods. “I’m Tatyana’s granddaughter.”

  There is silence for a second before the man’s voice booms loudly in my ear. “This is little Lulu? I am your great-uncle Alexei! Tatyana told me all about you and your brother.”

  “Oh! Um, it’s nice to meet you.” Sweat beads along my forehead. What do I ask a long-lost uncle I never even knew existed?

  “It’s nice to meet you?” Olivia whispers in disbelief. “Why would you say that? Ask him about your gram!”

  I wave a hand in front of my face. I can barely concentrate with his heavy accent. I don’t need her and Max judging every word I say.

  “You must come visit me in Russia!” Alexei exclaims.

  “Uh, why did my grandmother and great-grandmother leave Russia?” I ask quickly.

  The line crackles with static and silence. I’m afraid he’s hung up. “Hello?”

  “You must ask Tatyana,” he says abruptly. “But I can tell you it was for good reason. I did not know where she was for very long time. After many years of silence, she finally could call me. We had much to catch up on.”

  Why would no one tell me anything? First Yakov and now Alexei. What was the big secret?

  “But the thing is,” I say, my gaze meeting Max’s, “she’s sort of forgetting things. I thought if I could learn as much as I can about her, maybe I could help her remember.”

  Max looks down and kicks at the metal edge of the desk. Olivia comes and puts her arm around me.

  Alexei mutters in Russian before he says in English, “I am most sorry to hear. This is what happened to Olga. It is very sad. My poor Tatyana. I would love to answer all your questions. Unfortunately, my wife is insisting I go back to bed. You will call me again, da? When it is not middle of night.”

  “I’m so sorry for calling you so late. I promise, it won’t happen again,” I say. “Just one more thing. Is Tatyana’s papa still in Moscow? Do you have a phone number for him?”

  “Nyet. My brother died a couple of years ago. Khorosho, chto izbavillis’.” He spits the words out.

  “Oh,” I say, my mind reeling with all the information. I don’t know Russian, but whatever he said sounded bad. Like he was really angry.

  “I look forward to talking more another time,” Alexei says in a calmer voice. “Dasvidanya, moya dorogaya.”

  “Dasvidanya,” I say, trying out the Russian word for goodbye.

  “Ochen khorosho—very good,” Alexei says. “You are a natural.”

  I give the phone back to Max, and he hangs it up.

  Olivia claps her hands together. “Well, that was interesting.”

  Max rubs the back of his neck and meets my gaze. “I’m sorry about your gram. That day at the mall?”

  I nod. “She forgot where she parked.”

  Olivia looks at Max and then at me. “Oh—is this what he helped you with?”

  “It’s when I finally knew I had to do something. I’ve been researching how the brain works, and I think there’s something in Gram’s past that is triggering her memory loss. Something really traumatic. If I can find it and make her face it, she can heal and her memory will get better.”

  Max frowns. “How do you know that will work?”

  “I don’t,” I say. “But I have to try. She’s my gram, and I owe it to her. I owe her everything.”

  “We’ll help you,” Olivia says, motioning to Max. “Won’t we?”

  “For sure,” Max says. “I mean, we know she moved here from Russia and kept it secret. That could be because she’s a spy.” He puts his hand up to stop my protest. “I know that’s not your favorite theory, but we can’t rule it out. It would explain a lot. And maybe it’s the key. What if the memory is about one of her missions?”

  Olivia holds up a finger as she counts down what we know. “She left Russia for mysterious reasons. There’s a file on her that’s redacted. And then there’s the Russian guy in the woods who called her a traitor.”

  “I have a different theory,” I say. “We also know my gram’s mom is the one who insisted Gram lie, and that she married an American who worked at the American embassy in Russia. I think Gram’s mom fell in love and wanted to leave her husband. In those days you couldn’t do that without getting in big trouble. That’s why she had to sneak out and lie so the Russian government couldn’t find her.”

  Olivia takes out her phone and types furiously. “You think the files are redacted to hide them from the Russian government? Do you think—” She looks up at me. “What was his name?”

  “Mark,” I reply.

  “Yeah, Mark.” Her thumbs fly as she adds in more information. “Do you think Mark had the power to do that?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I kind of want to talk to Yakov again. Alexei said Gram had a good reason to leave. If it’s more than her mom falling in love with Mark, then maybe Yakov will know.”

  “Ooh,” Olivia says, jumping up and down. “Tell him your theory about Yakov being Jacob.”

  Max grabs a baseball cap off his dad’s desk and puts it on. “Who’s Jacob?”

  “I say you fill him in while we go to Yakov’s. I still have his home address.” Olivia waves her phone.

  “Let’s go out the side door. If my dad’s overseer sees me, I won’t be going anywhere,” Max says.

  We fill Max in on the details about Jacob while we walk to the bus stop. The fog drifts in, cooling the air and making the long walk easier. Max and Olivia walk on either side of me, and I can’t imagine doing any of this without them or why I thought I needed to. They’ve seen my memory at work and are still here, backing me every step of the way. With their help, I know I can figure this out and help Gram.


  My HSAM chooses to kick in halfway into our walk, replaying the conversation with Gram’s uncle Alexei.

  The memory plays slowly, word by word, and I keep stopping over one detail in particular. When I told Alexei about Gram’s memory loss, he mentioned that the same thing happened to Olga.

  Who was Olga?

  31. Soma

  The cell body, or soma, is where all the magic starts. The dendrites and axon branch off of the soma. Without it you have nothing to build on. Sometimes you have to go back to the beginning to understand where you ended up.

  * * *

  We climb on the bus and scan our Marin Transit Youth Passes. The bus is packed, so Olivia sits in the first available seat. I grab one a few rows back, and Max sits across from me.

  “We should have a plan,” he says. “He might try to keep stuff from us again.”

  “Not when I show him this,” I say, holding up the journal I’ve been carrying around with me.

  “What is that?”

  “My gram’s journal,” I whisper, and tuck it away quickly. It feels wrong waving it around on a crowded bus, and I feel a little guilty for even mentioning it.

  Max points at the book. “Why are we going to Yakov’s, then? Just read it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I mean… I get it. You don’t want to be a loser and read her private thoughts or whatever. I know I sure wouldn’t want to read about my grandma when she was young.” He scrunches his nose like he smells something gross. “But, dude, I think you’re going to have to. It might have the answer you’re looking for.”

  I shake my head. “No, I mean, I can’t because it’s in Russian.”

  “Oh.” He looks out the window as the bus slows. “Yeah, that’s a problem. You going to let Yakov read it?”

  “I might if he really is Jacob.”

  The bus drops us off a couple of blocks from his house, and we spend the walk talking about how we’re going to handle Yakov.

  “Soften him up first,” Max instructs. “Then you can hit him with the one-two knockout. Find out who he really is.”