Stolen Secrets

by L. B. Schulman

Oma tried to toss a pillow at me from where she sat on the couch. It fell short. She braided her hands in her lap, chin jutted in mounting defiance.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t touch you,” I said nervously, bending over to get the pillow. I didn’t expect to be whacked in the back. I spun around, greeted by Franklin D.’s grin. The pillow from the window seat lay at my feet.

  “I got her for you, Oma,” he said.

  My eyes skipped back to my grandmother. The rage melted off her face, replaced by a twitchy smile. I couldn’t believe it. Oma hiccupped, except it wasn’t a hiccup. It was a laugh—timid but real—a sound so rare that I felt compelled to keep the game going.

  “Revenge!” I yelled, scooping up the pillow and smacking Franklin D. on the thigh, which made Oma hiccup even louder. Franklin D. snagged the rose afghan off the trunk. He darted around the room, fending me off like a bullfighter with a cape. Oma pressed her hands to her mouth as if giggling was against the rules.

  We fell onto the couch beside her, both of us panting heavily. Oma scooted closer until she was almost in my lap. She grinned up at me. “Isn’t my girl marvelous?” she said, dropping her head on my shoulder.

  Franklin D. nodded. “Definitely.”

  I shook my head like Oma’s offhanded remark didn’t mean anything, but I slid my hand on top of hers. She yanked her fingers free, then curled them around my wrist as if she didn’t want me to leave.

  “Livvy …” The air escaped her lips, a breeze on my cheek.

  My name had never sounded better. I’d been Gretchen for most of last week. Sometimes she failed to pull a name out at all. The day was coming when she’d stop remembering me altogether. But today? Today was good.

  “I want to watch a movie,” she said.

  “But it’s early. You haven’t had breakfast yet,” I said.

  “How about the Lord of the Rings trilogy?” Franklin D. suggested. “We can see part one, two, or three, but Fellowship of the Ring is the best one. The computer technology is downright awe-inspiring.”

  “Nerd,” I stage-whispered to Oma.

  Franklin D. feigned offense. “I most certainly am not a nerd. I’m a geek. A geek is a nerd with social skills, thank you very much.”

  “He said thank you,” Oma said. “That’s nice to say in polite company.”

  “See? She appreciates my social skills,” Franklin D. said.

  Oma launched into her favorite song, “Animal Crackers in My Soup.” “She wants a Shirley Temple movie,” I told him. “My mom found this DVD set at a garage sale. Oma’s seen them all at least twice.”

  “I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve never had the pleasure of viewing Shirley Temple,” Franklin D. said, already on his feet. “Sounds like movie time.”

  “Movie time!” she echoed.

  In Oma’s bedroom, the three of us lined up on the small love seat next to her twin bed. She chose the 1938 film Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. We watched ten-year-old Shirley, adorned in soldier regalia, tap her way up a staircase.

  An hour later, Oma was back asleep. Her face relaxed, smoothing out the frown lines that had seemed etched in place. Franklin D. helped me move her to the bed.

  “She’s a sound sleeper,” I told him as I turned off the TV. “Do you think it’s normal for her to nap this much?”

  “It’s definitely not normal to zone out in the middle of such an exhilarating tap sequence.”

  We heard a chirp. Franklin D. glanced at his phone, but there wasn’t a text. As I gently rose from the bed, Oma cuffed her fingers around my arm. She wouldn’t let go. I sat back down.

  “Did you know Shirley Temple Black ended up as an ambassador to Ghana in 1974 and Czechoslovakia in ’89?” I whispered to Franklin D. as Oma’s eyelids fluttered closed again.

  “Fact source?”

  “People magazine, orthodontist’s office, last March.”

  Franklin D. caught my expression—a murky mixture of shame, guilt, and pride. “Aha! I knew it!” he said. “You’re more than a fact junkie. You have a magnificent memory, too.”

  I flinched. “Only about stuff that interests me. The other crap goes in one ear and out the other.”

  “Still normalizing, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t know what he meant. At least I pretended that I didn’t.

  “Can you show me how your prodigious memory works?” he asked. “Let’s see. How about the third page of chapter three in that textbook over there.”

  I glanced at the algebra book I’d left by the lamp last night. I pretended to consider his request. “No.”

  “Livvy, do you have any idea how absolutely friggin’ cool to the nth degree this is?”

  “Not everyone feels that way. My friends back home wouldn’t think it was cool.”

  “Why not?”

  “They thought I was cheating because I didn’t study for tests. They didn’t think it was fair that I got perfect grades.”

  “But it was your memory,” Franklin D. protested. “You couldn’t help it.”

  “They didn’t exactly know that part,” I admitted. “Look, I saw how they reacted. That was bad enough. So I fixed the problem. I missed a question here and there.” I didn’t like the way Franklin D. was looking at me, as if I was weak, instead of smart enough to make everyone happy—including myself. “I still got A’s, but it got them off my back. They weren’t suspicious anymore.”

  Franklin D. considered this. “These are your friends?”

  “They were fun. We had parties almost every weekend.”

  He looked unimpressed. “Some people see the beauty in differences. If we had the same sunset every day, would anyone even notice it?”

  I agreed with him in theory, but I was more pragmatist than philosopher. There were plenty of people who tore apart others’ differences. This was a fact. Even so, I changed my mind and decided to take him up on his challenge. “Third page, chapter three, um, third paragraph down, for alliteration purposes. It’s a complicated definition for the term “division algorithm.” I didn’t bother to share with him the artwork someone left on the bottom left-hand corner—a highly inaccurate depiction of an anatomical part belonging to the male gender.

  “I’ll assume I don’t need to check,” he said. “Thank you for sharing.”

  His admiration, direct and intense, caught me off guard. My cheeks flamed. “You better never tell anyone about this,” I warned.

  “It’s not my good news to share.”

  There was another chirp. Franklin D. looked around, zeroing in on the source. “I think this thing needs new batteries.” He picked up the baby monitor tipped on its side behind Oma’s alarm clock. “Why is there a walkie-talkie in your grandmother’s bedroom?”

  “It’s a high-tech device for the super paranoid,” I told him. “Vickie keeps the receiver in her apartment on the other side of this wall.”

  It occurred to me that she might be listening to us right now. I gave it a second of contemplation, then decided I didn’t care. “It’s so she’ll hear Oma if there’s a problem that I don’t catch.” I switched the monitor off. “She can transmit the other way, too. That way she can say, ‘Don’t you know it’s time for some wink-eye, sweet thing?’”

  “She talks to your grandma that way?”

  “I think her caregiver manual got old age and toddler care reversed.”

  Franklin D. turned the monitor back on. “Oh, Livvy, stop doing that. You’re driving me crazy.” His hoarse stage whisper made him sound like a dirty old man. I bit my lip to keep from laughing and snuggled in close, my mouth near his. “I live to drive you wild, Franklin D. Schiller.”

  I must’ve been good at pretending, because his lower lip went slack. He stared at my mouth. I cleared my throat and pulled back.

  Franklin D. glanced down at his watch with sudden interest. “I have to go. My carriage turns into a pumpkin at ten forty-five.”

  “Carriage?”

  “Otherwise known as the last Muni bus that gets me home before noon. I ha
ve to finish a gruesome essay on sexually transmitted diseases.”

  I was sympathetic, having suffered through health class in Vermont.

  Oma lifted her head from the pillow, startling us. “Good-bye, my Jewish friend. Do come again.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  Oma’s eyelids snapped shut.

  When I caught up with him in the hallway, I said, “I think she likes you better than me.”

  “That’s true!” she called from inside.

  I laughed, not feeling at all offended. If I were Oma, I’d like Franklin D. better, too.

  I walked with him to the front porch. “That’s strange,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The mezuzah’s on the wrong side.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It’s supposed to be on the other side of the doorframe. This one’s on the left.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know.”

  “If she’s been Jewish her whole life, she’d know,” he said. “Even if she converted, she would’ve learned that.”

  When had Oma put up the mezuzah? I wished I could ask Mom more questions, but she was off-limits for another eighteen days according to the countdown app on my phone.

  Franklin D. shook his head. “Well, I’m going to have to fix that. It’s wrong there.”

  “Okay, you do that,” I said. “Still trying to get in good with Oma, huh?”

  “No need. She adores me.”

  “Listen, when you get the translation back from your uncle’s friend, come over. I’ll make you dinner,” I said.

  He wagged his eyebrows. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

  “On the other hand, maybe I’ll buy you a Happy Meal.”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again. “Livvy, I really …” He sighed. “Never mind.”

  “Look at that. Restraint, coming from you,” I joked, but secretly I was glad that he hadn’t finished the sentence.

  “Restraint’s overrated,” he said with an exaggerated frown. His forehead moved closer to mine. I froze, a mass of indecision and confusion. He took a step backward, studied me for a moment, and waved good-bye. I waved back, too perky, and went inside.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  “WHY ARE THERE BOOKS ON THE LIBRARY FLOOR?” VICKIE asked the next afternoon when I came into the kitchen for a homework-sustaining snack.

  “Oh … um … Oma was looking for something on the bookshelf the other day,” I said, then added, “I’ve been picking them up, but I keep getting sidetracked. I’ll do the rest later.” I didn’t tell Vickie that I was only a third of the way done—putting the books back in alphabetical order took a long time.

  I was afraid our conversation would remind my grandmother of the journal, but she seemed more interested in rolling her soft-boiled egg around her plate. I frowned at the bib that Vickie had tied around her neck.

  “Actually, I’ll do some work in the library now, before my shift starts,” I said. I opened the fridge but found little inspiration in cottage cheese and carrot sticks. I pecked Oma on the forehead and sped out of there.

  In the library, I reached for The Canterbury Tales, put it back on the shelf, and searched for the next title. The importance of getting the order right didn’t matter anymore, I knew that, and yet I felt compelled to return the library to its pre-Alzheimer’s state.

  While I shelved, my mind wandered to the awkward goodbye with Franklin D. yesterday, not to mention the forlorn look he’d given me as he’d left. The thing was, Franklin D. wasn’t my type. He was an extreme extrovert with a faulty brain-to-mouth filter. Eccentric, silly, awkward as hell—but loyal, that couldn’t be denied. True, smart was on my list. Anyone who could annoy teachers with his philosophical ramblings, while maintaining a 3.87 (unweighted) GPA, had to be intelligent. But a lot of people had brains, not just Franklin D.

  I shrugged off my circular thoughts and focused on the task before me. The book in my hand, The Diary of Anne Frank, was a rare post-Edwardian addition to the library. I considered the poem Oma had written about the chestnut tree. It made sense that my grandmother would own the diary. But could there be more to it? The journal’s reference to the “Frank girls” made me question again if Oma had crossed paths with Anne or Margot Frank in Bergen-Belsen. I held the book in my hand, staring at it, hesitating. Instead of shelving it, I put it on the desk behind me.

  An hour later, I added the last book—Vanity Fair—to the bottom shelf. I stepped back to admire my work, then reached for The Diary of Anne Frank again. I studied the cover. Anne was younger than me when the picture was taken, but we looked a little alike. Not the hair but the smile, broad and thin-lipped. Anne was skinny, not as curvy as me, but both our chins were, depressingly, on the pointy side. With my blond hair, I looked more German than Anne had, even though the preface explained that she’d been born in Frankfurt before her family moved to Amsterdam. It didn’t seem to matter if people had been German citizens their whole lives; if they didn’t fit Hitler’s definition of Aryan, they became scapegoats for everything that was wrong with the country.

  If I’d been alive back then, would I have used my blond, blue-eyed looks to hide my identity? Definitely. Being a proud Jew seemed like an automatic death sentence, from what I gathered. But somehow I knew that Franklin D. wouldn’t have hidden who he was, no matter what the consequences. I didn’t understand that kind of thinking. Why not try to save yourself? I was glad that he’d been born in a different time and place.

  I sat on an uncomfortably hard armchair, turned to chapter one, and read by the overcast light slanting through the wooden blinds. This time, I noticed how different the diary was from others that I’d seen. It had dialogue, and even fake names, which Anne had made up. I knew she’d rewritten her diary in the hopes that she’d get it published one day. “I want to go on living even after my death!” she’d written. How ironic that she had to die for her words to make an impact.

  I read for nearly an hour until Vickie’s knock on the door let me know it was time to take care of Oma.

  The next Sunday, Franklin D. and I headed to the Palace of Fine Arts. The sun shone down on the building, turning its domed top a peachy orange. We sat by the lagoon, next to a guy with a pastry in one hand and the San Francisco Chronicle in the other. Through the trees, a pink-tinged fog drifted lazily out to the bay.

  All of a sudden I got it. Why people loved this city. When San Francisco was on, it was really on.

  “I have a gift for you,” Franklin D. said. He handed me something soft and red, rolled into a sausage and tied with a thick blue ribbon.

  I unfolded the T-shirt, which read, Statistics Is the Art of Never Having to Say You’re Wrong. It was geeky as hell, but it captured me perfectly.

  “It was too small on me,” Franklin D. said. “I suspected it would look better on you.”

  A part of me hoped this was a hand-me-down, not something he’d bought. Gifts required planning and thinking about someone. I held it up to my body. It was the right size. “Thanks,” I said.

  “Try it on,” he urged.

  I wiggled my way into the shirt. Franklin D. stepped in close, lifting his phone to get a photo of us. I ducked before he could take the picture.

  “I love it,” I said, pulling it off. “Hey, did you see that Thurmond finally posted our debate grade?”

  “Yeah, she gave me a lousy B as in buffalo buttocks.” Franklin D. took a noisy sip of his tofu shake.

  Ms. Thurmond said that Franklin D. tended to lose perspective in the throes of passion. Sounded like she was teaching Sex Ed. She’d called me the Queen of the Fillers, even though I couldn’t remember saying a single uh or um. “Yeah, I got a B, too,” I told him.

  Franklin D. groaned. “I’ll have you know I thoroughly enjoyed your description of the evil relatives pulling the plug.” He glanced at his phone, at the photo of himself, at the top of my head, mostly out of the frame. “Something’s missing,” he said after a mom
ent. “Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  After a cupcake stop on Union Street, we hiked up Fillmore. The hills, I’d come to appreciate, were a free gym membership. My calf muscles were rock solid.

  When we reached Oma’s porch, Franklin D. insisted on fixing the mezuzah. I went to the garage to get a hammer. A few minutes later, the mezuzah was on the side of the door that God recognized.

  Once we were in the house, Franklin D. waited in the living room while I got us a snack. Vickie was sautéing vegetables. Oma swiveled around in her chair, snatching glimpses at the TV. Canned laughter erupted from I Love Lucy, followed by a three-second delay before Oma echoed the fake chortles. She wasn’t getting the jokes, only imitating sounds. Despite the laughter in the kitchen, I felt an almost unbearable sadness.

  I spotted a bag of pretzels on a high shelf and jumped up to get them. As the bag came down, a grocery receipt fell to the floor. I bent down to retrieve it.

  Vickie, at the stove, raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, Liv?”

  I eyed the long stretch of paper. “Well, it’s just … this is a lot of food. I mean, the bill’s over four hundred dollars.”

  “I only go shopping for your grandmother once a month.” Vickie took the receipt before I could take inventory. “I’m so glad you found it,” she continued. “I have to expense it to Mr. Laramie, and I thought it was lost.”

  “Why’s it so much?”

  Her smile dimmed. “Your grandma likes brie, smoked salmon, chocolate, gelato … She has enough going against her, so I like to indulge her cravings every now and then. I’m sure you, of all people, can understand the soft spot I have for her.” Without glancing at the receipt, she said, “Of course, this is a month old. I hope it’s not too late to submit.”

  Her soft spot, it seemed, didn’t extend to her own wallet.

  Oma’s eyes were glued to I Love Lucy. I stepped in front of the television. “Do you like brie, Oma?”

  Oma cocked her head, thinking. After a moment, she muttered, “No one’s free.”

  Vickie laughed. “That’s asking a bit much from our gal, don’t you think?”