And for a moment, if I close my eyes and open them again in the just right way—if I look through my eyes instead of with them, like Gram taught me—I can almost see her there. I can imagine her, at least. Her skin the color of clouds just before the sun starts to set, her long silver braid hanging down her back, a crooked-tooth smile dancing on her face.

“Can’t sleep, darlin’?” she says.

“No. My head is too loud.”

“Ah, yes. Thoughts can be pesky that way. Care to share one?”

I take a bite of ice cream, feeling the coldness of it seep into my tongue.

“I’m sorry, Gram,” I say. “I’ve been angry at you. For telling me all those fairy tales. For making me write them, too, and most of all, for making me believe in them. You always said there was truth in every story, but after you died, all I could see were lies.”

“Oh? What kind of lies?”

“Like how those stories always have happy endings.”

“And you don’t believe in those anymore?”

“I don’t not believe them,” I say, thinking. “But I don’t think they’re the truest part of the fairy tales. I think they’re just the part people remember.”

Gram’s smile deepens. “Go on.”

“The true part is that there’s always a battle. Jack and Sarah had to fight the troll army and the hobgoblin king. Hansel and Gretel had to beat the witch and find their way out of the forest. I don’t think you can know how your story ends, but the ending is always better if you’re willing to fight for it. That’s why you told me all those stories, and made me write my own. That’s what you wanted to teach me. To fight for myself.”

“Very good,” Gram says. “But there’s another reason, too. Can you guess?”

I think about this for a minute, digging my spoon around the ice cream carton to find the biggest chocolate chips. “Your sketchbook. Dad says your imagination is what helped you get through the time you were trapped inside.”

“Imagination is one of the greatest gifts we have. If we build it up strong enough, it can be anything we need it to be. A home. A friend. A whole entire world.”

She’s still smiling. Drinking me in with her eyes.

“A world like the Goldengrove,” I say.

Gram winks. “My secret is discovered at last, hmm? Was it wrong that I hoped one day you might uncover it?”

“No,” I say. “And I understand why you didn’t tell me about Madeline and the book. But I wish you’d told me about your vitiligo, Gram. It would have made it so much easier for me to know that you had it, too.”