Mom’s swirling finger in the air doesn’t mean she wishes she were somewhere else. It means she’s chosen to be here. Dad’s absentminded smile is still a smile, and it’s full of his love for us. Clay is just… Clay. Funny, loud, and sometimes a brat, but most of the time sweet. Gram’s not a spy or someone I never knew. There’s a whole part of her life she’s kept to herself, but it’s what made her the kind of grandmother who loves every last bit of me, even the parts no one else sees.

I think Mom is trying. Our talk appears to have changed something for the better. She seems almost as happy as she does when she’s painting. Dad notices and can’t stop smiling his goofy smile. They keep touching hands and calling each other “babe,” which is weird, but also sort of sweet.

After Max and Olivia leave, Dad heads to his office to finish some work, Mom takes Clay to bed, and I help Gram do the dishes. Lately the dishwasher’s buttons have been confusing her, and it’s easier for her to do the dishes by hand. I make sure they are put away in the right cabinet so Dad won’t have to hunt for his favorite mug like he did last week. I had found it in the freezer when I grabbed Clay a Popsicle, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my parents from noticing things like mugs in the freezer.

Gram hands me the clean dishes and I dry them. The mindless rhythm we develop feels effortlessly efficient, like so many other things with Gram. When the last dish is done, she turns to me.

“Yakov called,” she says. “I think we should talk, yes?”

33. Myelin

Around the axon is a fatty white substance called myelin. Its job is to protect the axon—kind of like a phone charger cable that has plastic around the wires. This protection helps the electrical signal travel way faster. The signal may still get through without the myelin, but it takes longer to get there. People who don’t have enough myelin get diseases that make it hard to walk or think clearly.

We all do better with a little protection around us. Without it, we might be so afraid we’ll make a wrong choice that we refuse to make any at all.

Gram’s eyes are so soft with love, it takes me a moment to grasp her question. “I believe you have something of mine?”

My skin goes hot. I imagine my blood bubbling like when Gram makes soup. I’m a serving of guilt soup ready to be poured out.

I hurry to my backpack and pull out the journal, handing it to her, my cheeks burning bright. “I’m sorry, Gram. I know it was wrong to take it.”