“But… don’t you want to be together?” I think about how feelings can change over time, and I can’t help but think of how I used to feel about Max. How the smirk I used to find so irritating is now sort of cute.

“We are together,” she says patiently. “We are best friends, and we always will be. It is true and strong, and sometimes this is better than the romance.”

I’m not sure I like this explanation. It isn’t the happy ending I want. But maybe there are different kinds of happy endings. Not everything happens the way we want it to. All the areas of our brains—neurotransmitters, glial cells, neurons, and the many things I’ve studied to make sense of how memory works—are interconnected and work in a spectacular way.

Until they don’t.

“Did Yakov tell you what I told him about your memory loss?” I ask gently.

She grimaces and nods abruptly. “Yes. I hope it isn’t true. Do I really forget so much? I know I get confused at times. And, of course, last night was concerning. But surely it’s not too bad?”

I promised my parents I would tell Gram the truth, so I do. “You forget something every day,” I say, spitting my words out fast so I can’t take them back. “Sometimes, for just a second, you even forget who I am.”

She closes her eyes briefly, but not before I see the flicker of pain. “You need to promise me something, Lulu.”

“Yes, Gram?”

She looks straight at me, her gaze piercing the exposed fragments of my heart. “You will put all this away in your phenomenal memory and keep it safe. Can you do that for me?”

I nod, giant tears plopping onto my knees. “I will.”

“If I’m like my mama, then it will take years for me to completely forget. In the meantime, keep reminding me, yes? And I will try to listen. You will make me listen. You will tell me my stories. The ones I give to you.”

“Every day,” I promise.

“It’s how I keep my mama alive,” she says with a sad smile. “I remember her life. As long as you have those little pieces of them, then the person is never really gone. They’re always close by.”

She seems to know, as she always does, what I need. She opens her arms to me, and I hug her tight, absorbing the deceptive strength of her as she gathers me close on her lap.

“Gram,” I say, “how do you say ‘I love you’ in Russian?”

Her fingers thread gently through my hair. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

I repeat the words slowly, imagining Gram’s mother saying them to her. “Lyublyu,” I whisper.

We stay this way until her arms tremble with my weight, until I have no more tears left, until she’s answered every last one of my questions.