We pull up to the house, and Gram smiles wistfully. “She had a real ear for language. She always said one day she wanted to learn Chinese. Your great-grandfather used to say she could mimic any accent flawlessly.”

“What was her first language?”

Gram looks over at me, but her eyes are out of focus. As if she sees something that isn’t there.

“Gram?” I press. I don’t want to push her too far, but I really need an answer.

Clay lets out a screech. “Out!” he yells, kicking his legs furiously against the back of the seat.

“Thanks a lot, brat,” I mutter. Gram jerks out of her limbo and rushes around the side of the van to unbuckle him.

She kisses his cheek. “Let’s get you inside, sweet boy.” He starts to cry when she takes too long to unhook him. Gram mumbles to herself before stepping back and looking at me in confusion. “It’s stuck.”

I step around her and easily unsnap the buckle with one hand. Clay launches himself into my arms, and I permit his sloppy kisses as I carry him to the porch. He plops down on the welcome mat and waits as I take his shoes off.

“Lulu!” he shouts, and barrels inside. I kick off my boots on the porch and pad into the house in my socks.

“Oh good, you’re home,” Mom says, rushing down the stairs. “I need to pop off to the store for ten minutes. Can you watch them, Sue?”

What does she think Gram’s been doing all day? Her life is spent taking care of us.

Before Gram came, Mom would sometimes be too sad to even get out of bed. I can understand her sadness about the baby, but why did having Clay make her worse? Sometimes I think she uses her sadness as an excuse to stay away from us. As if Maisie were her one true child and Clay and I will never be enough.

Gram frowns faintly like she does when she’s confused. My heart thumps hard. What if she has one of her forgetful episodes in front of Mom?

Mom slips her shoes on and grabs her purse. She waits for Gram’s answer.

Gram opens her mouth, but I can see the confusion painted across her face, so I start to cough. I cough so loud, my throat hurts with it.

Mom steps backward. “Goodness, Lulu. Are you getting sick?”

“Allergies. I get them sometimes after I ride,” I say, moving to the door so Mom faces me and away from Gram. I’ve never had allergies, but Mom won’t know that. She doesn’t like to watch me ride. Her excuse is that she worries about me falling, but it’s kind of hard to believe that when you add everything else together.