“Like me and Olivia?” Click. The memory of today punches me out of nowhere. Of Olivia looking anywhere but at me. Of her driving away with Piper. The memory stops there, but my imagination keeps going, and I see Piper and Olivia swimming in Piper’s pool like new best friends.

She nods. “Yes, like you and Olivia. Our families were very close. Our apartments were next to each other’s, and our fathers worked together.”

“In San Francisco?” I ask.

She frowns at me. “It doesn’t matter. Do you want to hear about Jacob or not?”

Her sharp words sting, and I sit back. I’m not used to Gram talking like that. “I want to hear,” I say finally.

I can’t help wondering why my question upset her. I’ve been told all my life that Gram grew up in San Francisco, so why do I get the feeling that isn’t true? If not San Francisco, then where?

Her voice softens, losing the sharp edge of seconds ago. “Jacob was extremely smart, but he could never beat me in chess. It used to upset him whenever I won. Then one day he figured out how to distract me enough so he could beat me.” She laughs and slaps her leg. “He told me I looked pretty in my blue sweater. After that he flattered me whenever he wanted to beat me at anything, the cheater. I’m still a sucker for a good compliment, yes?”

I grin. There’s a lightness to her, and I can imagine her as a young girl with her blue sweater and sparkling eyes. “What did he look like?”

“Oh, he was tall and quite dashing, with dark hair and light-blue eyes. He saw everything. Nothing got past him.…” Her words fade along with her smile. “Poor Jacob. He was the one who needed protection, not me.”

I wait for her to continue, but she’s lost in her thoughts. Finally, she shakes her head and claps her hands together. “Enough for tonight, yes? I will share more tomorrow.”

“Okay. Thanks, Gram.” I kiss the papery skin of her cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you more.” Her soft reply fades behind me with the click of her door.

9. Declarative Memory

Our declarative memory is in charge of events and facts that go into our long-term memory. It’s made up of our knowledge and experiences. People used to think this kind of memory was fixed, but our memories actually change each time we speak about them. Each memory wrestles with another to be the one remembered, like a thumb war inside our brain. Little details can change every single time we revisit them. The very act of remembering can change our original memory.

I lock my door and open the Russian book gingerly. I use Google Translate and try to find Jacob’s name, but the words swirl in a mess of confusion, mimicking how I feel.