“He didn’t need to do any tests?” I know I sound suspicious, but I can’t help myself. I am suspicious.

“He did, and I passed with flying colors.” She drives home slower than usual, her fingers tapping to a beat only she hears.

We pull into the driveway, and Gram puts the van in park. She frowns and tugs on the key still in the ignition. When it doesn’t come out, her hands shake and she sits back in her seat. Her eyes close with a flutter.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. I pull out the key for her and open the back door so I can grab Clay. “I’ll get Clay. Do you want to go inside and ask Mom for a cup of tea?”

“Yes, thank you, sweet girl. I’m feeling very tired, I think.”

“Tired” has become the code word for forgetful or confused.

I hand Clay off to Mom and make Gram a cup of tea. She settles in front of the television and falls asleep.

Mom sniffs Clay’s hair. “When’s the last time you had a bath, big boy?” She glances at me with raised brows. “Has Gram washed his hair lately?”

I bristle. How dare she act like this is Gram’s fault? Gram isn’t his mother. “I think so,” I bite out.

“Let’s go scrub-a-dub-dub you,” Mom sings, propping Clay on her hip. She gives me a quick smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. They look mad.

I close my eyes and play back the last week. My memory screeches with hundreds of seconds of rewinding as I search for a time Gram might have given Clay a bath. The last time was nearly eight days ago. No wonder he stinks.

A peach pit of worry shoves against my ribs. The brochure to the retirement home is torn into bits and thrown away in the trash can outside, and I haven’t seen or heard anything more about sending Gram away. But that doesn’t mean Mom and Dad won’t start thinking about it again.

I add Clay’s bath time to the growing list of things I need to double-check for Gram. As I think about everything I need to keep track of, I feel a weight settling on me, like when I have to hoist Remy’s saddle on his back. It takes all my strength, and my arms shake so hard, sometimes I’m afraid I’ll drop it.

As soon as I can, I lock myself in my bedroom. Piled in the corner are the heaps of albums I’ve been going through. Most of them show Dad as a baby, with Gram and Grandpa Daniel smiling and laughing in all the pictures.

Grandpa Daniel died before I was born, but I can tell I would have liked him. His eyes are smiley all the time, even when he’s looking straight-faced at the camera.