“Are you okay, Gram?” I finally whisper. I sit up to meet her gaze.

The lines around her eyes droop like the fringe on the throw pillows. “Yes, my sweet girl. How are you feeling?”

“I’m better. I think I’ll go to bed now.”

She smiles. “Go on up and I’ll come tuck you in.”

I climb into bed and read until my eyes burn. After an hour, I finally give up on her coming. It’s one of the first times she hasn’t tucked me in when she said she would. Was it the story? Is telling her memories making things worse instead of better?

Before I go to sleep, I look up articles about Russia in the fifties. The former Soviet Union sounds like something straight out of The Hunger Games. Leaving the country wasn’t allowed—you couldn’t just buy a plane ticket. You needed special permission and a bunch of paperwork. So how did Gram and her mom escape? Were they planted here as spies? And if they were… what happens if the United States finds that out?

I give up on sleeping, but I must drop off at some point. Dad shakes me awake as I’m dreaming about razor wires and machine guns chasing Gram and me as we run.

“Hey, sweetie,” he says. “Did you want to come in to work with me today?”

I blink and try to slow down the frantic beat of my heart.

“Um, I think I have plans with Olivia today,” I say. It’s kind of sweet that he wants me to come to school with him again, but there’s too much at stake for me to take any time off. “Maybe next week?”

“Sure thing. Gram says you weren’t feeling well last night?”

“Yeah, I’m better now.” I smile to prove it.

He ruffles my hair. “Glad to hear it. See you tonight.”

“Dad?”

He pauses at my door and flashes me one of his goofy smiles. “Yeah?”

I struggle with what I want to ask, so I change my mind. “I love you,” I say instead.

He grins, and I’m happy I didn’t ask him if he thought his mom was a Russian spy. “Love you too, Lulu Lemon.”

16. Flashbulb Memory

There are memories called flashbulb memories. They are extremely intense, highly detailed snapshots of a moment that is usually very emotional to us. Like when my parents talk in hushed tones about the terrorist attacks on 9/11 like they happened yesterday instead of seventeen years ago.

These intense memories are often imprecise. We allow details of others’ stories to mix with our own memories. Until we are actually remembering someone else’s experience like it’s our own.

Max: I translated the Russian you remembered. It means: You are a traitor. It won’t matter where you hide. It will find you.