I used to think she’d only give me the book if she moved. And since I never wanted her to leave, I put it out of my mind. But now I wonder if the book might tell me more about Gram. I don’t really know anything about when she was young. It’s hard to imagine her ever being my age.

Is the book still in the chest? Is Gram the girl in the book? The questions prod at me, and for a moment, I forget how scared I’d been at the mall.

“I will take a nap and be as good as new, yes?” Gram’s smile doesn’t reassure me like it usually does. She’s speaking with that strange accent again.

Until today I thought Gram’s forgetfulness would get better, that she was just tired or needed more help with Clay. She’d forget for a few seconds, or sometimes minutes, and then be fine again. This time she hadn’t remembered for more than an hour.

I close the door softly behind me, and I hear Mom’s and Dad’s hushed voices filter down the hall. Avoiding the creaky floorboards, I tiptoe closer to the kitchen.

“I know,” Dad says. “I made an appointment for next week. It might be nothing, but something isn’t quite right.”

“And have you noticed how she suddenly sounds like a supervillain in Rocky and Bullwinkle?” Mom’s voice gets louder as she turns the faucet on.

“Dementia can present itself in all sorts of ways.”

“So you think it’s Alzheimer’s?” Mom asks in the hushed voice she usually uses to talk about Maisie. I inch closer, holding my breath as I listen.

“No. She’s probably just tired. She’s getting older and refuses to slow down. Maybe she needs more rest, but I don’t think we should rule anything out.” Dad sounds sad, but I’m not fooled by it. If he was so sad, then he wouldn’t have had a brochure for a place called Pleasant Oaks Retirement Home on his desk.

When I found the brochure yesterday, I crumpled it up, like if Dad couldn’t see it, he might forget.

My mind races. I can’t blindly trust my parents to make the right decision. They’ve shown me what they do when life gets too hard to handle. Dad runs to work, and Mom shuts herself away in her art studio. Everyone and everything else is ignored.

I can’t let Gram go into a home. I can’t imagine my life without her in it.

I sneak away to my room to look up Alzheimer’s. Each paragraph of information is stored safely away. Some I understand, others I don’t. Click. I won’t forget. I can’t.

3. Temporal Lobe