I looked away so she would not see the tears in my eyes. She is the smartest person I know, the most adaptable, the one with the quickest wit, wit so sharp I can feel it even when I can’t understand half her language. She survived wars, moved all over the world, learned new languages and customs, how to use a computer when most would have given up. Now her mind is going to betray her, slowly and steadily, and in her words—before I forget—she knows. She knows what will happen, that her lucid thoughts are numbered, and yet she wants to spend that time reliving her regrets.

I faked a sneeze as an excuse to blow my nose.

“Hurry up and finish your ice cream,” she said gently. “Let’s drag grandfather away from his fans.”

At night, I composed my message to Louise.

😞: the cashier wouldn’t take our slightly expired coupon

😄: grandmother’s lion head meatballs

Louise replied half an hour later.

fuck that cashier!

I grinned, then prompted her:

what’s your 😞 😄?

The dots animated to show her typing.

😞: didn’t make it to the dining hall before it closed. had stale peanut butter cookies for dinner instead

😄: talking to you!

I was lying on my bed, phone hovering a few inches from my face. I brought the phone to my chest. With its light covered, the room darkened. I let it sit there, resting on top of my rapidly beating heart. She was only being nice, I told myself, she was just so impossibly nice, even to someone she barely knew. It couldn’t be more than that, could it? I wished the computer could help me like it always had before, when I wanted to contact my father, or find Meng. But there was no technology to help with grandmother’s fading memories or that could decipher what Louise’s words really meant. I felt suddenly that I owed her something in return. Rather than feeling bad about it, I got a rush of excitement, thinking of what I could do for her.

I typed a question.

hey, what’s your address? can I send you something?

She replied with her full address without hesitation. So open, as usual. Maybe there is something to it, after all: sharing your life. Writing all this is helping, I think, if only for myself to look back on, to run through these conversations again, to keep grandmother’s memory alive somehow.

Chapter 6

From the Reforged pencil of Wong Yun

I’m losing my memories, Meng. It isn’t bad yet, but it will only get worse. I need to write everything down, at least in pencil, before I forget entirely. I am not sure I am coherent every time, if you will receive the half-formed thoughts of an addled mind or a seamless narrative. Whatever it is, you will get all of it.