The Memory Keeper of Kyiv (13)

As soon as he was out of earshot, Cassie said, “I still think that’s kind of weird. Haven’t you ever seen those crime shows about handsome strangers getting the elderly to sign over their bank accounts and estates?”

“You are terrible.” Bobby glared at her. “So suspicious.”

“Or are you so na?ve?” Cassie folded her arms.

Bobby’s voice hardened as she looked at Cassie. “That is one thing I am not.” After several moments, her voice and shoulders relaxed. “Maybe he’s just a good boy who misses having family around? Did you ever think about that?”

“No. It’s much more likely he’s a serial killer.”

Anna gave a half-smile. “Well, that seems a bit extreme. He seems nice enough.” Then, when Bobby turned away, she leaned close to Cassie and whispered, “Keep an eye on him, though.”





Bobby remained silent on the ride home, and it wasn’t until Anna went ahead to open the front door, while Cassie helped her from the car, that she spoke.

“Does she still not talk?” Bobby shot a glance toward Birdie, who’d skipped ahead after Anna.

Cassie’s face tensed. “Not since the accident.”

Bobby nodded. “Everyone grieves differently.”

They walked slowly up the sidewalk together. “I know,” Cassie said. “But it’s so hard. I feel like I’m failing her.”

“Bah,” Bobby scoffed. “Takes time. You will see.”

They watched as the little girl leaned over and inspected one of the hollyhocks newly sprouted next to the front stoop. A smile lit up her face.

“See, she’s a happy girl,” Bobby said. “When she is ready, she will talk.”

“How can you be so sure?” Cassie asked as they made their way through the front door.

“I am familiar with loss,” Bobby said.

“I know, but Grandpa was almost eighty when he died. You guys at least had a long marriage together.”

Bobby closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m not talking about him.”

Cassie stared at her, but before she could ask any questions, Bobby said, “It’s late. I’ll go to bed now. Can you help me to my room, Cassie?”

That night, while Anna read to Birdie, Cassie wandered into the kitchen. She pulled open the refrigerator door and chuckled at the sight of a small ham and a jar of mayonnaise. The loaf of bread on the counter rounded off Bobby’s favorite quick meal: a ham and mayonnaise sandwich. They would need to grocery shop soon.

A scrap of paper sticking out from under the flour canister on the counter—atypical in Bobby’s tidy kitchen—caught her eye. Curious, she tugged, and the corner of another piece followed. Cassie lifted the whole container and found a pile of small squares of paper covered in spidery script. She held one up to the light and peered closely at the unfamiliar Cyrillic letters.

“What’s that?” Anna asked as she came into the kitchen.

“I can’t read it.” Cassie held one out to her mother.

Anna took the paper and squinted at it. “It’s Bobby’s handwriting.”

“Right, but what does it say? And why are there a dozen of them?” Cassie pointed at the pile on the counter.

Anna frowned. “I don’t know. I never learned to read Ukrainian.”

Cassie sorted the slips of paper. “How strange.”

“It’s probably just lists for groceries,” Anna said. “Put it back where you found it so she doesn’t get upset.”

“What if it’s something else?” Cassie asked. “Notes about people she once knew or stories about her life.”

Anna snorted. “Wishful thinking. You know she never talks about her past.”

“Maybe it’s different now that she’s getting older,” Cassie said. The journal she’d found flashed through her mind. “Maybe she’s ready to share her memories.”

Anna let out an exasperated sigh. “Doubtful. I’ve tried my whole life to get information about Bobby’s past, but she’d never talk. All I’d get is,” Anna adopted a terrible imitation of Bobby’s accented English: “the past is done. All you can do is look to the future.”

“What did your father say?” Cassie asked. Her grandfather had died when she was six, and her memories of him were few and fuzzy.

“Sometimes he’d talk about farming when we’d plant the garden, but if I asked him anything specific about his childhood or Ukraine, he’d change the subject.” She laughed as she remembered. “He used to eat all of the leftovers. If I couldn’t finish my food, he would, then he’d wipe the plate clean with a piece of bread. And if there was something questionable in the fridge, he’d eat it, even if he had to scrape some mold off to do it.”

Cassie blanched. “Bobby isn’t much different in that regard. I’m always afraid to eat leftovers from her fridge. You never know how old they really are. Even if it’s from two weeks ago, she’ll tell you it’s still good.”

“I know,” Anna agreed. She closed her eyes, lost in thought. “God, I haven’t thought about this in years, but one time, I found my dad sitting in the middle of the garden, crying.”

She opened her eyes and met Cassie’s. “I was young, and it scared me. I tried to give him a hug and ask him what was wrong, but he wouldn’t talk. He kept running his hand over all of the vegetables and sobbing. It’s like I wasn’t even there.” Anna shook her head. “I tried asking him about it later, and he pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about. Like I’d made it all up.”