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“Did you break his heart?” Grandma asked. “That poor boy.”

“More like the other way around,” I said.

“You still owe me that long story,” Mom said, pointing her spoon at me.

He stole my dream.Why couldn’t I say that?“I know, I know. When my bones don’t hurt.” I downed a couple pills with a glass of water.

“Well, I’m glad you’re doing a triathlon,” she said. “It’s nice to see you trying something new.”

“Right,” I said, then, changing the subject, quickly asked, “Did you listen to the latest podcast I emailed you?”

“I did. It was so good. Why didn’t you publish it?”

I waved my hand through the air. “Because you’re the only one who listens. But that’s not why I asked. Did Grandma ever tell you that she was friends with Andrew Lancaster? That he painted her a surfboard?”

“I’m sitting right here,” Grandma said.

“Did you tell my mom?”

“I think so,” Grandma said.

“You never told me that,” Mom said, and she looked at me like she thought maybe it hadn’t really happened. Like Grandma wasn’t entirely in her right mind. Like she’d made the whole thing up. But that hadn’t been my experience with her early memories. Most of those had been spot-on.

“I don’t tell you everything,” Grandma singsonged. “Andrew was a beautiful painter. He didn’t know it at first. But I did.”

“He didn’t know it?” Dad asked, as if she’d told a joke.

“No, some people need to be told what they’re good at,” Grandma insisted. “And I told him. I’ll show you a picture.”

“We don’t have any pictures, Mom.”

“Why?” she asked.

“The fire. Remember?”

“Oh, right. What a shame.” She stirred her oatmeal around in her bowl.

“Was it a wood board?” I asked, remembering what Andrew was famous for.

“Balsa wood with a waterproof finish over the painting,” Grandma said. “You would’ve loved it.”

“I’m sure I would’ve,” I said.

“But Cheryl Millcreek borrowed it and I never saw it again,” she said.

“Who’s Cheryl Millcreek?” I looked at my mom.

“I’m not sure,” Mom answered. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

“Someone who doesn’t return things, that’s who,” Grandmasaid.

“She sounds terrible,” I said.

“Finley,” Mom chastised.

“What? She does.”

Mom shook her head.