She is most lucid after midnight. Don't ask me why. It's been this way ever since Nol slipped away, becoming this unknown and distant woman. I don't tell Gran what I'm up to, but I'm sure she knows I'm up to something. I only visit Nol on Mondays. It's too difficult to make those visits daily affairs. So now, the third visit in one week, and this one at midnight -- well that makes the situation beyond the ordinary.

But Gran plays it cool, doesn't ask me questions or prod me along in any other way. She actually makes things easier for me, as she always does.

"How about if I brew tea for you and Nol so you can sit down together in the backyard? I'm sure she'll be happy to take a break from her painting."

I lean out the window, feeling the crisp air, which actually has been a bit milder over the past twenty-four hours. Yesterday was the first day of spring. Nol, as always, is painting with abandon. Her arm flails left and right like the conductor of an orchestra as colors fly onto the canvas. The paintings are pretty ugly, to be honest, but we encourage her. We tell her they're beautiful, somehow hoping art will bring her back to life.

I shut the window and turn to Gran.

"That sounds perfect, but I don't want to create extra work for you, Gran. Let me make the tea and take care of everything tonight. How about if you go up to bed before 3 a.m. for once?"

"As if I could sleep," she says through a smile. "But thank you, sweetheart. No, I'll take care of the tea and maybe even some cookies – Nol's gotten so thin, I have to constantly try to push food down her throat. Anyway, you go on ahead."

Nol doesn't hear me approach. It's pretty obvious she's in her own world. As usual. I sit down for a while and watch her. It's like watching a ballet, graceful and calm one moment, then dramatic and energetic. The result on the canvas is the same, with light colors and soft strokes, then darker more troubling ones. Gran quietly sets our tea tray out a few minutes later, and I know I can't sit around here forever just observing Nol. I can't procrastinate the night away. It's time to approach her. Time to talk. About what, I don't know. And I don't even have a plan, that's for sure. But sometimes the best things happen when you don't have a plan. Because there is room for flexibility and newness. OK. Gran winks at me, then retreats into the house. And Nol turns to face me.

Nol's face is infused with light all of a sudden. It isn't from the strings of Christmas lights on the trees encircling her workspace, though. It's from within. She approaches, then sits down opposite me as I slide a cup of Earl Grey in her direction. I lift my own cup, as if I could hide behind the steam.

"What did you find at Luna?" she asks.

I don't answer. I know that if I want to get anywhere, I need to be the one asking questions.

"That's not important. What did you find at Luna, Nol? Way back when."

Her eyes widen for a second, then the pupils constrict. She fidgets, her paint-stained hands turning the cotton doily into knots. I take a sip of tea and tell myself not to be disappointed if Nol comes out with some crazy comment on discovering a pair of orange shoelaces in the Luna bathroom or some other way-out observation.

"I met him, the one I thought was my soulmate," she whispers, and my breath catches in my throat.

I don't say a word, don't show a reaction. I'm afraid that if I interrupt Nol with any comment or question, it could throw her completely off track, and the memory will be forgotten. This precious memory in a mind that seemed to have held none. My heart is beating double time as I try to look nonchalant and sip my tea. Nol looks as if she's fallen into a trance as the words start to flow.

"He was different, completely different," she says. "Not from our world, but with an interest in it and a respect for it. We met there at Luna every week, then he moved in with me, and life was perfect. We had two girls, twins."

Here, I draw in a sharp breath. What's she talking about? I'm an only child. But she's still talking, and I don't want to miss a word of it. No time to argue with any of her strange versions of the truth.

"And then things changed. When the girls were so little... just a few months old. He left with one of them, the one who wasn't like us. From the day you both were born I knew you would be a memory catcher but your sister never would have the ability."

I open my mouth as if I'm about to say something, then think better of it.

"At first, I didn't understand why he left. But later I did. He couldn't accept the strangeness of our lives, of yours and mine. He wanted to take her, the other girl, and go back to the normal life he once knew. He said he couldn't accept the danger, the instability we knew. He didn't want both girls to be put at risk."

I desperately want to speak now, want to know who my father and sister are and want to know how far Nol will go. Is she back? How much does she remember? My heart soars at the thought, then I reign in the excitement. This may be a glimmer of something that never will take root, never will bring her back to who she was. Like when I sort of transmitted a memory to her the other day. And wait a minute. What if all of this is a bunch of nonsense? I'm shaking as I set my teacup down and bite my lip.

Nol is silent now, and her eyes are growing dim. Now, I'll ask her a question. Her story is done, so I've nothing to lose.

"Where is my father now? And my sister?"

"Hmm? Who?"

"Nol! The story you've just told." I can't keep the exasperation out of my voice even though I know I shouldn't be surprised and Nol is a victim in this whole mess.

Nol looks at me with a question in her eyes.

I rub my brow with my palm and shake my head. "I'm sorry. Look, forget it. It's not important."

"OK." Her smile is brilliant as she lifts her cup of tea to her lips.

We sit there in silence for a while, a silence that an outsider would say looked comfortable. But I'm anything but comfortable. Finally, Nol finishes her tea and glances back at her work.

"It's OK," I say. "Go ahead."

She looks relieved, then hurries off. Once she's back to business, I rush inside with the hope that Gran, who indeed hardly ever sleeps, may still be awake. I find her crocheting in the living room. She glances up with a smile as her fingers continue their dance, but in true non-nosy Gran style, she doesn't say a word.

"She told me about my father and my sister." I blurt out the words, then sink down onto the rug at Gran's feet.

Gran looks up again, but this time sets aside her half-finished doily and leans closer to me.

"Gran, what do you know about them? Do you even know if they exist? If the story is true or a figment of her imagination."

"It is true," she says. "But I don't know more. All of that happened when Nol was out of my life, when she had walked out in her little rebellion, wanting to do things her way without the interference of her mother."

"But you never interfere, Gran!"

Gran smirks. "Well, teenagers often see things differently when dealing with parents. And that's what happened with Nol. But that's all right. It's behind us now. And you know what? If I could have her back, I would welcome the rebellion."

"But Gran, wait. What's this story about a sister? I mean, we all knew I had a father somewhere, but a sister?"

"I don't know anything more, and after years of prodding never got a single bit of satisfaction. Nol wouldn't budge. Digging for information isn't my thing, nor is nosing into people's business – even my own daughter's. So, I let it rest."

"And you didn't tell me."

"I was torn," she says. "Sometimes I regretted it. Sometimes I didn't. Most often, I said to myself 'what's the use of telling her?' Your sister and your father are lost to us."

I repeat Gran's words over and over on my way home: "Your sister and your father are lost to us." Sadness and regret should fill my heart, but instead, determination takes their place.