The Memory Thief (9 page)

I've done my best to make sense out of this, poking around my life to see if I was planning to switch careers anytime soon. I asked Grace, and she said I was good at my job, that I had no plans to do anything else. I asked Taylor, and he said no, man, you liked it because you got the summers off and you could hang out at the beach. Then I asked Jack, and he gave me a blank stare. It's a living, he said. You're not supposed to love it. You do what you gotta do. The latter seemed like such a grim assessment, I resolved to never bring up the subject again. Maybe I've had a personality reassignment or something.

I could handle all of this, I think, if it weren't for the dreams. Last week, in an effort to get a grip, I drove out to Climb On!, an indoor rock climbing gym located in Wilmington's outer reaches. I thought that maybe something there would resonate with me, that perhaps I had a secret life as a mountain climber and that's why teaching social studies seemed tame in comparison—but that didn't happen. I looked at the walls covered in multicolored holds, the dudes climbing upside down in what the front desk person told me was called the Cave, and shuddered. Not only was none of it familiar, but when I stepped into a harness and started making my way up one of the routes, I got vertiginously dizzy. By the end of my sojourn to Climb On!, I learned yet another new thing about myself: I do not care for heights. Not at all.

So much for my secret identity theory. I'm back to pissing Grace off, drinking too much, and wandering around like one of Oliver Sacks's prime case studies. In my spare time, I sit and picture the dark-haired woman, trying to figure out why her face calls up such strong feelings—way stronger than anything I feel for Grace. When I think about the dream woman, the sense of ennui that pervades my daily life is gone. I feel … open, like anything is possible, and happy. But I also feel sad, because I miss her—which is impossible, given that she's a figment of my imagination. I close my eyes, and I can feel her shape under my hands, smell her scent. I can hear her voice. When I touch myself, hers is the face I see. I don't fight this as hard as I should, because it's nice to feel something for once, other than confusion. If this is the worst delusion life can throw at me, I'll take it … even if that crazy dream is the price.

Watching cars jockey for space in the crowded parking lot of the Mushroom, I decide that I'm going to quit seeing Dr. Green. For one thing, he's not helping. It's pretty poor if you walk into your shrink's office and, instead of confessing your innermost feelings, your first urge is to bust out a cheesy rap song. For another, I'm not certain what it is that I want him to do. I'm willing to buy that this whole experience is just some funky coping mechanism dredged up by my frazzled subconscious … but if he could prescribe some magic drug that would eliminate the dreams tomorrow, I'm not so sure I'd stop by the pharmacy. I want to hang on to the feelings that I get when I see the woman and the little boy, and the man who has something to say. I want to feel energized, fulfilled, like I did on the mountain before the avalanche hit. If I could just figure out how to accomplish this without falling to my death over and over and waking up like an advertisement for Right Guard, well, then I'd be getting somewhere.

I am Ambivalent with a capital
A.

Sighing, I crush my cigarette under my foot, toss it into the trash, and walk back to the table. Grace is sitting next to Taylor, waving her hands around like she always does when she talks. It's a wonder she hasn't knocked over my beer. For someone named Grace, she is remarkably without any. Sad, but true.

“Nicholas!” she says when she sees me. Her face lights up. “What did you think?”

“It was great. Sorry I missed the last few songs.”

“I keep trying to get Grace to play ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia,' but she won't,” Taylor says, looking as pouty as it's possible for a six-foot-three adult male to look. “You should try to persuade her, Sullivan. I bet she'd rip that song a new one.”

I sit down, smile at Grace. “You ought to do it. Otherwise he's liable to start yelling ‘Freebird.'”

“In which case, I shall evict him,” she says, taking a sip of my beer and waving goodbye to her bandmates, who are loading out. The set was acoustic, so there isn't that much to break down. Taylor, being the opportunistic male that he is, jumps out of his chair and runs over to see if he can help the cellist carry her instrument ten feet to her car. She is pretty, and he has a buzz on. Hope springs eternal.

“So,” Grace says. “It's early. Feel like going downtown?”

“I'm kind of tired,” I say, which is the truth. “Taylor and I got up early to go surfing, and then I went for a run with the dog. I'm beat.”

“Why don't we just hang out at your place, then? I got
Taken
on Netflix. We can make popcorn, have a lazy night.”

“Maybe some other time.”

Her face falls. “I don't get it, Nicholas. Why are you acting like this?”

“Can we just take it slow? I've got a lot on my mind. I need some time,” I say, parroting Dr. Green. I wish I had something more satisfying to say to her, but this is the best I can do. The more specific I get, the worse I will make her feel. I'd rather protect her from collateral damage while I figure out what's going on in my addled little brain.

Regardless of the purity of my intentions, I don't expect my request to go over well with Grace, and it doesn't. “I've given you time,” she says, looking disgusted. “I've given you two years of my life.”

“I know you have. I'm sorry. I just—I don't know that this is what I want right now.” My voice comes out so low, I'm basically mumbling, but she hears me anyhow.

“You don't know that this is what you
want
? Are you kidding me?”

The latter seems like a rhetorical question, so I don't answer it. This does not please Grace. “Are you breaking up with me?” she says, clutching my pint glass so tightly that I'm afraid it'll splinter in her hand.

“No. At least, I don't think so. I'm just asking for some space. You can understand that, right?”

One look at Grace's face tells me that indeed she cannot. “What I understand is that when I went to sleep three weeks ago, I had a fiancé who loved me. I was happy. I was starting to plan a wedding, for God's sake.” She looks away, and I pray that she isn't going to start crying. “I was willing to accept that things would be different after the accident. But this isn't fair, Nicholas. It's not fair.”

Of all the tactics she could have taken, this is perhaps the most incendiary—not least because I have been holding back in large part out of a desire to treat her with some kindness and dignity. It pisses me off, and I retaliate without thinking. “Oh, I'm sorry, Grace,” I say. “Do you think having my memory wiped like a messed-up hard drive is a stellar example of fairness at work? Do you believe this has primarily happened to
you
? I'm sorry that my accident and my amnesia have proved to be such an inconvenience. I'd hate to trouble you any further.”

The moment the words are out, I want to take them back. I look at her, at the spots of red burning high on her cheeks, the angry set of her jaw, and know that it's too late. If glares could kill, I'd be six feet under. She is furious, and I deserve every bit of it.

“I'm sorry,” I say, sincerely this time.

“And I'm leaving.” She gets to her feet, shoulders her violin, and pushes past Taylor, who has failed in his mission and is returning to our table. We watch her hightail it for the parking lot, back ramrod straight under her white dress. I have plenty of time to stop her, but I don't. Instead I sit and finish my beer. I let her walk away.

It's been a while since I thought about that rainy night at Wildacres. It didn't hurt as much as I thought, remembering. Maybe I'm just numb.

I take a fortifying gulp of my coffee and pull the computer toward me again, intending to see if any members of the expedition have updated the Facebook page. But before I can log in, the doorbell rings. I figure it's my mom, maybe bringing Gabe back early from his night at her hotel—she and my dad have flown in to be with me, but for some reason they've elected to stay at the Boulderado, rather than at our house—and I struggle to put on what Aidan would call my game face. I've got a smile all ready to go when I open the door.

It isn't my mom, though. Standing on the front porch like I've somehow summoned him via Facebook is J. C., looking rumpled and worn-out, as if he hasn't slept in days. Maybe he hasn't. There are circles under his eyes, his black T-shirt is wrinkled, and he needs a shave. I stare at him, and the smile fades right off my face. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Hi,” he says, and he holds out his arms.

For a few seconds I stand there, frozen. J. C. is home. He hasn't found Aidan, he hasn't found Aidan's body. He will most likely tell me a bunch of things I don't want to hear, and life will go on, one plodding moment after the next. As much as I want to shut the door and run away, to crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head and pretend that Aidan will be home next Tuesday just like he promised, I know I can't do that. J. C. and Jesse and Roma have risked their own lives to search for Aidan in bad weather and avalanche conditions. J. C. was the last person to speak to Aidan, the last person to see him. He loved Aidan, too. He is hurting, just like me.

I step over the doorsill and into J. C.'s arms. They close tight around me, and he holds me like he doesn't want to let go. I remember when Ellis died, when I came home and found Aidan in my living room, how sorry I felt for Patty, how angry I was. Now it is my turn.

J. C. maneuvers us inside and shuts the door behind us. He lowers his face into my hair. “I am so sorry, Maddie,” he says. “I'm sorry I couldn't bring him back. I tried as hard as I could. The whole team did.”

“I know.”

“We'll go back, I promise. We'll go back in the spring.”

I nod.

He takes me by my upper arms and holds me away from him, looking into my face. “How are you?” he says, like he really wants to know.

I start to tell him that I'm okay, which is the standard line I've been giving everyone, but he's regarding me with such concern that I can't bring myself to lie. Somewhere inside me I feel it rising, the tidal wave of grief I've been holding at bay. “J. C.,” I say, and then the tears come. My face crumples, and I start to sob so hard I can't catch my breath. I gasp and choke for air, and when I have it, I'm ashamed of what I do next: I make my hands into fists and start hitting every inch of J. C. I can reach—his chest, his arms, his face. He doesn't defend himself. He just stands there.

“Why?” I scream at him. “What is the point of this stupid shit you do? Why are you all so crazy? There was no reason this had to happen! What the hell is wrong with you? If you had just stayed here, if you had just listened to me, none of this would have happened! Why didn't you listen to me?” My fists pound J. C.'s chest until he takes them in his big hands and holds them still. And I realize I am not yelling at him, not really. It's Aidan I want to say these things to, even though they might apply equally well to J. C. But Aidan isn't here.

“I'm so sorry,” he says again, and he sounds abject. “I miss him, too.”

He'd be within his rights to get pissed off; after all, no matter what I'm going through, I've just beaten the crap out of him, and all he's done is try to bring Aidan's body back to me, at considerable personal risk. On his face I don't see any anger, though; just exhaustion, and sadness, and worry. His concern undoes me and I start sobbing again, inelegant, gasping sobs. He pulls me against his chest, trying to hold me still. I am ruining his shirt, but I can't bring myself to care.

“Where is Gabe?” he asks when it's clear I'm not capable of pulling myself together.

“At my mom's hotel,” I manage to say.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He picks me up then and carries me to the couch in the living room, which reminds me of Aidan and makes me cry harder.

“I'm sorry,” I have the presence of mind to say through my sobs. “I was trying … to be strong … like he would have wanted … I was doing really well until you …”

He sits beside me on the couch. “You haven't cried for him at all, before now,” he says, and it's not a question.

I shake my head, feeling like Gabe when he's too upset to use his words.

His arms close around me again. He is not Aidan, but he is warm and comforting. I feel safe with him, and I bury my head in his chest.

“I'm here,” he says, rubbing my back. “You go ahead and cry, Maddie. Cry all you want.”

And so I do. He holds me and I cry for all I've lost, all I might yet lose.

It is a long time before I calm down. Every time I think I've gotten myself under control, something sets me off and the tears come again. I'm pretty sure that I've destroyed J. C.'s shirt, but it doesn't seem to bother him. He kisses the top of my head and rocks me back and forth, his arms tight around me. “Let it come out,” he says in my ear. “Let it go.” He rubs my back in circles like I'm a baby he's trying to put to sleep for the night.

Eventually my sobs subside, replaced by embarrassment. I pull back to look at him. His dark eyes are dry and narrowed with concern. “I'm sorry,” I say in a voice made hoarse from all the crying.

“You've got nothing to apologize for,” he says, using the bottom of his shirt to wipe my face. He settles his arm around my shoulders.

“I didn't mean to dump all over you like that. I don't know what happened.”

“I don't mind. I wish I could cry like that, myself. Maybe I'd feel better.”

“Your shirt's a mess,” I say after closer inspection. “You want a new one? I could give you one of Aidan's.”

He looks down at himself and makes a face, as if he's only just realized that his T-shirt is soaked through with tears and snot. “Sure,” he says. “If it's not too much trouble.”

“Not a problem,” I say. But I don't get up. I'm imagining going into Aidan's dresser and rummaging through his shirts until I find one to give J. C. I know this is the least I can do for him, but the thought of it horrifies me. I'm pretty sure it would be the end of my hard-won composure.

As if he can read my mind, J. C. stands up. “Why don't I go get it? I know what'll fit me. I've borrowed plenty of A. J.'s stuff before.” And before I can say anything, he goes off down the hallway. I hear my bedroom door open, and then the sound of a drawer sliding out. In a minute J. C. strides back down the hall wearing Aidan's white Chamonix T-shirt.

He gives me a quick once-over. “Maddie, when's the last time you ate?”

I think back. “I don't remember,” I admit. “I had coffee this morning.”

“That doesn't count.”

“People keep bringing food. All these casseroles and things. But I can't eat them. They're all … glutinous. And then some of them have probably gone bad.”

He wipes his hands on the front of Aidan's shirt. “Why don't you let me make you something? You go take a hot shower and relax, and I'll make you something you like, how does that sound?”

Tears fill my eyes again. I feel like a leaky faucet. “Why are you being so nice to me?” I weep, like an idiot. I could kick myself, but J. C. just puts his arms around me and holds me again.

“It's okay, sweetie. It's okay,” he says. And of course it's not okay, I don't feel like anything will ever be okay again. But I appreciate the sentiment.

“There goes shirt number two,” I say when I stop crying.

“It's all right. You've got more. I don't think A. J. would mind.” He gives me a sad little smile, shakes me lightly. “Now go wash up. Scoot, go on. I've got cooking to do.” He sounds so definitive, and I am so relieved to be presented with a concrete task that doesn't require thought or responsibility, that I comply. He wanders into the kitchen, and I hear the refrigerator door open as I walk down the hallway to the bathroom.

Under the spray of the shower, I rinse the tears from my face, shampoo and condition my hair, and then just stand there, letting the water wash over me and my thoughts roam. For some reason—maybe because I've already spent most of the morning reminiscing—I wind up thinking about the first time I came to visit Aidan in Colorado. He had a ridiculous number of frequent flyer miles, and I had a flexible schedule, so in the six weeks between when we met at Wildacres and his trip to Switzerland, we saw each other a lot. I came to Boulder for two long weekends, and he flew back to North Carolina twice.

I remember that first time so clearly, because I was nervous. What if I'd imagined that connection between us? What if it had just been lust, and he turned out to be a total ass? Then again, what if it hadn't, and he didn't? He was leaving in a month and a half for the Eiger. He'd be gone for another two. Then he'd come back, sure, but we lived more than fifteen hundred miles apart. (One thousand, six hundred and eighty-nine, to be precise. I'd Googled it one day when I was feeling particularly fatalistic.) I didn't want to have a long-distance relationship, not on a permanent basis, anyway. Yet there I was, getting on a plane to go see Aidan James.

It was a Friday morning when I flew into Denver. I remember that, too, because he'd taken off from the climbing gym where he worked to pick me up. Lack of sleep had made me woozy—I'd taken the first flight out of Raleigh I could get—and it took me a while to navigate the airport. Once I got outside, it took me even longer to locate Aidan.

I found him after a protracted search, leaning against his Jeep, which sported an impressive collection of bumper stickers:
Will Belay for Food, Leave No Trace, I Do My Own Stunts, Got Cams?
He had his wraparound sunglasses in place, baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes, headphones in. He looked like a movie star in disguise.

I sneaked up beside him and pulled out one of the earbuds. “Hey, Culligan Man,” I whispered in his ear.

He jumped about a foot. “Maddie. You scared the crap out of me.”

“Hello to you, too. Are you going incognito?” I tugged at the brim of his baseball cap.

“Oh, sure. Can't let them see me here.” He pulled off the sunglasses then and kissed me. I kissed him back. And then I yawned.

“That good, huh? Should I be insulted?”

“It's not you,” I said, yawning again and covering my mouth with my hand. “I'm just exhausted. Could we possibly go get some coffee?”

“Sure. Why don't we pick up some for J. C., too? He's at work, but his boss is a friend of ours, this guy Ellis. He won't mind if we drop by, and that way you'll get to meet J. C. I've told him a lot about you.”

So off we went to get coffee, and then Aidan drove to the construction site where J. C. was working, in a little town called Golden. It was a half-built house, carved into a mountainside. A couple of guys were on the roof, shirtless, nailing down shingles. Aidan put two fingers in his mouth and whistled, and they both looked up. They waved. Then one of them said something to the other, walked across the slope of the roof like he was on flat ground, and started climbing down a ladder that was leaning against the side of the house. He reached the bottom and headed our way.

This had to be the infamous J. C., I thought as I watched him approach. He was about six-two, taller than Aidan's six feet and broader, too, with olive skin, dark eyes, a square jaw, and short brown hair that was tousled with sweat. His upper torso and his arms were tightly muscled, and when he smiled in greeting, his eyes crinkled up at the corners. They were kind.

His good looks weren't flashy or overwhelming, like Aidan's; they had as much to do with the warmth of his grin as they did with the shape of his face. Still, the two of them together were a force to be reckoned with. Had there been something special in the Pensacola water? Or did they come in a two-pack, like Twinkies or something?

As J. C. got closer, I could hear that he was whistling; it took me a few moments to recognize the melody line to
Something Wicked This Way Comes.
“Hey,” he said when he came to a stop in front of us. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“We brought you iced coffee,” Aidan said, handing him the cup. “And I wanted you to meet Maddie. Maddie, meet J. C. He's the guy who keeps me on an even keel.”

“That's me,” J. C. said, taking a sip. “I follow him everywhere he goes, chanting, ‘Serenity now. Serenity now.'”

“Om shanti shanti om,” Aidan intoned, and J. C. grinned.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, taking my hand. There was a small black tattoo on his left bicep, and another on his right; they looked like Asian characters, and when I asked Aidan later, he told me they were the Kanji symbols for truth and harmony. The one on his right arm rippled as he shook my hand. “Sorry about the sweat factor. I'm usually cleaner than this.”

“Don't believe a word he says,” Aidan warned me. “He's a climbing bum. They're all nasty, present company excluded.” J. C. released my fingers and tried to cuff him across the head, and Aidan danced backward, out of his reach.

“I gotta get back to work,” J. C. said, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “Thanks for the coffee.” He lifted it in a salute. “It was great to meet you, Maddie. See you slackers later.” And back up the ladder he went.

The three of us ate dinner together that night, outside on the patio of the funky house J. C. and Aidan shared. That house was an experience. It was near downtown, within walking distance of Pearl Street Mall. A previous homeowner had painted the wood siding a vibrant purple, and inside, each room was a different color; the kitchen was canary yellow, the dining room burnt orange, the living room midnight blue. Aidan's bedroom was sage green, with a four-poster bed he'd inherited from the previous tenants (“They were too lazy to move it,” he said, “but think of the possibilities”) and hardwood floors. The living room opened into the backyard, which had a flagstone patio, complete with picnic table, grill, and a mismatched smattering of chairs.