The Memory Thief (16 page)

“Are you planning on having something happen to you?”

“Of course not. Don't be ridiculous.”

“So when were you planning to tell J. C. about this plan of yours? Or have you already told him, and he thought he'd make good on it a little early?”

“It's not a plan. And I don't … I wouldn't tell J. C.,” he says, ignoring my accusation. “I just want you to know. I wouldn't want you to do something and then … feel bad.”

I slide away from him on the step. “Let me get this straight. We're not even engaged, but you already have yourself dead and buried, and me carrying on a torrid affair with J. C., who by that point could be married with five kids. You must think I'm pretty enterprising.”

“It's not you,” he says, and he sounds as if he wishes he could sink through the step himself, to the house's foundation and beyond. “Forget it. I wish I'd never said anything.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Forget it. Really,” he says.

“You say that like it's a possibility. Honestly, Aidan. You can't just put something like that out there and expect me not to react.”

“I'm sorry, Maddie. It was stupid. Change of subject. I'm guessing you want to know why I got so pissed off when J. C. said that thing about my dad, huh?”

“That would be nice.”

His eyes scan my features like he is trying to make up his mind about something. Then he says, “Okay,” and gets to his feet, holding out his hand to help me up.

“Let's go somewhere,” he says.

We drive for about twenty minutes. Aidan leaves his hand on my knee, only removing it to change gears. Just as I'm about to accuse him of kidnapping me, he pulls off the highway and into a small town, dotted with coffee shops and places to purchase outdoor gear. He edges the Jeep down a narrow side street, whips it into a parking spot, and cuts the engine.

“Come on,” he says.

I look around doubtfully. “Where are we going?”

He takes in my expression and laughs. “Not far. There's a trail right there, and a little ways down, there's the river. Don't worry, even you couldn't trip and fall.”

Aidan is as good as his word. The trail is wide and clearly marked, and it opens up into a path along the banks of a meandering body of water—as much as water in Colorado ever meanders. On the other side of the river, the cliffs rise tall and imposing against the horizon. We are the only people there, which doesn't surprise me; it is nearing dinnertime on Saturday night, after all, and this place isn't easy to find.

We walk along the grassy bank of the river until Aidan locates a spot that is flat and relatively rock-free. He steps close to me, so that I have to look up at him to see his face. There is an expression in his eyes I've never seen there before; it takes me a moment to realize it is fear.

I'm about to ask him what he's thinking when he says, “I love you,” and kisses me with a fierceness that takes me by surprise. His hands move in my hair, and his body urges me downward, onto the riverbank. He presses me into the grass.

“Aidan,” I say against his lips. This doesn't seem like such a good idea, for about a thousand reasons. For one thing, I haven't been back on the Pill for a solid month, and we don't have any protection with us—as far as I know. For another, as isolated as this place seems, it isn't like we can hang up a Do Not Disturb sign.

“Please, Maddie,” he says, reaching between us to unbutton my jeans and push them down to my ankles. He strokes me roughly, his fingers taking up an unmistakable rhythm as they slide inside. Then he kisses his way down the length of my body, replacing his fingers with his lips and then his tongue. He is very talented in this department, and it is all I can do not to scream.

“But what if someone comes?” I whisper, settling on propriety as the simplest excuse, while I still have the use of at least some of my higher mental functions.

“They won't,” he says. He has his shorts unbuttoned now, and he kicks them and his boxers off. He slides my jeans and my underwear into the grass. “Let me be inside you,” he says, and he pushes up my T-shirt, unhooks my bra, and lowers his head to my breasts. He bites me, hard enough to leave a mark. “Please,” he says again. He is shaking.

The bite ought to make me angry, but it has the opposite effect. My body responds to it, arching into his mouth. He pulls away, and I try again. “But Aidan, what about a condom? What if something happens?”

His hair brushes my cheekbones as he bends to kiss me. “If it does, it does. You're who I want.” He runs his fingers over my thigh, then pushes them inside me again, hard enough so that if I weren't ready, it would hurt. But I am, and it doesn't.

I raise my hips, an invitation. “Okay,” I whisper, even as a small part of my brain is trying to figure out where I am in my cycle, whether this is such a good idea after all.

He is inside me before I finish speaking. “Tell me you love me,” he says, his mouth against my ear. He outlines my earlobe with his tongue, grazes it with his teeth, then covers my mouth with his. When I open my eyes to look at him, he is staring right back at me. He takes my face in his hands, holding my gaze all the while, and kisses me like he'll never have the chance to do it again.

“I love you,” I say when he lets me breathe.

He rolls me on top of him and holds my hips. “Not as much as I love you,” he says. “But I can deal with that.” And then he starts moving me, faster and faster, and he doesn't talk anymore.

Afterward, we reassemble our clothes and sit on the riverbank, his arm around me. “Where did that come from?” I ask, leaning against him.

“I don't know. You make me feel good, Maddie. You center me. And I was feeling very uncentered, all of a sudden.” He smiles, but I can see the apprehension in his eyes.

“Why are you so nervous?”

His arm tightens around me. “I don't like talking about my dad. Number one, when I talk about it it's like I have to go through it all over again, which is no fun. And number two, I'm ashamed.”

“Is it that bad?”

“It feels that way to me. The only people who know about it are the ones who were close to me back then, like J. C. It's not exactly good party conversation.” He takes a big gulp of air. I feel him steady. “All right,” he says. “I'm ready now.”

We lie there for a while in silence. Grace gazes up at me with perfect trust, her hair spread out around her on the floor. She looks more like a mermaid than ever. And I feel like a prick. Fitting.

“Are you all right?” she says.

I force a smile. “Great.” In my head I hear his voice:
I told you this was a mistake.
He isn't gloating. He sounds sad. And for the first time I don't fight him. I let him in.
I'm not arguing,
I answer.
But what else could I do?
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn't. Looks like I'm on my own.

“I missed you so much,” Grace says. Her voice is full of gratitude and something else—triumph, maybe? It strikes a false note, and I file it away to think about later, when I need ammunition to convince myself that I'm not the villain here. She seduced me, I think, and laugh.

“What is it?” She traces the small smile on my lips with one finger.

“Nothing,” I lie. She waits for me to go on, and I expound with the first thing that comes to mind: “This whole situation is funny, I guess.” I gesture at the trail of our clothes, at us on the floor. “Funny bizarre, I mean, not funny ha ha.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” she says.

“What do you think?” When in doubt, answer a question with a question.

“Are you kidding? It's what I wanted more than anything, to be close to you again. Although I have to say, it was more energetic than usual.” Her tone turns light; she is teasing me. Ah, safer ground.

“Are you telling me we'd grown stale in our old age?”

“Not stale, just … when you're with someone for a long time, you know, you fall into patterns. He does this, you do that. This was different.”

I don't say anything, and after a minute she peeks up at me from under her lashes. “Did I offend you?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Gracie. It's not like I remember being boring with you. To me, you're all new.”

“You still don't remember anything, then.”

“No,” I admit.

She plays with her hair. “It's stupid, I know, but I'd kind of hoped that if we were together, that maybe everything would come back. Isn't that dumb?”

“I don't think so. In fact, I'd kind of hoped the same thing. You know”—I do my best Stevie Winwood—
“that's the power of love.”

She grimaces. “How is it that you can remember cheesy song lyrics from the eighties, but our entire relationship is just—poof!—down the tubes?”

“It's a mystery. I wish I knew.”

Disappointment flashes across her face, but then she reaches for me. “In that case, let me remind you.” She winds her arms around my neck and kisses me. What the hell, the damage is done. I pull her on top of me. Her hair comes down over us both, hiding us. Her skin is hot on mine. I close my eyes and let what happen, will.

Afterward, we get up and I let Nevada out. He wanders around the backyard, peeing on an azalea, while I take stock of myself. Guilt has not yet set in. Instead, I feel relaxed and clear. The night is sultry and humid, just a slight breeze. I lean on the railing of the deck, waiting for him to finish up. My pack of cigarettes sits abandoned on the table; I light one and blow smoke rings into the night.

The deck boards creak behind me. Grace is standing there, a glass of water in one hand, wearing one of my T-shirts. “Boo,” she says. She runs her nails down my bare back and I shiver.

“Hey.” I twist away from her. “That tickles.”

She gives me a quizzical look. “You were never ticklish … before.”

I answer without thinking. “There are a lot of things about me that aren't the same, Grace.”

“I know that,” she says.

“Do you?”

“I'll take whatever version of you I can get,” she says. “It doesn't have to be exactly like it was.”

“Why do you want me, Gracie?” I have never asked her this so directly before.

She sinks into one of the green plastic deck chairs. “Jesus, Nicholas.”

“I'm serious.”

“I know you are.” Irritation has crept into her voice.

“It seems like a fair question to me. I don't remember anything about our life together. I don't remember you. I'm lucky I know how to dress myself in the morning, for God's sake. I'm moody as hell all the time and I've done the best job I know how to push you away. Yet here you are.”

“Here I am,” she echoes, and she sounds rueful.

“Did you ever think you'd be better off giving up?” I try to say it gently, but it comes out like a challenge instead.

“Do you
want
me to go?” Her voice shakes.

This is my chance to end it once and for all, but I am too much of a coward to take it. “To be honest, Grace, I don't think it matters much what I want. You shouldn't settle for some guy who spends most of his time trying to figure out where he came from, so he can get a clue about where he's going. That's shitty.”

“I'm not settling,” she says, defiant. “You're who I want.”

“But why? Are you sure it's not just … habit?” The word hangs there between us, heavy in the air. In the meantime, Nevada gets tired of marking every bush in the yard and wanders back up onto the deck. He comes over to me and jumps up, putting his front paws on the railing. I scratch behind his ears.

When I look over at Grace, her expression is set, her eyes angry. “Are you implying I don't know the difference between what I want and what I'm
used to
?” Frost drips from every word.

“No, Grace. I'm implying that sometimes what you want and what you're used to are the same thing. It's human nature.”

“What would you know about human nature?” she snaps.

Fair enough. “I'm learning fast,” I retort before I can stop myself.

She is on her feet now, tears standing in her eyes. “I love you, Nicholas. I've spent the past two years loving you and I'm not about to stop now. I don't care what ugly things you choose to say to me.”

This would stop a better man in his tracks; instead, it goads me on. “This is just what I'm talking about, Grace. Call it habit, call it stubbornness, call it whatever you want. You're so bound up in this idea that I'm the one for you, you won't even consider any other options.”

“That's what love
is,
” she says. “For better or for worse, for richer and for poorer, and all that jazz. Isn't that the whole point of choosing to be with someone forever?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Then take my word for it.”

“We're not married, Grace. You can be with anyone you want.”

“And I choose you,” she says. Her lower lip juts out, and I can see what she must have looked like when she was five years old.

“Shit, Gracie,” I say, grinding my cigarette into the ashtray. I am exhausted.

She looks at my face, then away. “We don't have to figure everything out right now. It's late. Let's talk about it in the morning.”

The thought of going through this all over again makes me want to get in my car and just keep driving. I should have known better: Making love to Grace hasn't alienated her, it's just made her more convinced that we belong together. As for me, I feel more confused than ever. Perfect.

Nevada nudges my hand and whines. Poor guy. He probably thinks all of his people have gone crazy. “You tired too, buddy?” I say to him. “Wanna go inside?”

He leads the way, his feathery tail waving, and I follow, but Grace doesn't move. I turn around and she's motionless, her back to me, staring out into the night. “You coming?”

“Am I invited?” she says without turning.

“Don't be like that, Grace.”

“Like what?” Hurt is clear in her voice.

Summoning all of my charm—or what remains of it at 4
A.M.
—I walk up behind her and put my arms around her waist. She is stiff at first, but then she relaxes into me. “I'm sorry,” I tell her, and that, at least, is truer than she knows. “This is just … it's hard for me. And sometimes I forget it's hard for other people, too. I don't mean to be selfish. I just hate to think of you waiting around for the guy you love to show up. I'm afraid he never will, and what then, Gracie? I feel like I should have a big orange warning sticker on me or something. You're taking a big chance, hanging around like this.”

Like all lies, there is an element of truth within. I am afraid that the old me will never resurface—and then again, I am afraid he will. What will happen to my visions of the laughing woman when my memory comes back? What will happen to my compulsion to find her, the overwhelming feeling of rightness when I think about leaving my life here behind? Will I slide right back into being in love with Grace, right back into the rest of my life, as if none of this ever happened?

He has been silent for a long time, but now I hear his voice clearly.
Don't worry,
he says to me.
All will be revealed.
And then the motherfucker has the nerve to laugh.

I wish he were a real person, so I could punch him in the face.

What makes you think I'm not real?
he parries.

Oh, a few thousand reasons, I say to him. But this is hardly the time.

Putting aside my mental malaise, I focus on getting Grace into the house so I can bring this endless night to a close and get some sleep. I dredge up a smile, run my fingers through her hair. “Please come inside, honey,” I say to her.

By some miracle, it works. She follows me to my bed, where I fold back the covers and tuck her in, then lie down beside her until she falls asleep. I feel ill. Asshole, I say to myself. I try to reassure myself with the thought that she wanted all of that to happen, that it isn't as if I raped her, for God's sake. I tell myself that I would have had to be a freaking monk to have turned her away. Then I get sick of my own macho bullshit and rummage around in my head for some other way to spin our little encounters. Nothing comes, not from me and not from the little companion who's taken up residence in my brain. His silence irks me—why can't he ever say anything when it would be useful?

I disentangle myself from Grace, careful not to wake her up, and lie back with my hands knotted behind my head. Now that sleep is a possibility, I am dreading it—what will Grace make of finding me on all fours by the side of the bed, soaked in sweat? I am not in the mood to offer explanations, and what would I say, anyway? I weigh my options: How rude would it be for me to pass out on the couch, claiming insomnia? Could I stay up for the rest of the night, and go to sleep after she leaves tomorrow morning?

I watch the lights from the occassional passing car drift across the ceiling and let my thoughts roam. After a while I play a slide show of random images, everything I can remember since waking up in the hospital: Grace's face, leaning over me; tossing the ball for Nevada on the beach; riding my bike; surfing with Taylor; dancing with Grace tonight; making love, if you could call it that. Grace would. Unbidden, more images come to mind as I slip down into sleep:
A snowy mountainside, dark before sunrise. The heft of my ice axes as I gather my gear to leave high camp. The burn of hot chocolate as I force myself to gulp it down—I'm more of an espresso guy, for one thing, and for another, eating at high altitude is no one's favorite activity—but I need the energy to take me through the hours ahead. I reach into the side pocket of my pack, rummaging until I find what I'm looking for. It takes me a while, and luckily I have on my leading gloves, or God knows how long I'd have to keep digging. I'm patient, though, and eventually I pull out a photo: the three of us, hiking in the Adirondacks last summer, when we visited Madeleine's parents. Gabe is on my shoulders, smiling so wide it takes over his entire face. His hands are looped around my neck. Maddie has one hand on Gabe's sneakered foot and the other around my waist. She is not looking into the camera, though. She is looking at me. And I am staring straight into the lens, with that focused, intense gaze that Maddie teases me about and that Gabe has inherited. Maddie calls it “climber's eyes.”

I flip the photo over. I have read the inscription so many times I have it memorized, but by now reviewing it before a day's climb has become a ritual, a good luck talisman. In her rounded handwriting, Maddie has written:
Aidan, Madeline and Gabriel.
And beneath that:
Come back to me.

It is a promise I intend to keep.

From outside the tent, J. C. calls me: “A. J., you ready? It looks good out here. Time to go.” I can hear Jesse and Roma downing the last of their breakfast, sorting through the ‘biners, ropes, harnesses, grip tape, picks, ice screws, and other stuff that's essential to our assault.

“Yeah, man,” I call back. I kiss the photo and tuck it into my pack. Maddie and Gabe will make it to the summit with me today.

With the familiarity born of long-standing habit, I check my crampons, pull my balaclava and knit cap into place, and tug my glacier sunglasses over my eyes. I give my gear one last once-over, making sure I have my Deploy shovel—Madeleine would kill me for forgetting it, if an avalanche didn't do the trick—and that my leashes are attached to my harness. I'd be pissed if I lost one of my good axes in all this fucking snow.

Satisfied, I zip my pack and duck through the flap of the tent into the icy cold, metal clanking around my waist with a comforting sound. We have about two hours before sunrise. The weather is freezing but clear—perfect. Maddie was overreacting as usual, with her obsessive worrying about this climb. I've never seen a better morning for taking on a mountain. I allow myself a smile—she really had me going this time around.

I turn to J. C., who will be belaying me on the first pitch; I've got the sharp end of the rope this time around and I'm pretty psyched to lead. “Let's do it,” I say. We high-five in the near darkness and I tie into the rope, grinning at the camera for Roma. Then I stick my hands through the wrist loops of my leashes and grab hold. My heart pumps hard as I sink my axes into the snow and ice that blanket the mountain, kick my left foot in for purchase, and up I go.