The Memory Thief (17 page)

This time, when I open my eyes I am still in bed, but my own heart is racing as if I've just run a four-minute mile. Sweat sheathes my limbs.

I think about the picture, the three of them together, and shake so hard it's a wonder I don't wake Grace up. But no: she sleeps on, hugging a pillow, the quilt pulled up to her chin.

I know what I have to do, but I would really rather not. I would rather stay right here in bed, where I can pretend that the voice in my head is a delusion that will be quelled with some nice strong drugs, an alternate version of myself that was awakened by the accident.

My body has other ideas. Next thing I know I am on my feet, padding toward the office. I power up my laptop and shake some more, just for fun. My fingers are trembling so badly it's a wonder I can type the words into Google: Aidan. Climber. Avalanche. But type I do.

I tell myself I am doing this to prove once and for all that I am just plain garden-variety nuts. Then I tell myself that it's pretty sad if that seems like the better alternative.

I have high-speed Internet and it only takes a fraction of a second for the results to come up. But in that brief interlude I die the proverbial thousand deaths.

I click on a link and there it is, some kind of memorial on a climbing site:

On Saturday, June 7, noted alpinist and mountaineer Aidan James of Boulder, Colorado, was reported missing after an avalanche on Alaska's Mount McKinley. James and the other members of his climbing party, John “J. C.” Cultrano, Jesse Hurley and filmmaker Dennis Roma, planned to reach the South Summit, attempting a new variant of the existing route. All three of the other climbers survived and spearheaded a substantial but fruitless search and rescue effort. James' body remains unrecovered. He leaves behind wife Madeleine Kimble and son Gabriel Ari James, four.

There is more, but I don't read it. I am too busy trying to remember how to keep breathing. Because to the left of the article there is a photo—the same photo from my dream. In it, Aidan stands straight and tall, his dark blond hair tumbling into his eyes, which are a shade of blue that mirrors my own. They stare into the camera with mesmerizing intensity.
Be here now,
I think. My stomach lurches. Next to him is my ivory-skinned, brown-haired laughing woman, only here she isn't laughing. She is holding on to her son's foot and gazing at her husband, not in a soppy, sentimental way, but with a peculiar tenacity that makes me think she wants to keep him grounded, by sheer force of will if need be. Completing the scene is the small boy, just growing out of the roundness of toddlerhood. He has inherited his father's dirty blond, unkempt hair and penetrating gaze, which looks out of place on a preschooler. His pale, heart-shaped face is his mother's, though, and the grin that illuminates his face reveals two dimples in his cheeks that are all his own. With a start I recognize his angular bone structure, the fragility of his small shoulders: This is the boy from the avalanche dream, the one that I only see from the back. Gabriel.

I think back to the man at the base of the cliff who belayed me up the mountain. Beneath his balaclava and his glacier glasses, it was impossible for me to see his features, or the color of his eyes and hair. Still, I am sure that this is the man from my dream, the one who has something to say. John Cultrano, I think. J. C.

A sense of heavy inevitability settles over me, knowledge combined with purpose. Beneath this courses a river of fear. The fear is mine, I know that—but the purpose? I feel it as strongly as I have ever felt anything in my life, but it is somehow
other.
And sure as shootin', as Taylor is wont to say, I know it is not mine.

It is his.

“Fuck,” I say under my breath, and close my eyes.

I sit there, breathing in and out, my fingers spread on my knees. After a moment I feel something cold and wet nudge my hand: Nevada. “Hey, boy,” I say to him. He leans against my legs and whines. I knead my forehead, behind which a headache is starting to bloom.

All this time, it's his voice I've been hearing in the back of my mind. At first he could only get through when I was dreaming, but tonight that changed. Does this mean he's getting stronger? Will he just keep going and going until he takes me over, until there's no Nicholas Sullivan left at all?

How is this even possible? And what the hell does he want from me?

Maybe I am dreaming
now,
I think in desperation. Soon I will wake up, and have some strong coffee, and make love to Grace, and this will all go away.

I force my eyes open, convinced that I will see my own bed, Grace lying next to me, my grade books stacked in the corner. Enough of the Edgar Cayce bullshit, I tell myself.

No such luck. I am still right here, in front of my Toshiba's trusty little screen. And just in case I wasn't freaked out enough, my eyes light upon the date of Aidan's accident again. This time it sinks in: June 7. The same day I smashed myself up en route to points unknown.

My heart pounds in my temples, my wrists, my chest. I stare at the screen, at the words, at Madeleine's face, Gabriel's, Aidan's. He looks so vital, it's hard to believe he's dead. Then again, the force of that avalanche—I don't see how anyone could've withstood that, unless they were extremely lucky.

Like me.

Aidan's luck ran out that day on the mountain, but I still had some left to spare.

Was it that simple?

In for a penny, in for a motherfucking pound.

I close my computer, get up from my desk, and walk into the kitchen. Somewhere, somehow, there has to be hard liquor in here, and I will find it. With shaking hands, I pull bottle after bottle out of the cabinet over the stove: olive oil, balsamic vinegar, peanut sauce, cooking sherry. Taylor was right—though I may not like to cook, the Original Nick Sullivan apparently had no such qualms. Finally—thank you Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Vishnu, whoever is listening—I find a dusty bottle of Jack Daniel's. I haul it out and take a shot straight from the bottle. What is happening to me? I think. What has already happened?

I hold the bottle by the neck, considering. Then, with some regret, I put it back into the cabinet where it came from. If I am going to drown my sorrows in alcohol, I would at least like it to be my own idea. I may not be able to control what I want to eat, drink, smoke or dream, but I can at least be clearheaded about the impulses on which I choose to act. That much is up to me.

Opening the refrigerator, I forage around until I find the makings of a sandwich—turkey, some wilted lettuce, bread that's only a few days past its expiration date, some mustard. I pile it all onto a plate and head out to the deck, Nevada on my heels.

After I eat, I feel a little bit better. Actually, I feel like going running, but that seems ridiculous. It's almost 5
A.M.
Instead I bring my plate inside, rinse it off, and put it in the sink, just like a normal person would do. Then I grab my laptop and walk back out to the deck. I open up a Word document, save it as “Aidan James,” and write down everything I can remember from the dreams, the feelings I have, the habits that people tell me aren't mine. I find the memorial site again and copy the text and images. Then I sleuth around some more, collecting whatever details I can find. It's not too hard.

I was right—J. C. is, indeed, the dark-haired guy from my dream. Apparently he and Aidan ran a climbing company called Over the Top Ascents, which seems pretty successful. Over the Top's website has a bunch of links to talks both of them have given, YouTube clips of them pulling some crazy stunts, even films of their expeditions, some sponsored by Patagonia. I bookmark these to look at later.

Then I hit the jackpot—a Facebook page with all kinds of posts from Aidan's friends and family, from fellow climbers. I read the comments, look at all of the pictures. In most of them, he is in a tent, on a rocky ledge, or wearing some kind of outdoor gear, hanging out with a bunch of friends and looking happy. He's got an unself-conscious, open grin.

There's one of him and Madeleine—Maddie, which she seems to go by—sitting outside at some restaurant and holding hands, which stands out from the rest. It's a candid shot, and in this one he isn't smiling. She's saying something, and he's concentrating on her face, giving her his complete attention. He's looking at her like she's the most important person in the world. For some reason, this is the image that stays with me.

I close the laptop, prop my feet on the railing, and think, trying to bring logic to bear on this crazy situation. But however I examine the facts, the end result is the same. My memories are gone. The only ones I have are his. And he is dead.

I ponder the implications of this dilemma, feeling more disturbed by the moment, until the sun creeps over the horizon. The sky fills with light, and I sit still, watching. Then I walk back inside, climb into the shower, and prepare once again—for no one's benefit more than mine—to impersonate a sane, well-adjusted human being.

“When I was growing up,” I say to Maddie, “I thought my father was God.” It is as good an opening line as any for a story I have no desire to tell.

Maddie asked me why I was nervous, and I told her it was because I don't like talking about my dad. This is true. I dislike talking about him almost as much as I despise the motherfucker himself. On top of everything else, I'm not in the mood to detail all the ways that J. C. and his family are vastly superior to me and mine. The timing could hardly be worse.

Still, I'd rather have a thousand conversations about Sebastian James than face losing her. She and J. C. are good with words, but that has never been my way. I believe in what is in front of me, what I can see. The truth is, I was staking a claim, the only way I know how. She is the one I want to be with, the only one. I won't lose her. Not for this.

God damn J. C., anyway. I would've told Madeleine about my screwed-up family when I was ready. He's forced my hand, and I don't like the way it feels. Comparing me to Sebastian—that was dirty, all right. J. C. knows good and well that my worst nightmare is to turn out like my father. For him to say what he did, he had to be supremely pissed. And for him to be supremely pissed, he'd have to be equally jealous. Which means that he didn't kiss Maddie to get back at me. He kissed her because he has feelings for her. This is a poor turn of events, not least because she kissed him back.

I have never been the type to brood about things. Sure, I've got a temper, but I don't usually hold a grudge. Staying mad at J. C. and Maddie will serve no purpose. It will drive a wedge between all three of us, and I'm not going to let that happen. If he loves her, so much the better. If something happens to me, he will look after her. But here and now, I'll be damned if he's going to take her away from me. I will do what I have to do. If that includes talking about my sonofabitching father, then I'll suck it up … but that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. I might as well stamp
Caveat Emptor
all over myself and save us both the trouble.

“What have I told you about my family?” I ask Maddie. I'm sitting with my knees bent, rolling a blade of grass between my fingers. She leans against me, warm and solid and
here.

“Not much,” she says. “I know you're not close to your mom or your sister. And you never talk about your dad, so I hardly know anything about him, other than the fact that he's in the military and you two don't get along.”

Suck it up,
I think. “My father is a marine. He's an officer, and the last time we saw each other he was a brigadier general. He was a pilot first, and he's been deployed all over the world in combat. You name it, he's been decorated with it.” I picture our living room in Pensacola, the rows of pictures with dignitaries, the framed medals. “When Ella and I were little, we thought he was the king of the world. Everyone saluted him, everyone asked his opinion. He was brave, he was a hero. When I grew up, I wanted to be just like him.” The blade of grass is shredded now, ripped to bits. I open my hand and let it fall.

It's sunset and the light is fading, but I can see the curiosity in Maddie's face all the same. I can't think how to go on, and she doesn't push me. It is one of the many things I love about her. She waits while I dig for a cigarette and light it, while I figure out what I want to say.

I think back, to the big stucco house with the empty rooms, my mother drifting from one to the other like a planet orbiting a sun gone off course, waiting for my dad to get home. Again I feel that leaden sense of responsibility weighting me down.
Make her smile. Watch out for my sister. Be the best the best the best. Stay out of his way, say all the right things.
And his voice, as commanding at home as it was on the base:
Wipe those tears off your face, sissy boy. I didn't raise you to be a little pussy. Take it like a soldier, get over it, be a goddamn man.

He ran that house like a squadron. Everything neat and organized, everything on a schedule. I'm sure this is the origin of my allergy to planned activities and paying the bills on time. People think I'm fun and spontaneous, but it's really PTSD in action. Just the sight of a daily planner is enough to send me running for the nearest exit. Bless J. C., is all I have to say. If it weren't for him, we'd be living in the dark with no running water and only basic cable.

Not Brigadier General Sebastian James, though. He operated according to military time, no matter where he was, and God forbid my mother didn't have dinner on the table when he got home. I can see her cooking his favorite meal—pot roast, and if I never eat it again, it will be too soon. I see her putting on her makeup, choosing a dress he said he liked, smiling her nervous smile as we sit down to dinner and she waits, we all wait, for him to take a bite. And I can see her face fall when he tells her there is some strange spice in there, why does she always do that, he can't eat it now, he doesn't want it. Why can't she just make it the way he likes it? Why does she always have to change things? I see her raise her napkin to her face, see her excuse herself from the table, see him push his plate away. Motherfucker. Small wonder I'll eat anything that someone's gracious enough to put in front of me—aside from pot roast, that is.

J. C. knows this. It's why he torments me with his uberspicy concoctions. He's just waiting for me to cry uncle, but I'll never give him the satisfaction.

Especially now.

When I look back, I can see how skewed my relationship with my mom was, but then it just made sense. It made sense that she'd turn to me when things were going wrong with my dad, that she'd want me to sit with her and talk until three in the morning, mixing her drinks and wiping her tears, that she'd ask my advice on how her hair looked prettiest or model the outfits that she thought my dad might like best. I'd tell her she should go back to school, so she could get a degree and support herself and not have to depend on him. She'd just shake her head, say she married him straight out of high school and he was all she knew. And I thought, but never said aloud, that that was a real shame.

She was gorgeous, tall and blond and arctic-eyed, and she used it like a weapon to get her way. What charm I have, I learned from her. Hot Mama, my friends called her when they wanted to piss me off. She'd had me real young, and we looked more like siblings than mother and son. When we went places together, heads turned, and she loved it. We closed ranks, me and my mom, showing the rest of the world a perfect face. She was proud as hell, and she could be cold, but I knew the truth—she was fragile. One word from him, and she would break.

I tried to get in the middle, to stop him. God knows I tried. I thought if I could be good enough, if I could be what he wanted, he'd be happy and he'd leave her alone. So I was the perfect son. Wherever we were, I trained until I was as fit as he was. I kept my hair cut short and I had perfect manners—yes sir, no ma'am. We never called him Dad—it was always yes sir this, no sir that. I never knew things could be any different until I met J. C.'s family.

Once J. C. and I were messing around in their living room and we broke this little sculpture they had on an end table. I was sure his dad was going to kill us, but he just blew it off, told us to be more careful next time. Said he hadn't liked that statue much anyway, and now he had an excuse to get rid of it. I couldn't believe it. My dad would've had us doing laps until bedtime. I remember how J. C. looked at me when I mentioned that to him … like he felt sorry for me, almost. He said, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, A. J., but your dad's an asshole.”

I was sweeping up the pieces of that little statue and I waited for him to burst into flame. It's crazy to think about it now, but that's how brainwashed I was. I started to argue with him, to tell him all the places my dad had been, all the rescue missions he'd been on and the lives he'd saved. And then I realized that had nothing to do with it. I looked back at him and I said, “You know, you're right. He is.” It was like someone had pulled the curtain off Oz the Great and Terrible. But I had to go home and there he was, bitching about the pot roast and making my mother cry.

Ella had it worse, I think. He just ignored her. Me, it was always, “Try harder. You can do better. You're not focusing. You're not concentrating. You're better than this.” If I got an A-minus or something, he hit the roof. But Ella, he just wanted her to be his pretty little princess. He never expected anything else from her. And look at us now. She's a pilot just like he was. She's still trying to get him to pay attention to her. And me, I'm this crazy climber who's spent half my adult life living out of the back of my Jeep.

When I think back on how hard I tried to please him, I have to laugh. I went out for every sport there was, and I was good. Hell, I was better than good. He came to all the games when he was home, and he sat in the bleachers, just watching. He never cheered. And at the end, he'd always tell me what I'd done wrong, what I could do better next time. He never said, “Good job, son,” or “Nice pass,” or anything. But I didn't give up. I just kept trying. The coach praised me left and right, recruiters started coming to my football games by the time I was a junior. I didn't care. I just wanted him to look at me like I was worth something.

What a goddamn joke. I could've run the Boston Marathon twelve times over without stopping and he wouldn't have cared. I don't know why I bothered. But bother I did, over and over again. It would be late, practice would be over. It'd be getting dark. Everyone else would be going home, and there I'd be, running laps around the track, trying to build up my endurance. I was exhausted, but I knew I wasn't supposed to quit. I ran until it was dinnertime, and then I ran home. And he'd look at me, and he'd say, “You're late. Go wash up.”

So there we were, stuck in our nasty family dynamic, just cruising along. Ella was in eighth grade and I was a junior, marking time until I could get out of that house, and worrying about what would happen to my mom and my sister when I did. This one Friday night, my parents went to some type of fancy charity function. I'd stayed home to watch Ella, so I was there when they came through the door. My mom looked like she'd been crying. My dad was fuming. This sick aura surrounded him when he got mad, like Pigpen and his cloud of dirt. You could almost see it, dark and rageful and pulsing. It moved the air.

They stomped through into their bedroom. I could hear him screaming at her, something about how she had flirted with some guy, didn't she think he'd notice, how dare she make eyes at one of his officers like some common slut. (Like my mom ever had to “make eyes” at a man to get him to pay attention to her. All she had to do was show up, and they'd fall all over themselves to take her coat, open her car door, carry her bags.) I could hear my mother protesting that she would never, that she hadn't, could hear him accuse her of calling him a liar. Then I heard him hitting her and I busted the door open and he stormed out. As far as I knew, he hadn't come back, which was just fine with me.

At around two the next afternoon, the doorbell rang. I went to get it and there was a boy standing on the porch. He was about eight years old. The creepy thing was, he looked like me when I was his age—same hair, same eyes. Even his expression was like mine—trying to be brave on the outside, even when I was scared to death. He said, “Is my dad here?” I told him he had the wrong house, but he kept insisting that he didn't. Finally I said, “What's your dad's name?” And he said, “His name is Sebastian James. He's a brigadier general with the Marines.” Then he said, “You must be Aidan. I've waited a long time to meet you.”

I can still feel the shock of that moment, the fury that flared in my chest and shot through me like wildfire. It churns in my stomach now, acidic and dangerous. The nerve of him—to accuse my mother of looking at some dude, to use his fists on her, for God's sake, when all along he was screwing another woman, raising another family on the side.

It took me a second, but I found my voice. It seemed to be coming from far away, but it came nonetheless, and I was grateful. I asked the boy how he knew what I looked like, and he said, “I found pictures of you in my dad's wallet. You and Ella. She's pretty.” I asked him how old he was. He said he would be nine in November. I asked him his name. He said it was Oliver James Baker. I asked him his mother's name. Olivia Baker, he said.

There in the doorway, the rage solidified in my limbs. A peculiar calm settled over me. Later, I would recognize it as the focus I attain when I am climbing, a state of pure, cold concentration. I told Oliver to wait. I called my mother.

I think on some level I knew she knew. But when I saw her face—there was no surprise on it at all. She told him to get off her porch and go home. She spat it at him, like this whole mess was his fault. Hell, he was just a kid. His eyes got all teary, but he got his bike and off he went. He waved goodbye to me.

My mom turned and went back into the house, like nothing had happened. I went after her, and I confronted her. And when she didn't want to talk about it, I started yelling. I told her she was a coward, that she should have kicked him out a long time ago. I screamed and screamed, and she cried. When she wouldn't look at me, I punched a hole in the wall. I kicked in the front of the dishwasher, I threw the kitchen chairs all over the place. My sister grabbed my arm, she tried to get me to stop, but she might as well have been a gnat for all the impression she made. I stood over my mother and called her the worst names I could think of until I ran out of steam, and then I left, slamming the back door so hard I broke the glass.

I ran the two miles to J. C.'s house. I didn't even knock, just slammed through the door like a crazy person and started swearing. He was sitting on the living room floor, playing his guitar. Calm down, he said. Take a breath. I can't understand a thing you're saying.