The Memory Thief (19 page)

I examine his face for a long time after his little speech, and he lets me. I can see the moonlight reflected in his eyes. He looks back at me with an even gaze. He doesn't blink. And as we regard each other I feel like for my whole life I've been heading toward this moment, like everything I've ever thought or been or done has been designed to lead me here, this moment in the dark on a riverbank. It is a scary thought, heavy with inevitability. It gives me pause.

Aidan loosens his fingers and runs them through my hair, making me shiver. “Tell me what you're thinking,” he says, and his voice is so quiet I can hardly make it out over the rushing of the river, the wild beating of my heart.

I don't answer him at first, and he doesn't press me. On his face I see only trust, and patience, and hopefulness. And I know the time has come to make up my mind. What is the point in waiting?

As the night closes in around us, I hear Lucy saying that I've taken on more than I can handle, that I'm signing up for a life where the only sure thing is how much I stand to lose. Next in line is my mom, her voice seamed with worry, telling me that she trusts me to make my own choices, but that this isn't the life she would have chosen for me, if she could. I remember J. C. in the kitchen, telling me not to marry Aidan, that he will break my heart. My own personal Greek chorus of doubt.

I give that chorus its due. But then I hear Aidan, telling me I am who he wants, that I am beautiful. I hear his husky voice saying that he'll do anything for me, that he'll take lessons on how to be a good father and be steady as a rock—which is a pretty decent analogy … or not, depending on the rock in question. I hear him telling me that he loves me, that he won't let me down. Asking me to be with him that first night, saying that he wanted to promise me everything. Telling me to have faith.

And then I hear my own voice, clear and strong above the sound of rushing water, the drop of a small series of stones into the stillness of the night.

“I'm thinking … yes,” I say, as much to myself as to him, and I feel his hands go still. A pure, uncomplicated smile spreads across his features like the sun coming out after a heavy rain. “Yes,” I say, louder this time. “I'll marry you.”

He laces his fingers around mine then, and kisses me for a long time. I can feel him trembling. He holds me by my upper arms, the ghost of that smile still on his face, and he says, his voice a low, sure promise:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun / Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Madeleine and I are kissing. It is dark, it is raining, and we are outside, but none of that matters—at least, not to me. My hands are inside her underwear, then under her wet shirt. She moves against me, and I want to peel the shirt off and see what her breasts look like in the moonlight, I want to feel her naked against me in the rain. We're in a semi-public place, but I don't care. I want to be with her, and I feel wonder and elation so great, it makes my hands shake as they pull her tighter against my body.

I lift her off the ground, onto a rough-hewn wooden railing, and step between her legs. “Be with me?” I ask. The voice that issues from my mouth surprises me; it's not Aidan James's dream-voice, but my own.

“Yes,” she says, and hers is the voice that sounds dreamlike, drugged. “Now please.”

My fingers shake as I push her jeans down and undo the buttons of my shorts.
The first time,
I think, sliding into her, and I'm not sure what it means … is this the first time we've had sex, or the beginning of something else entirely?

I move inside her, and she holds tight to me, balanced on the railing. Then she is ripped from my grasp. I am falling. Above me I can see her face receding, a pale oval in the night, her lips an O of horror. I tumble ass over teakettle down a steep slope, I am pinioned. I see her face again but this time it's like a photographic still, the same old image, her head thrown back, her mouth open wide with laughter. I see the small boy, the dark-haired man, I hear the words. I can't breathe I can't breathe. My desire is ice, it is gone, I am gone.

This time when I wake up, the sheets are ripped from the bed, twisted around my body so tightly it takes me a few minutes to work myself free. By the time I unwind my limbs and crawl back into bed, I am more confused than ever. I can still hear Maddie's voice, I can smell her feel her taste her. And I can hear my voice, asking her to be with me. Mine, not Aidan's.

Speaking of Aidan, I'm pretty sure that I'm eavesdropping on some more of his memories, and I feel like a voyeur, a little bit. But I also feel jealous, which is ridiculous. After all, who would I be jealous of, in this scenario? A dead guy? My own misplaced fantasies? I can't figure it out, and maybe I don't want to. I pull the covers up to my chin, trying to get warm, and wait for morning to find me.

The memorial service is on a Saturday at three, after the farmers' market is over—otherwise, Boulder's Central Park would be way too crowded, with parking even more of a nightmare than usual—and J. C. is going to pick us up. I get Gabe dressed in a button-down shirt and khakis, and then stand peering into my closet for an inordinately long amount of time. I am so tired, even making a minor decision like this one looms large. I fall asleep fine, that's not the problem, but then the dreams start in. I can never tell whether they'll be bittersweet, a trip down memory lane, or if I'll end up dreaming about Aidan, trapped under the snow. On those nights, I wake up panicked and afraid. Then I look over to the other side of the bed, where he should be. Of course it's empty, the pillow plumped, the sheet pulled tight, which makes me feel lonelier than ever. It's gotten so that, if it weren't for Gabriel, I'd start sleeping on the couch. I don't want to worry him, though. I want him to think I am okay.

Eventually I settle on a dark blue dress that falls just below my knees and a pair of blue ballet flats. I debate whether to put up my hair or wear it down, and decide on the latter, letting it fall in loose waves to the middle of my back. I put on my makeup while Gabe sits on the bed and watches me. Then we go out to the front porch and wait for J. C. to arrive.

When he pulls into the driveway, right on time, and gets out of the car, I stare; I can't help it. I've never seen him dressed up before, not like this. He is wearing a navy pinstriped suit with a white shirt, despite the heat, and a sky-blue tie. We match, I think as he climbs the steps to the porch. “You ready?” he says to us.

“As I'll ever be,” I say. Gabe takes my hand and we walk down the steps to the car.

J. C. parks the car on Thirteenth Street, as close as we can get. In the distance, by the park, I can see Aidan's mother and sister, and J. C.'s family as well. They are talking.

J. C. gets Gabe out of his booster seat and they stand together on the sidewalk. “Do you understand what's going to happen, buddy?” he asks Gabe.

“I think so. People are going to talk about Daddy, to say goodbye. Grandma Rachel will be there, and Nana. And your mommy, too.”

“That's right,” J. C. says. He ruffles Gabe's hair, and his voice is thick. “You got it.”

“Do I have to do anything special?”

“Not unless you want to. You just stick with your mama, that's all.”

“I will,” Gabe says. He reaches up and holds my hand, and J. C. starts down the sidewalk, toward his family and Aidan's. I try to follow him, but my feet are frozen in place. I can't move.

“J. C.,” I say, and he turns back to look at me. “I don't know that I can do this.”

He walks the few steps back to me and takes my other hand, the one that Gabe's not holding. “I'm right here,” he says. “I won't leave you.”

He is as good as his word. We walk together toward the bandshell, rising white and scalloped toward the blue sky. The green benches are filled with people already, and as I watch, more trickle into the park, standing on the grassy strip behind the benches, finding their way through Central Park to stand on the grass next to the parking area. I clutch his hand. “Who are all these people?” I whisper.

He shrugs. “I don't even know all of them.”

The three of us find a place near the front, where our families have already clustered. They've commandeered space on the benches, but I tell J. C. I would rather stand—it seems claustrophobic, everybody fitted next to each other like cards in an old-fashioned catalog. “Besides,” I say as we approach our families, “what if we need to make a quick escape?”

He glances down at me, his eyes narrowed, but doesn't say anything, just keeps my hand in his as I hug Aidan's mother and sister, as I hug J. C.'s mother and father and his siblings. My parents find us in the crowd, and still he stays by my side. As person after person comes up to me—other climbers, friends of ours, clients, neighbors—he holds tight to my hand. Even when I squeeze so hard that I'm sure I leave marks, he doesn't let go. I don't even realize that I'm crying until he reaches across and wipes the tears from my face with a tissue, which he stuffs into his pocket. “Hang in there,” he says, next to my ear.

And I do. I hang in there as a steady stream of people come up to the front, onto the stage, and talk into the microphone, saying what they loved about Aidan, what they remember. I hang in there as, one after another, they lay a small memento beside the microphone; I can see CDs, and books, and photos, and equipment. Somebody brings a bottle of Johnnie Walker, somebody else brings a pack of American Spirits. A third person brings one of Aidan's drawings and lays it at the foot of the stage. And then J. C. says, “Sweetie, I'm gonna go say something. I'll be right back.” He lets go of my hand and starts wending his way to the front of the crowd, and I feel weightless, somehow, like I might float away. Gabriel is leaning against me and I grip his small shoulders.

“It's okay, Mommy,” he says, in a tone that sounds so much like his father's—protective, certain—that I shiver.

J. C. has made his way to the front now and there is a hush when people see who it is. Most of the people here know him; they know how close he and Aidan were, and they know J. C. was with him when the avalanche hit. They fall into a respectful silence.

He looks into the crowd for a moment, searching, until his eyes find mine. And then he says, “If he could have been here, A. J. would have gotten a huge kick out of this. There were few things he loved more than a good party, and I can see all of them from right here where I stand. He loved his family—his wife, Madeleine, and his son, Gabriel; his mom and his sister; he loved his friends, all of us here today; and he loved the mountains.” He gestures beyond the benches, where the Flatirons rise above the city. “Everyone who knew A. J. knew that he was driven, powered almost, by what he had a passion for. He was never able to sit still. I could tell a lot of stories about the times he slogged his way to base camp and then lay down in the snow and did a hundred sit-ups, or the times he climbed a tricky run and then wedged a bar between two boulders and did a bunch of pull-ups. That's just how he was. When he cared about something, he never gave up. And all of us who loved him, we learned that from him. We learned what it meant to persist in the face of adversity, to not ever give up no matter what obstacles you faced.” A murmur of assent rises throughout the crowd when he says this. He waits for it to subside before he goes on.

“When he and I started Over the Top, I had a lot of misgivings. I didn't know how we were going to find the money, or the sponsors, or even the clients. But A. J. believed in it, and he made me believe in it, too. He had faith that it would all work out, and look at us now. Sure, part of it's been luck, and a lot of it's been work, but without A. J.'s faith that we could do it, it never would've happened, not to the extent that it did—with Patagonia getting behind us, and Roma's films, and all the rest of it.

“Aidan James was my closest friend from the time I was fourteen years old, and he was always an amazing guy. He went through some hard times in his life, but he weathered them with courage, and persistence, and above all, with grace. And so I'd like to sing something now—bear with me, if you don't mind—that makes me think of him. It's a song you all know, so feel free to sing along, if you like. God bless, A. J. I hope this sends you on your way.”

He stands for a second with his eyes closed, and then his voice rises, strong and clear, above the traffic on Canyon, the rustling of the crowd.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound … that saved a wretch like me …

Next to me, I hear Aidan's mother stifle a sob. J. C.'s mother has her hand over her mouth; his sister is crying. And J. C.'s eyes meet mine as he sings,
Was Grace who taught … my heart to fear … and Grace, my fears relieved.
Layered and rich, his voice pierces the frozen hunk of ice that my heart has become. I've never heard it like this, outside a party or a casual gathering, and I'm willing to bet no one else here, except his family, has, either. And one by one, the crowd joins with him:
Through many dangers, toils, and snares … we have already come. Twas Grace that brought us safe thus far, and Grace will lead us home.

I don't sing. I stand there, listening, and feel my heart crack apart, like it's shattering into a thousand pieces. Everywhere I look, people are crying and singing, often both at the same time. And still J. C. sings, staring over their heads, his eyes on me, until he gets to the last verse:
I once was lost, but now I'm found … was blind, but now I see.
The last notes float into the air, and then he closes his eyes again. “I love you, buddy,” he says. “Rest in peace.”

There is a pause. Then applause comes, and it is cacophonous, echoing in the open space. J. C. ignores it. He lays a photo next to the microphone stand, comes down from the stage, and walks back to me. He opens his mouth to say something and I bury my face against his chest. He puts his arms around me, shielding me from the crowd.

“That was beautiful,” I say into his shirt, and the tears come, coursing down my face again. I seem to have an endless supply; by the time the memorial service is over, it will be a wonder if I'm not completely dehydrated. Gabe clings to my leg as J. C. holds me, the three of us a triptych of grief, and—speaking of grace—I wonder if this day will ever have enough of it to end.

After what seems like forever, the memorial service draws to a close. Roma is videotaping it, for which I am grateful, because I don't think I'll remember much. The day has blurred into an endless stream of people speaking about Aidan, leaving an item that reminded him of them on the stage like we'd asked, hugging me, patting Gabe on the head, telling me they are sorry, so sorry, more sorry than I can imagine. At this last I want to take umbrage; I can imagine quite a bit, including hitting the next person who says that to me over the head with a large object. No, I want to tell them, I am sorrier than
you
can imagine. He was my husband, after all. This is our child, standing next to me, who will never see his father again. But my manners are better than that, or maybe I just can't summon the energy. I stand there, and grip J. C.'s hand like it's a lifeline, and say thank you. Over and over I say thank you, until my voice cracks and sinks. On my other side, my mother has a firm hold on Gabe, who has let go of my leg and is standing there, wide-eyed, accepting the pats on the head like a well-trained puppy.

A few centuries later it is over, and a much smaller group finds its way back to our house for food and drink. I have never felt less like eating, but I know this is what you're supposed to do. Patty, Jos, and Lucy have already gone back to set up.

By the time we get back to the house, our friends are filtering in. These are people I don't have to pretend for as much, but I still try to be a good hostess, partially due to habit and partially because it keeps me moving. I make conversation, I thank people for coming, I check on Gabe, and if periodically I vanish into the bathroom, sit on the toilet seat, and put a cold washcloth on the back of my neck, nobody needs to know about that, do they? The hours wear on, and finally it is dark outside and I am hugging people goodbye: Patty, Nathan, Jesse, Roma, Aidan's mom and sister, Mr. and Mrs. Cultrano, and then Lucy and Jos and my parents, who are all going home tomorrow. I thank them for everything, I promise to call, I tell them not to worry.

Eventually they are all gone and it is just me and J. C. and Gabe, who is rubbing his eyes and yawning. He asks me if he can watch TV, and I tell him yes, today is a special day and that's okay. I get him set up on the couch with his blankie and Teddy and
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
Then I make my way back to the kitchen, where J. C. is staring at the wreckage, figuring out what to tackle first. My mom and Lucy cleaned up the rest of the house, but I drew the line at the kitchen, because I dreaded having them leave and then sitting on the couch with nothing to do. The result is that the kitchen is trashed; it should keep us busy for a while. I dig under the sink for some 409 and some paper towels, pass them off to J. C., and start on the dishes. We clean together in silence until I say, “J. C.?”

“Hmmm?” He looks up from the kitchen table, which he's been working on for about five minutes, scrubbing it like it did something to offend him.

“Would you do something for me?”

“Anything,” he says without hesitation. “What do you need?”

“Would you stay here tonight?”

He sprays some more 409 onto the table, and goes back to addressing what must be a particularly stubborn spot. “You mean, overnight?”

“Yes. Would you?” I say to his back, which is somehow easier than if I had to look him in the eye. “I wouldn't ask, but it's just—there's been so many people here, day in and day out, and I thought that all I wanted was for them to leave, but now they're all gone and the house seems so empty, with just me and Gabe. And I don't know how I'm going to feel when everything's all cleaned up and there's nothing left for me to do.”

“You don't have to explain yourself, Maddie,” he says, attacking the spot with renewed vigor. “Of course I'll stay, if that's what you want. I'm happy to do it. To tell you the truth, I don't feel like being alone, either. And if I go out and start drinking, the way I feel right now, there's no telling how the evening might end up. Just let me go home and get a change of clothes.”

I walk around the table, dish towel in hand, so I can see his face. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” he says. Crumpling the paper towel into a ball, he tosses it into the trash can. “You got anything else that needs to be thrown out? Because I might as well take out the garbage, if I'm going outside anyway.”