The Memory Thief (21 page)

I am running. The air rasps into my lungs, my heart thuds, my feet pound the loose dirt of the trail. I've always done my best thinking while in motion, and today is no exception: The harder I push myself, the faster my brain whirs. I run in the early morning, when there's hardly anyone out except hard-core lunatics like me. Usually I spend this time dreaming up new routes to send or planning how to raise money for an expedition that's already in the works, but today is different. Today, I'm trying to figure out how I got so motherfucking lucky.

More than that, I'm wondering how my definition of luck has shifted so drastically. If you'd told me a year ago that I'd be frolicking in my own personal Elysian Fields after I lost one good friend, almost lost another, and nearly died myself, then exported a chick halfway across the country to live with me, only to discover that I'd knocked her up prior to tying the knot … well, let's just say I would've told you to put the crack pipe down. Yet here I am, all but pinching myself to make sure this is real.

I don't know what happened, but I do know one thing—I better not mess this up, like I've hijacked every other relationship I've ever had. Between Maddie, my Emotional Sherpa, and me, the Emotional Terrorist, we're bound to produce an interesting creature. I run and run and think about how not to be like Sebastian, how to treat her well and make sure my son-to-be knows I love him. I sure hope some of this parenting thing is instinctive, because if it's all based on experience, well then, I'm pretty much fucked.

The path ends at a flight of concrete steps and I jog up them, onto the sidewalk. Our house is across the street, and I'm quiet when I put the key in the lock. Maddie is probably still sleeping. I go straight into the bathroom and turn on the shower; I've run hard and I doubt I smell like a rose. Then I get out and crawl into bed with her, naked. She stirs and I run my hand down her belly, then back to her hip, learning her new topography. The baby kicks beneath my palm and I jump, startled.
I won't let you down,
I whisper into her hair.
I promise.

But even as the words leave my lips, I can feel her slipping away. The bed tilts, the floor is gone, and she sleeps on, oblivious. I reach for her but there's only air, then not even that. It is dark. I can't feel my legs, I can't move. I can't see.

I've spent my life trying to suppress the rage that is my birthright, but it rises now, thick in my throat where air should be.
No,
I think with the reserves of oxygen that feed my sputtering brain.
No!
But the words are useless, too little too late. I have already moved on.

After I climb off the floor and towel myself clean of sweat, I walk onto the back deck with Nevada and light a cigarette. It's six thirty in the morning, but there's no way I'm going back to sleep. I have done some more research about Mr. Aidan James, as much as Google will yield and my sanity can stand. I know as much as I can handle about his life and his death. What I don't understand is what he's doing in my head, what he wants from me. I'd put money on the fact that if it weren't for him, I would've woken up from my accident with my memory still intact. Somehow, some way, he has done this to me.

I ought to be angry, and I am, sure; but I'm also filled with that sense of purpose, of determination, that first filled me when I sat in front of my laptop and saw his face, saw him in that photo with Madeleine and Gabriel. There's something fantastic about feeling like I have a direction, that I'm not just wandering around in the shell of my life, waiting for my memory to come back. The scary thing, though, is that every day that sense of purpose grows stronger, to the point that it's almost become a compulsion. There is something I have to do, something connected with Aidan James. I can feel it. I'm sure it has to do with Maddie and Gabe. When I think of the two of them, rightness settles over me, and comfort. For a moment, I don't feel like a stranger in a strange land anymore. Then the real world floods back in, and I have that sensation of being lost in time and space, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, away from the people that matter.

Maybe I am crazy. But hell, I didn't ask to smash up my bike. I didn't ask to share my head—and my heart, for that matter—with a dead guy. And I sure didn't ask to break Grace's heart, like I'm on the road to doing. I've avoided her for the past few days, but I can't keep dodging her forever. She's already pissed at me, and who could blame her?

If she knew the truth, though, she'd be pissed about a heck of a lot more than my inability to return her phone calls. The truth is, it's not just that I don't have feelings for Grace—it's that I have feelings for someone else. Maddie is the one I want, and that's not something Grace could be expected to understand or forgive. I don't understand it myself.

The last few times, the dream has been different—at least before it devolves into the now-familiar plunge into oblivion. I think about how the arms I wrapped around Maddie were really mine, dark-haired and less muscular than Aidan's. The hands that caressed her belly had my long fingers, the voice that whispered to her was my voice. And the feelings I have now—that something infinitely valuable has been snatched from my grasp, that I'm wasting my time, standing here rather than pursuing the woman I love—those are mine, too. Because improbable as it may seem, impossible as it may be, I have fallen in love with Madeleine Kimble.

In a way, this seems crazier than the dreams themselves. After all, how can I love someone that I've never spoken to or even emailed, let alone met? How can she be the place that my mind wanders, every time, possessing me more surely than the spirit of the dead guy that introduced the two of us in the first place?

Just considering this dilemma makes me mentally ill—or more mentally ill, if you prefer. I feel like a stalker, or a spy. But I also feel elated. The question is, what do I do next?

I have no answer, at least not one I'm willing to act upon. After all, no matter what else Aidan has taken from me, I still have free will. I can choose to find her, to go to her, or I can choose to stay here and attempt to participate in my life. My
real
life, is how I think of it, italics and all. No matter how inevitable it feels, it is a choice. I tell myself this night after night, as the images flash behind my eyes and the sweat drenches my body. The smart thing to do would be to wait for these feelings to fade, for the dreams to stop and my memory to come back. That's what I should want to happen, what any sane person would want, and if I am patient, if I don't give in, maybe it will. So I wait, and I miss her, and I tell myself it's for the best. And sometimes, I almost believe me.

In the morning, I wake to the sound of voices. I am lying in the middle of the bed, covered by the quilt, in a patch of sunlight, and I am alone. I'm also naked, which confuses me. I lie on my side, trying to puzzle it out, and then last night comes rushing back with a flood of images: J. C. kissing me, staring at me with his dark eyes and telling me he loves me. J. C. inside of me.

Now
the guilt will come, I think. And it does, but not in the way that I'd anticipated. I feel guilty about being with J. C. so soon after Aidan is dead. I feel like an adulteress, like I've cheated on Aidan when he was on a climbing trip. But I also feel guilty that I'm lying here, thinking about Aidan the morning after I've slept with J. C., which makes no sense at all. And I feel guilty for having sex with J. C. while Gabe was sleeping right down the hall. Yep, I'm just a bundle of good feelings today.

Gabe,
I think with sudden panic, and sit straight up in bed. But when I listen harder, I can hear his voice, coming from the kitchen, and then a deeper one, answering him. J. C. has gotten up to be with my son, so that I can sleep. I hear him saying something, I can't quite make out what, and then Gabe laughs, for the first time in weeks. Tears come to my eyes when I hear his high sweet laughter.

I look over at the bedside table, searching for the clock. At some point in last night's festivities, we knocked it over, and I have to haul it back up by the cord. When I see the glowing blue numbers, my eyes go wide with surprise. It's almost 11 A.M., later than I've slept in years. Maybe since Gabriel was born.

Whew.

I stretch, feeling a pleasant soreness from last night. The bed smells like sex, and like J. C.—Ivory soap, with his own spicy scent underneath it. A warm feeling spreads in my belly and sinks lower. Oy vey, as my mother would say. I need to get out of this bed, and fast.

Maybe I should ask J. C. to leave, I think, but then I reject that notion. For one thing, it's a bit too late for that. The damage, what there is of it, is already done. For another, he's been looking after Gabe for me, playing with him and probably feeding him and God knows what else. Kicking him out would be a poor expression of gratitude. Not to mention, how would I explain it to Gabriel?

I look around for my clothes from the night before, expecting to find them on the carpet. Instead, J. C. has folded them and put them in a neat stack at the end of the bed. One of Gabe's blank index cards is on top, with a little smiley face drawn in red crayon. An artist, J. C. is not. But he is a phenomenally sweet guy, I think as I pick up the little stack of clothes. Not to mention exceptionally, unexpectedly good in bed.

And Aidan's best friend.

My eyes roam over the picture of Aidan and Gabriel on my dresser, and I have to remind myself yet again that I haven't been unfaithful. As I listen to J. C. and Gabe talk in the kitchen—all I can catch are snatches of their conversation, something about Optimus Prime and Bumblebee—I can't help but wonder what Aidan's friends would think of this situation. If there is a decent, acceptable mourning period that's supposed to go by before sleeping with another person after your spouse dies, I have definitely violated it. And J. C. has disrespected the hell out of whatever weird moral code guys go by.

Taking one last look at the photo on the dresser, I get out of bed, pull on last night's clothes, and head into the bathroom to take a shower—my go-to method for clearing my head. It works, at least kind of; by the time I emerge, exfoliated and conditioned to the nth degree, I feel much better. Heading back into my room, I get dressed in jeans and a black tank top, make a mental note to tackle the laundry later, and go down the hall in search of caffeine.

“Mommy!” Gabe says when I come into the kitchen. He's sitting at the table, drinking a glass of orange juice. His favorite blue plate sits in front of him, on top of his Transformers placemat, and on it is a half-eaten stack of pancakes, drowned in maple syrup. He's got a fork in one hand and his glass in the other, and wonder of wonders, he is smiling. “Look, Uncle J. C. made me pancakes,” he says. “They have blueberries for eyes, see?”

J. C. is standing at the stove, his back to me, flipping what must be batch number two, wearing clean gray cargo shorts and a red shirt. He turns and gives me an easy smile. “Good morning,” he says. “Coffee?”

My heart rises into my mouth when I see his face and I can't say a word. Luckily he takes my silence as affirmation and pours me a cup, which he doctors with cream and sugar before handing it to me. “Here,” he says. “Go sit down.” He turns back to the stove and slides the spatula under one of the pancakes, lifting it onto a plate.

I wrap my hands around the mug and take a sip of my coffee. It is perfect.

“Mommy,” Gabe says again. “Look. This one has blueberry fangs, like a vampire.”

“When did you see a vampire, Gabriel?” I ask him.

“On
Scooby Doo.
See? Isn't it cool?”

I lean over him to check out the vampire pancake. “Awesome. J. C., I had no idea you were so gifted.”

“I have many hidden talents,” he says, and he winks at me. That warm feeling spreads in my stomach again, and I have to look away.

When I look back, J. C. is standing in front of me, all business. “Pancakes?” he says.

I start to tell him that I'm not hungry, which has been my de facto response over the last few weeks. But then I look at Gabriel, who has maple syrup all over his hands and face, and I change my mind. “Sure,” I say. “Thank you.”

He sets the plate in front of me with a flourish. “Enjoy.”

I sit down in the chair next to Gabriel and regard the humongous stack of pancakes. “What are you going to eat?”

“I'll make another batch.”

“Have some of these. I can't possibly eat them all.”

“Don't be so quick to judge. You haven't had my blueberry pancakes,” he says. “They're in a league of their own.”

“They're really good, Mommy,” Gabe says with his mouth full.

“I see that.” I snag the chair next to mine, pushing it out so J. C. will sit. “Please eat some of these, J. C. If I finish this whole thing, I'll weigh five thousand pounds and it will be all your fault.”

“I'd like to see that,” he says, but he grabs another plate and an extra set of silverware, and neatly slices the giant mound of pancakes in half. “Happy?” he says as he deposits the precarious pile on his own plate.

“Ask me once I've had some more coffee,” I say, taking another sip.

He grabs the syrup and pours it over his pancakes. “Want some?” I nod and he douses my plate, then sits back with his arms folded.

“Why aren't you eating?” I ask him.

“I might ask you the same question.”

I groan. “Fine. I'll try them.” I spear a forkful of syrup-laden pancakes and take a bite, then another. “Wow,” I say. “These are incredible.” They taste good to me, which seems miraculous. I've gotten so used to food tasting like sawdust.

“I told you so,” he says.

“Don't gloat. It isn't polite. And Gabriel, honey, don't put your hand in your …” My voice trails off. “Hair,” I say as five sticky fingers make their way behind his ear.

“Too late,” J. C. says, sotto voce.

Gabe tries to pull his fingers free and fails. “I had an itch,” he wails. “An itchy itchy one. And now I am syruped to myself.”

I reach over and tug his hand loose. “It's okay, buddy,” I say.

He looks from me to J. C., who is doing his best not to crack up. “No harm done, little man,” he says. “It's all good.”

Gabe's face starts to crumple. “My hair is ruinded,” he says. Big tears form in his eyes and threaten to fall into what remains of his pancakes.

This is so unlike him, I hardly know what to do. Gabe rarely cares what he looks like or what substances he's covered in, and he hates to cry. Even worse, he hates for other people to see him upset. It embarrasses him. I sit frozen for a second, trying to figure out how to avert disaster.

Then J. C. says, “Hey, check me out.” We look over at him, and he has poured a handful of syrup into his palm.

“You wouldn't dare,” I say.

“Watch me,” he says. “I need a shower, anyhow.” And before I can stop him, he's dumped the entire handful on his head. He grins at Gabe and starts working the syrup into his hair like it's styling gel. “Is it a good look for me, buddy? What do you think?”

Gabe's eyes widen, and he stares at J. C. as if he's gone crazy. “Oh, you are going to be in so much trouble,” he says in such an accurate imitation of me that my jaw drops and I start laughing. A moment later, Gabe and J. C. join in. We sit there, two of us covered in maple syrup, and giggle.

Across the table, J. C. catches my eye and smiles. I mouth, “Thank you,” and he inclines his head, his dark eyes warm. With that look, the ice around my heart softens, melts. And for the first time in weeks, I know one thing for sure: No matter how much syrup J. C.'s poured into his hair, the person at this table who's in the most trouble is me.