The Memory Thief (22 page)

The three of us spend the day together, and it's the best one I've had in a long time. After breakfast (which is really lunch, if you think about it), J. C. and Gabe take a shower. I stand outside the bathroom door for a minute, and hear Gabe giggling as J. C. tries to rinse the maple syrup from his hair. “Out, out, damn spot!” he says, loud and clear, and I put my hand over my mouth. I know what's coming next.

Sure enough, Gabe scolds him. “You said a bad word.”

“Yeah, well, I'm going to say a lot more if this stuff doesn't start coming out soon,” J. C. says, and Gabe laughs harder. I can hear his giggles all the way down the hall to the kitchen, where I unload the dishwasher and take out the trash. By the time I'm finished with that and ready to start on the dishes, J. C. appears with Gabe wrapped in a towel like a burrito. “One clean boy,” he says. “Syrup-free.”

“Uncle J. C. said a bad word,” Gabe tells me.

“I know. I heard.”

“You'd say a bad word too, if Aunt Jemima had welded your hair follicles together. And you weren't supposed to tell. Now you're really in trouble.” He starts tickling Gabe, who shrieks. “And you!” he says to me over Gabe's squeals. “What do you mean, you heard? What were you doing, listening at the bathroom door?”

“Oops. You got me.”

J. C. gives me a mock glare. “Your mother is a spy,” he tells Gabriel. “I hope you know that.”

Gabe has stopped laughing and he looks me over with his big blue eyes, like he's taking my measure. “She is very, very sneaky,” he says to J. C., as serious as it's possible for a four-year-old to sound. “She is a sneaky one.”

“Thanks for the tip,” J. C. says in a tone that matches Gabe's. “I'll keep that in mind. Hey, sneaky one, you wanna take a walk with us? We're going exploring.”

“Sure,” I say. “As soon as I do these dishes.”

“Don't worry about them. I'll get them later. Come on.”

“Yeah, come on, Mommy,” Gabe says.

So we go for a walk along Boulder Creek. We've done this plenty of times, but as a foursome. Aidan was always with us, racing J. C. with Gabe on his shoulders, making elaborate plans for some crazy adventure. Walking along the trail without him, there's no pretending. The three of us are all that's left. I know that J. C. and I need to talk about what's happened, that I need to make sure he knows it can't happen again, but I don't want to. That sense of peace, of safety, that I felt last night, falling asleep in his arms, is still with me. I am selfish, I am the worst kind of coward, but I don't want to give that up. I keep waiting for J. C. to force the subject when Gabe is out of earshot, but he never does. He doesn't even reach for my hand, even though we're strolling along next to each other and he has plenty of opportunities. He is a perfect gentleman.

By the time we get home, it's almost 3
P.M.
and Gabe is yawning. I tuck him into bed for a nap and read him two of his favorite stories—
Slowly, Slowly, Slowly Said the Sloth
and
Henry the Explorer,
which is so old, I can remember my mom reading it to me. It's kind of sexist, when you read it closely, but Gabe loves it and I figure there's no need to indoctrinate him with feminist politics this early on. His eyes are at half-mast by the time I walk out of his room, closing the door quietly behind me.

When I go back into the kitchen, J. C. is already hard at work as promised. He's cleared the table and is loading the dishwasher. As I come in, he's sliding Gabe's blue plate into one of the bottom racks.

“You don't have to do those,” I say, and he gives me a smile over his shoulder.

“No big deal. I'm almost done.” He closes the dishwasher door and turns to face me, wiping his hands on his shorts to dry them. “Gabe go down okay?”

“Yeah, he was fine. He wanted a couple of stories, and then I lay down with him. His eyes were closing when I left.”

J. C. doesn't say anything. He leans against the counter, waiting for me to go on, his arms folded over his chest. His posture is as unthreatening as it could possibly be, but I am suddenly aware of the fact that we are alone for the first time since last night. I feel afraid—not of him, but of myself, what I want, what I might do.

I try to look away before my feelings show on my face, but it's too late. He's always been able to read me well, maybe better than anyone else. He tilts his head, pushes off the counter just a little, like he's getting ready to come toward me. “Hey,” he says.

I take a step backward, mimicking his posture, my arms folded over my breasts. “Thanks for getting up with him,” I say. “You're a trouper. I didn't even hear a thing.”

His eyes narrow, and I can see him decide whether to press the issue. In the end he lets it go, easing back against the counter and letting his hands fall at his sides, palms open, as if to show me he means no harm. “It wasn't that big a deal. I actually never went to sleep.”

“You … what? Just lay there, all night long?”

“There wasn't that much of the night left,” he says, making an effort not to sound lascivious. “Besides which, sleep isn't working out too well for me lately. The few times I've dropped off, I have these horrible vivid dreams. So.”

“There's a lot of that going around.”

“Feel guilty?” he says, and it isn't a non sequitur.

“In a way.”

“I do. Not so much about this”—he gestures between us—”but about the fact that I'm still here. I mean, why him? It could just as easily been me leading that pitch. Maybe it should have been.”

“How can you say that?”

“Come on, Maddie. What do I have? My car, a good job, some friends, that's basically it. But A. J., he had a family. You and Gabe were everything to him. What kind of sense does this mess make?” His voice cracks.

“None,” I say, even though his question doesn't really call for an answer. “It makes no sense at all. But it wouldn't make any more sense if it was you buried under all that snow instead of him.”

He looks at me then, hard, like he's trying to see if I really mean it. “Thank you,” he says. “I wish I could let myself off the hook that easily.”

“For what? I don't understand.”

“I had him on belay, Maddie. I had him on the fucking rope. If he'd decided to anchor in differently—if there hadn't been all that slack in the rope, or if I hadn't fed it to him so quickly—if there'd been wind or something, and I hadn't heard him the first time around—maybe he'd still be here.” He rubs his jaw. “Maybe it's just survivor's guilt, but I keep feeling that if I'm still here, then there's got to be a reason. Or that I have to be worth it, somehow. And the only thing I can think to do right now is to take the best care of you and Gabe that I can.”

Leave it to him to play the hero. The last thing I want is for him to feel bound to us by some twisted sense of obligation. This situation is complicated enough as it is. “What about Roma and Jesse?” I ask him. “They were there too. You think they're walking around wondering why this didn't happen to them, or figuring out how they're going to … I don't know, pay Gabe's college tuition?”

“That's different,” he says, leaning back against the counter. He looks exhausted.

I take his hand. “It wasn't your fault, any more than it was when Ellis died. These things happen. I know that. I knew it when I married Aidan. I took a risk. It doesn't make it any easier, but it's the truth.”

His mouth twists down in a grimace. “If this is the cost of doing business, then maybe I'm in the wrong business.” He looks down at our fingers, joined together. “Plus, Jesse and Roma didn't want to be with A. J.'s wife.”

“No,” I say. “I guess they didn't.” My heart is pounding again, like it was last night.

“They didn't sit there and feel like they were being gutted every time he put his arm around you, or kissed you, or held your hand. They didn't imagine what it would be like to sleep next to you every night, instead of him.” His voice is so low I have to strain to hear it. “I've wanted to be with you for six fucking years, Maddie. I've wanted it and ever since that afternoon way back when, I've kept my thoughts to myself. But that doesn't mean I didn't have them.”

“J. C.—”

“No, let me finish,” he says with sudden insistence. “I wanted you, sure. But I sure as hell never meant for it to happen like this.” He raises his head then, and looks at me directly. His dark eyes are filled with tears, and it strikes me that he's been trying so hard to hold up for my sake, he hasn't had a chance to process how he feels at all. And I've been so wrapped up in my own grief, I haven't really asked him.
Selfish,
I think, and I put my arms around him. He lowers his head onto my shoulder and speaks into my hair.

“The way he fell, with all that slack, he took this massive whipper, Maddie. It unzippered all his protection and he fell all the way past me. It shook me, bad. If I hadn't had such a goddamn bomber anchor system, I probably would've been swept down the mountain with him. And then when it was over, all I could think was, I held the break. I didn't lose him. I had hope, you know?”

I nod. I do know, all too well.

“But I pulled on the rope and it came right out of the snow, without him on the other end. I don't know if a piece of the glacier got it or what, but the rope was sliced, just like with Ellis. And I knew he was gone. I knew we'd never find him in time.” His face is wet, and his arms tighten around me so it's hard to breathe. “I lay in my tent that night and I thought about how I had to tell you, how you'd hate me now. I thought I'd lost both of you. How it felt … there aren't words.” The length of his body shakes where it presses against mine. We stand there in silence, holding each other, until the phone rings.

I step back and he grabs for it quickly, so it won't wake Gabe. His voice comes out hoarse, and I hear him telling whoever's on the other end that he's fine, just tired. I roll my eyes. He's such a damn private person. Or maybe it's just that he's a guy. Either way, he wipes his eyes and manages to sound almost normal. The caller turns out to be Beth, calling about this welcome-back shindig she's throwing at the Walrus for the search and rescue team tonight. They've rented out the bar, so it's kid-friendly.

I'd forgotten all about it, probably because at the time, it sounded like a nightmare. Now, though, I've changed my mind. For one thing, if I don't go, J. C. probably won't, either, and he deserves to be recognized for trying to bring Aidan home. For another, the idea of being here alone with him tonight terrifies me. What good can come of this? The last thing I want to do is hurt him. I've done enough of that. I don't know how he can stand to be around me, really. Maybe he's just a glutton for punishment.

So I tell him I'll go to the party. He looks surprised, but he relays the message to Beth. He flips the phone shut and shoves it back into his pocket. Then he yawns, covering his mouth with one hand.

“You need to get some rest,” I tell him. “Especially if we're going somewhere tonight.”

“I told you. I can't sleep.”

“I'll sit with you, if you want. If that will help.”

His eyes flash to my face, startled. “You would?”

“Sure. If you want me to.”

He regards me for a long moment, and then he looks away. “All right,” he says to a point somewhere above my head. It occurs to me that he's embarrassed.

I take his hand again. “Come on,” I say, and I tug. He follows me down the hall and into my room, where he stretches out on the bed. I cover him with the quilt and he yawns again.

“Lie down with me?” he says.

“You're supposed to be sleeping.”

“I am. I mean, I will be. I just want to hold you,” he says. “You asked me to last night, and I kind of screwed that up. Let me make it up to you.” He sounds sincere enough, so I lie down next to him, my head tucked under his chin. He puts an arm around me and kisses my neck. His lips are soft, his stubble rough where it rubs against my cheek. Something twists down low in my stomach. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but that doesn't help. I breathe him in, and suddenly I am hyperaware of all the places where his body touches mine. Luckily for me, he is half-asleep already.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice drowsy.

“For what?” My voice comes out defensive, almost hostile. He ignores it.

“For being here. For doing this.” His arm tightens around me. “Wake me up at six,” he says, and then he is gone.

I lie outside by the fire, hands behind my head, one leg bent so my foot rests on my knee. In the light of the flames I can see J. C., sitting with his backpack guitar in his hands. We've just finished guiding a group of clients up Devils Tower. We took them up the Durrance Route, which is a 5.6 and thus not too bad. J. C. and I are camping in the national park, staying on to see if we can try out some of the others. I have my eye on a few choice routes—
Adventurous Daze, Burning Daylight,
and
Spank the Monkey
(just because I like the name). J. C. is pulling for
Lovely Liana,
which is fast but tricky.

I look over at him, picking out notes on his guitar. “How'd you think it went?” I ask.

“What, the group? Awesome. It was cool to see that girl and her dad, doing something together like that. And Alex … shit.”

“I know,” I say. And I do. Jenny and her dad have climbed together all over the country. Everyone else in their family thinks they're crazy, but they love it. Maybe one day Gabe will want to come cragging with me. How sweet would that be?

As for Alex, he's an Iraqi Freedom vet who lost an arm and a leg when the Jeep he was riding in drove over a roadside bomb. He was a rock hound before he went to Iraq, but nothing too serious. Now he's got these crazy prosthetics and no route's too gnarly for him to take on. I was a little worried about bringing him on this trip—I haven't worked with many disabled climbers—but he put the rest of us to shame. I'd like to do some more routes with him and his buddies, if they're into it. The irony doesn't escape me: I've come back around to the military, after everything, and I wonder what my father—Mr. God and Country—would say if he could see me now.

“A. J.,” J. C. says.

“Huh?”

“You thinking about your dad?” he asks, like he can tell.

“Yeah, I guess. Just wondering if he'd … I don't know, what he'd think of this.”

J. C. is silent. Then he says, “He'd be proud, if he had a lick of sense.”

“Yeah.” I grab a beer out of my pack, crack it open, change the subject. “Hey, how're things going with Elise?”

J. C. extends his hand, and I toss him a bottle. He says, “They aren't. She wants marriage, the white dress, the whole nine yards. And me, I'm still debating whether I want her to keep a toothbrush at my place. We're not exactly on the same page.”

“Sorry, man,” I say. He makes a noncommittal noise, and I take a gulp of my beer. I'd bet my life on the fact that there's nothing wrong with Elise, per se. It's not who she is, it's who she isn't. He's never going to find what he's looking for, because the person he's looking for is married to me … and I sure as hell am not giving her up.

I know this, and he knows I know. There's no need to discuss it, so we drink our beer, he plays his guitar, and we talk about other things.

This time, when I wake up, I'm in my bed, not on the floor. It's ridiculous, but I am jealous. I sit up, trying to make the feeling go away.

To distract myself, I think about the rest of the dream, about the clients they were guiding up the mountain. That girl and her father … that's pretty cool, to have something you share with your old man, even when the rest of your family thinks you've gone around the bend. And the Iraq vet—wow. I can't imagine caring about anything so much that I'd strap on a couple of prosthetic limbs and go hightailing up a gigantic spire of rock. Impressive.

I fall asleep again thinking about what it feels like to have everything you want, only to lose it … and to know what you want, but not have it. In that way, Aidan James and I are opposites. We differ in another vital way, too, of course: I am still alive.