The Memory Thief (30 page)

To say that I have a difficult night would be putting it lightly. Between what happened with Nicholas and my unsettling phone call with J. C., I am beside myself. I don't know what to think, or what to believe. I spend a lot of time pacing the length of the living room, debating whether to call J. C. back and then deciding against it. I crack Gabe's door to peer at him several times, but he is fast asleep. By the time the street starts to lighten and people start trotting by on their way to the subway, I've all but convinced myself that J. C. was right—that Nicholas was psychotic, or at the least some kind of crazy con artist who gets his kicks out of preying on widowed women. I must have imagined the things he said. Wishful thinking and sleepless nights aren't exactly conducive to mental health, after all, and I've been doing a lot of both.

But then there's the matter of how Gabe knew who he was, and then there are the details of Nick's dreams, which I don't understand how anyone could know unless they had been on the mountain that day, or spying on me and Aidan at Wildacres. Or unless he's telling the truth. But that's not possible, is it? Is it?

If anyone could will their way back from the great beyond, it would be Aidan. Then again, he wouldn't have had much patience for this kind of story himself. If Nicholas had showed up on our doorstep selling this song and dance about Jim Ellis, Aidan would have handed him his ass on a platter, right before he showed him the door. He wouldn't even give my little premonition the time of day, for God's sake.

But there was the premonition, wasn't there? And Gabe's dream the night Aidan died. And the kiss, which was one of the weirdest things I've ever experienced. I wasn't lying when I told J. C. it freaked me out. When you're married to someone for almost six years, you know how they kiss, how they hold you. And if I hadn't known it was Nick on the couch, I would've sworn Aidan was there with me.

I feel like I'm going crazy. I debate calling Jos or Lucy, but first it's the middle of the night and then it's horribly early in the morning, and that hardly seems fair. Desperate for some air, I open the door and step outside. And then I let out a shriek, because someone is sitting on the stoop again. He turns, and of course it is Nicholas. Of course it is.

I sink down onto the stoop's top step and try to slow the jagged rhythm of my heart. “Jesus,” I say, except it comes out more like a squeak, because I am minus most of my oxygen supply.

“Sorry, no,” he says. “Just me.”

I didn't expect to see Maddie come out of the house like that, not so early. I figured I'd have more time to gather my thoughts. But here she is, wearing the same clothes she had on last night. She collapses on the top step like I've scared the crap out of her. Which, I realize, I have.

“What are you doing here?” she says.

“I had to give you something. And to tell you something, too.” I show her the piece of paper. “Here,” I say, coming up the steps to hand it to her.

“What is it?”

I don't reply—honestly, what am I going to say?—and she takes the paper from me and looks at it. Her eyes widen, and the blood drains out of her face as if someone is siphoning it away. “Where did you get this?” she asks, without looking up.

“I had another dream,” I tell her. “Last night, after I left here. But this one was different. Before, it was always like I was Aidan, or he was me, or whatever. This time, we were sitting down next to each other, talking. We were outside, on a deck. There was a grill, and a picnic table, and these totally macabre deer antlers. He said it was your backyard in Boulder.”

“Go on,” she says, staring at me with those wide brown eyes. It's strange, but the compulsion to be near her, to touch her, is gone. Like Aidan really has left, for good.

“We talked,” I say. “About a lot of stuff.”

“And?” she prompts. She is holding the drawing so tightly, she's crumpled one of the corners.

“He thanked me for coming to see you. He said that he was arrogant and stupid for not believing you, when you asked him not to go to Alaska. He said he promised you he'd never let you down, and that the night before he left, he told you he'd come back.” I eye her cautiously, assessing her reaction. “Does any of this make sense to you?”

She looks ill. “Go on,” she says.

So I tell her the rest of the dream, if that's what it was—everything Aidan said, everything he asked me to pass on to her and to J. C. “And then he drew this,” I say, pointing at the drawing. “He told me to give it to you, that he wouldn't bother me anymore. And he left.”

“Left where?”

“Through the back door of your house. I went after him, to see where he'd gone, but he'd just disappeared.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep. I figured I'd just come over here and wait for you.”

She glances down at her hands, realizes she's crushing the drawing, and smoothes it out with shaking fingers. “How is this possible?” she whispers.

“I don't know,” I say. “He tried to explain, but he didn't do a very good job.”

“I don't understand how you could know these things,” she says. “Or this.” She points to the line at the bottom of the page, the one he's written. “Unless you got this drawing from him somehow, before he died.”

I shake my head. “I never met him, not really. Not unless you count last night.”

We sit in silence, there on her parents' stoop. Then she says, “Suspending disbelief for a minute … do you feel like he's gone? Assuming, of course, that he was there to begin with.”

“Yes,” I say. “That's how I feel. Those things I said to you about you and me … don't worry about any of that, okay? It was just—it was him, I guess. I don't feel that way, anymore.” What I do feel is hollow, and bewildered, and lost. But that isn't her problem, and I'm certainly not going to lay it at her feet.

Relief flashes across her face. “So what will you do now?”

“I'll go back to North Carolina,” I say. “Try to make things right.” And to figure out what Aidan meant when he said I was empty, that on some level this wasn't just a coincidence. Not to mention trying to reclaim my memory and patching up the wreck I've made of my life, chasing after a dream that wasn't even mine.

She bites her lower lip, like Aidan did last night. “That doesn't sound like something a crazy person would say.”

“I'm not crazy. Not much, anyway.”

“But if you're not … then this …” She waves the drawing, gestures at the two of us. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“The right thing,” I tell her. “You'll do the thing that's right for you.” I fish in my pocket, pull out the other piece of paper I've brought with me. It's folded into fourths, and on it I've written my name, my email address, and my phone number. “Here,” I say, handing it to her. “Keep this, just in case.”

She unfolds it, looks it over. “In case what?”

“In case you need it,” I say, and she nods as if this makes sense, folds it back up, and puts it in the pocket of her jeans.

And then, because that seems to be all there is to say, I turn to leave. Western Union, that's me after all. My work here is done, and I have business elsewhere. Like, getting my memory back. Like, reclaiming my life.

I get all the way to the bottom of the steps before I hear her calling me. She is crying and making no effort to hide it. “Nick,” she says, so I wait. She clears her throat, wipes her eyes, and tries again. She smiles through her tears, and I can see why Aidan fell in love with her, why he would do anything to be able to say goodbye.

“Nick,” she says again. “Thank you.”

I watch Nicholas walk down Union, a green duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and wrap my arms around myself for comfort.
You tell her I meant what I said, about J. C. You tell him to take care of her, or I swear to God I will find a way to haunt his sorry ass with every step he takes.
That sounds like Aidan, all right, like something he'd say. And what about this drawing?
Not as much as I love you.
Maybe I'm the one who's going crazy, and none of this is happening after all.

I am a mother, I admonish myself. I need to pull myself together. A nervous breakdown is a luxury I can't afford right now. I finger the necklace I'm wearing, a paua-shell turtle that Aidan brought home from New Zealand. Then I make myself get up and walk back inside. I put the drawing on the kitchen table, I lock the door behind me. I grind coffee beans and start the machine. Then I splash some cold water on my face and go to check on Gabriel.

“Hi, Mommy,” he says when I push the door open. “Where did you go?”

“Just outside. I didn't realize you were awake, buddy. Sorry.”

“It's okay,” he says. “I was just looking at this picture Daddy made me. He said to give it to you.” And then he extends a piece of paper in one small hand.

My heart starts pounding again, as if it might jump out of my chest and take off down Fifth Avenue, leaving me behind. Feeling like I'm moving through a vat of molasses, I make my way over to the bed, over to my little boy with the sleep-mussed hair and the rocket pajamas and his daddy's blue, blue eyes. I take the paper from him. And then I sit down on his bed, hard. It's lucky the bed is there, because otherwise I would have fallen to the floor.

The picture Gabe has given me is drawn in crayon, but other than that, it's an exact replica of the one Nicholas handed me on the stoop, down to the angle of the sun, the height of the mountains. Other than the medium—and the fact that this drawing is done in several colors, not just blue pen—the only difference is what's printed along the bottom, in Aidan's spiky writing, with its mix of capital and lowercase letters, its angular m's and w's.

I fly into Wilmington more confused than when I left, if such a thing is possible. The dreams are gone, as is the bizarre sense that I am sharing my body and thoughts with someone else. This, of course, is a blessed relief. On the other hand, I am still minus all of my memories, which is inconvenient, to say the least. Also, losing Maddie has messed with my mind. You could argue that I'd never had her to begin with, that I wasn't in love with her, and you'd be right—but I thought I was, and as irrational as that is, it feels as sorry as if I'd lost the real thing.

Maybe I am just grieving the idea of being in love. And maybe I ought to give Grace another chance; maybe in the absence of being possessed by Mountain Boy, my feelings for her will come back in, loud and strong, like a signal that's been made fuzzy by bad reception.

The more I think about it, the more likely this seems.
Empty,
my ass. I have a job, I have friends, I have a dog and a house and a girlfriend. That doesn't seem so damn empty to me. We can't all spend our days clambering up teetering piles of rock and ice. Next to that, whose life wouldn't seem devoid of excitement?

I do know one thing—if I'm going to find any answers, they won't be in New York, with Madeleine. So back home I go, as per Aidan's instructions—although it pisses me off that I'm still doing what he says. I pick up Nevada from Taylor's house, dodge Taylor's questions about what went on in New York, and then humble myself to beg Grace's forgiveness. Armed with roses and a bottle of wine from the Fresh Market, Nevada and I drive over to her house and knock.

She opens the door, and when she sees me her jaw drops. “You're back,” she says.

“I'm back,” I echo.

“Where've you been, Nicholas?” Her tone is measured.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” Lord knows that's the truth.

“Try me,” she says.

“I went to New York.”

“I knew that.”

“Taylor told you, huh?”

“I forced it out of him,” she says. “Or maybe
coerced
would be a better word. What were you doing in New York?”

“Would you believe sightseeing?” I ask her. There's no damn way I'm going to tell her the truth. Maybe one day, when all of this is far behind us.

“Nope.” She blocks the doorway so I can't enter. “How's your memory?”

“Still a tabula rasa. I thought the New York trip would help, but it didn't. Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

I'm blowing off her question, but Grace lets it pass. “Are those for me?” She gestures at the roses, at the bottle of wine.

“Hopefully,” I tell her, and smile.

“And if I don't want them?”

“That's easy. I'll give the flowers to the first girl I see, and then drink the whole bottle myself. You know, drown my sorrows. But I'd much rather share it with you.”

“I didn't think you liked wine.”

“I don't. Or at least, I don't think I do. But maybe I could learn.”

She shuts her eyes. “You are horrible!” she says. “You take off and I have no idea where you've gone. That note you left was useless. Then you show back up with flowers and wine and expect me to forgive you, just like that. And you haven't even said you're sorry.”

“I'm sorry, Grace,” I say. “And not just because you mentioned it. I really, truly am.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks, eyes still closed.

“I don't know. Ask me again in a few hours, and I'll have an answer for you.”

Now her eyes open, and she looks up into mine. She's a tall girl, and she doesn't have to look that far. “You hurt me, Nicholas,” she says. “Give me one reason to let you do it again.”

“Because you love me,” I say. “Isn't that reason enough?”

She glares at me for a moment, but then she caves. “Come in,” she says. And so I do.

One thing leads to another, and Nevada and I wind up spending the night. In the morning I wake up, restless. Grace is asleep naked next to me, her long red hair streaming down her back, and I don't want to disturb her with my fidgeting. She'll have to get up soon enough for work, anyway. More than that, I am disappointed. Being with her felt just like it had before I left. I don't know what I'd expected—not a lightning bolt or bells ringing—but I sure as hell expected something. Instead, I got zip, which befuddles me further.

In the end I grab Nevada's leash and take him for a walk on the beach. My intention is to grab two coffees and some breakfast sandwiches from Robert's, but I find myself ordering coffee for one and then heading to my car as if my feet have a mind of their own.

I slide behind the wheel, then text Grace, tell her I didn't want to wake her up, that I'll see her later—all of which is true, as far as that goes. So why do I feel guilty all over again?

I drive home and unlock the door to my house with a sense of profound relief, like I've gotten away with something, or at the very least escaped. This puzzles me, since it wasn't like anyone was holding me captive. Dismissing the anxious, not-right feeling in the pit of my stomach, I open up all the windows; the place is musty after the days I've spent away. After I get Nevada some food and water, I decide that what I need is organization. If I am going to have to start over, I might as well figure out what I'm working with. And after all, Aidan did tell me to clean out my office.

Just to be obstinate, I start in the kitchen instead, hauling out Tupperware containers and tossing the ones that are mismatched. I sort through the bills that have come in my absence—Taylor has been collecting my mail—and pay them. I do some serious yard work. Then I look through my clothes and bag up whatever I don't want for Goodwill. I scrub the floors, I wash the front of the kitchen cabinets, I sort through the freezer and toss some frostbitten items that look like they've personally experienced the Ice Age into the trash. What with one thing and another, it's almost three in the afternoon before I get to my office.

I'm feeling pretty virtuous—not to mention tired—by the time I sit down at my desk and open one of the drawers at random. There's no rhyme or reason to what's inside: magazines, some file folders, a box of staples, some empty CD jewel cases. I dump it all out on the floor and start sorting.

Stuck between two of the magazines is a blue spiral-bound notebook. I snag it and toss it to the side for future consideration. It lands open, though, and I can see writing inside. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pick it back up. I look at the top of the page. It's dated June 7—the day of my accident. That gets my attention, all right. My hands go cold as I start reading.

There's got to be more to life than this, I'm sure of it. That sounds so melodramatic, and I don't mean it that way. It's just, I'm tired of doing the same thing day after day, tired of talking about the same things with the same people. The kids are great, but I'm getting burnt out, I can tell. And Grace—what am I supposed to do about her? She doesn't say it, or at least she hasn't said it yet, but I'm sure she expects me to ask her to marry me soon. We've been dating for over two years now, and I know she thinks I'm The One. She says it often enough. The shitty thing is, I don't think I'm in love with her anymore, if I ever really was. I'm just going through the motions. But every time I try to talk about it with her, she avoids me somehow. It's driving me nuts. We have a date tonight and I think I've worked up the balls to tell her I don't think we should be together anymore, flat-out. It's not fair to her, that's for sure. I'm just treading water. I need to end this. I'm writing it down this time, so I won't chicken out. Tonight, I am going to break up with Grace.

The entry ends there. I sit with the paper in my hands, staring at it. And then, as if it's burning my fingers, I tear it out of the notebook, crumple it into a ball, and throw it across the room. It lands in the corner, looking as inoffensive as any piece of trash.

I planned to break up with Grace before the accident? Below the surprise, I feel a rush of relief. It wasn't just Aidan pushing me toward Madeleine and away from Grace. There was some of myself in there the whole time, telling me that my relationship with Grace didn't feel right. That it wasn't where I belonged.

I am still in here somewhere, after all.

A headache blooms behind my eyes, and I get up and fetch two Advil. I wash them down with a glass of water. Then I walk out to the back deck, where I settle on the steps that lead down into the backyard. I put the glass down next to me and rub my eyes so hard, entire constellations explode behind the lids. Nevada noses my face, worried.

My head pounds, and I feel dizzy. I rub my eyes again, watch the laser light show play out. I dip my fingers into the cold water, rest my hand on the back of my neck. And then, with the rush of the avalanche, the same sense of being swept off balance, the same lack of air, my self comes rushing back to me. The force of it knocks me sideways. From far away I hear the glass tip over on the step, fall all the way to the ground. I hear it shatter. But none of that matters now, because the fireworks behind my eyelids have been replaced with a flood of memories.

Me at six, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. Sitting at the kitchen table with my dad, tracing the contours of the globe with my finger, telling him where I want to go one day. At ten, trying so hard to complete my math homework that I snap my pencil in half. My mom, presenting me with a homemade cake—vanilla with chocolate frosting, my favorite—for my twelfth birthday. Opening my present—a Nikon with all the bells and whistles, which I take with me everywhere that year, prepping for my future as a
National Geographic
reporter. Talking with the exchange students that my family's always hosted, looking at the pictures of where they live, staying up late to make a list of the places I'll go someday, with a flashlight under the covers so I won't get in trouble. Getting my driver's license, and taking off down the highway in my first car, a two-door Honda Civic that had seen better days. At sixteen, the first time I slept with a girl—Steph Kramer, a pretty redhead; I seem to have a thing for them. Walking across the stage to accept my college diploma a few years late, after catching the waves in Costa Rica and working the tourist boats in the Virgin Islands. Thinking that the next step will be the Peace Corps, for sure—and two weeks later, getting the news of my parents' death. Sitting with my arms around Nevada, who was just a puppy then—I'd picked him out for my mom as an anniversary present—burying my face in his fur and sobbing. Deciding the hell with the Peace Corps, my parents had always wanted me to make a steady living and I owed it to them to listen. The conclusion that teaching global studies seems the least of all evils. My first day in a classroom, and how scared I was that I'd screw everything up. The next day, and the next and the next and the next, until they blur together. My first date with Grace, my second, my third. Wondering why I don't love her, knowing I should. Feeling more and more like my job is nothing, my relationship is nothing, my life is nothing. My growing sense of dissatisfaction, my desire to do something, anything, to break out of this rut I'm in, to feel something for once. Writing the note that's now crumpled in the corner, riding my Harley to Grace's house, telling her it's over. Her arguments, my refusal to listen, her tears. Getting on my bike just for the sake of riding, with no particular destination in mind. Feeling happy, feeling free, knowing I've had a little too much to drink but just not caring. And then the glare of oncoming headlights, the sound of brakes, the awful realization that the driver is not going to be able to stop in time.

I open my eyes, stare down at the fragments of glass. I haven't moved, but somehow everything looks different.

All this time, she knew I didn't want to be with her, and she was just stringing me along, messing with my head? Thinking … what, that since she believed we should be together, she'd make it so, even when she knew it wasn't what I wanted? She let me believe that everything was just peachy between us, let me punish myself for feeling that something was wrong. For Christ's sake, she told me we were getting married.
Goddamnit,
I think. I say it out loud, and Nevada noses me again, whines.

I think back over the past few months, how lonely I felt, how adrift, eager to cling to any fragment of my original self. And now it turns out that even the few things I thought were true, the things I thought were solid ground, have turned out to be lies. Award-winning works of fiction, crafted by the master storyteller Grace Robinson. She ought to win the Pulitzer Prize. She's got a gift.

I am furious with Grace. I feel betrayed. But all of that fades into the background, paling next to the realization that I am myself again. For the first time since I woke up in the hospital three months ago, I can access any memory I choose, from the most insignificant to the most important. I know my favorite color, the name of the first girl I ever loved, how I like my steak (medium-rare), the fact that my mom used to call me Nicky. My sense of helplessness, of suspension over an unknown abyss, is gone. I know who I am, plain and simple.

But I also know who I am not. Unlike Aidan James, I am not someone who knew what he wanted and then went after it—Maddie, climbing, whatever else came to mind. I am someone who turned his back on what he cared about, telling himself it was childish and silly, and pursued a life of mediocrity. Or, as Aidan put it, I was empty.

And he filled me.

He reminded me what it was like to feel passionate about what I did, who I was with. He made me believe I was in love with Maddie—but he also showed me what it was like to love someone the way he did, with his whole self, holding nothing back. He terrified me by having me fall off a mountain again and again, night after night—but he let me know what it felt like to be so devoted to what you did, you'd risk your life for it.