The Memory Thief (31 page)

If I were a cartoon character, a lightbulb would be flashing over my head.

I wasn't in love with Aidan's wife; but I
am
in love with the idea of caring about someone like that, so you'd alter the pattern of your life and become a better person. I have no desire to climb mountains, but I do want to travel the world, my Nikon in my hand, like I always dreamed I would. I want to teach kids somewhere far away, learn their language, eat their food, take their picture. I want to reduce my possessions to what I can carry on my back and hike through the rain forest somewhere that cellphones and emails can't find me, and the trees are filled with animals I've never seen outside of books. I want to find someone who will travel this path with me, so we can discover hidden places together and make each other happy.

I think back to the dream, what I felt when I cupped my hands to my face under the snow. I felt hope, and I realize now that it was mine, not Aidan's. He gave that back to me. He gave me back the small boy who pored over maps and watched the Discovery Channel like it was the gospel, who dreamed of exploring with only my camera for company, capturing blue-footed boobies in the Galapagos and sifaka lemurs—those balletic little primates—in Madagascar.

He gave me back my self.

I sit for another moment, getting my balance, adjusting to this new version of reality. Then I go back inside and walk through every room of my house, touching objects like a blind man, seeing them with my new eyes. I look under the bed for the book I dropped back there five months ago and pull it out, covered in dust bunnies. I rummage in the kitchen drawer for the vegetable peeler that used to be my grandmother's and has somehow ended up with me. I pet Nevada on the head, thinking about when I rescued him from the shelter, how I chose him out of all the puppies in the litter because he didn't bum-rush me, just sat there staring with his big, hopeful doggy eyes.

Finally I sink down on the couch, looking at the floor where Grace and I made love that night before I left. I remember how we met, where we went on our first date, our little private jokes, what I bought her on our first anniversary. Then I hear her telling me that she'll take whatever version of me she can get, that it doesn't have to be exactly like it was. And I realize the irony of this whole situation: In finding Grace, I have lost her again.

After Gabe shows me his drawing, I sit for a few long minutes with my head between my knees. Gabe comes up behind me and hugs me. After a while, I feel something soft poking through the space between my upper arm and my ribs: Teddy. I take him and concentrate on continuing to breathe.

“What does it say, Mommy?” Gabe asks after he's figured out that I'm not going to keel over anytime soon. “I asked Daddy to read it to me, but he disappearded, like in Harry Potter.”

I make myself raise my head. My little boy's face is next to mine, squished together with worry. “Did Daddy write something bad?” he asks.

“Where did you get this?”

“Daddy drew it for me, when he came last night. He said maybe it would make you believe me. What does it say?”

So I read the lines of poetry out loud for Gabe, who looks baffled. “I don't get it,” he says. “What does it mean?”

“It was something special your daddy used to say to me,” I tell him.

“Oh.”

“Gabriel, when you say Daddy came to see you … how many times?”

He counts on his fingers. “Three,” he says. “The first time, with the accident. The second time, when he told me Nick was coming. And last night. But he said he wouldn't be coming anymore. He said you should show me heaven, on a map. Do you have a map of heaven, Mommy?”

I shake my head. “Tell me the truth, Gabe. Where did you get this picture?”

“I am telling you the truth!” he says, piqued. “Daddy drew it, and he told me to give it to you. So I am. I think it's pretty. Look, it's got Uncle J. C. on it and everything. Daddy was a little mad when I told him Uncle J. C. came for sleepovers, but he must not be mad anymore, because look.” He touches J. C.'s face.

“You told Daddy what?”

“He asked if Uncle J. C. slept over. So I told him yes. Because he does.”

“And what did Daddy say?”

Gabe's jaw tightens up. “I can't tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's a bad word,” he says, his small face obstinate.

“I won't get angry. Just tell me.”

Gabe folds his little arms over his chest. “Fine. He said, ‘Damn.' And then he told me to tell Uncle J. C. to behave himself. So I did. I told him to be good. At the airport, remember?”

I do remember. Except at the time I thought Gabe was channeling E.T. the Extraterrestrial, not his dead father. I shiver, and rub my upper arms to warm myself.

“Why did he say that, Mommy? I think Uncle J. C. has very good manners. Don't you think so?”

“He does have good manners,” I say. “Better than mine.” Which is the truth.

“I miss him,” Gabe says, peeking at my face as if he thinks I'm going to explode. He could be talking about Aidan, but I know he isn't. He's talking about J. C., and I feel a wave of guilt sweep over me. J. C. is the closest thing to a father figure Gabe has left. I never stopped to think about the fact that taking off for New York would rob him of that sense of security. I thought I would be enough. But looking into Gabe's face, I realize I was wrong. The nights that J. C. stayed over, maybe Gabe felt as safe as I did. After all, I haven't exactly been a bastion of mental health. And here I am, shipping him halfway across the country, without even his grandparents to turn to. Some mother I am.

I run my fingers over the texture of Aidan's drawing, tracing our faces, feeling the contours of each word. “I'm sure you do,” I say to Gabe. “I miss him, too.” And with those words, my world settles into place, at least one small corner of it. To hell with decorum, propriety, and all the rest of it. We will go home to Colorado, and celebrate Gabe's fifth birthday with his friends, the people who love him. I'll show J. C. these drawings, and I'll tell him what happened, the part he doesn't know. I'll deal with whatever anger he needs to direct my way. And whatever comes next, whatever the future holds, we will face it together.

One way or another.

I sit on the front steps of Grace's beach cottage, waiting for her to get home. The driveway is full of her upstairs neighbors' cars; there's just one spot left for Grace, and I leave it empty out of some misplaced sense of chivalry. My Honda is parked a couple of spots down.

It occurs to me that maybe waiting on Grace's steps isn't the best idea. It's an eerie echo of how I waited for Maddie, plus if I really want some answers, I am unlikely to gain them through public humiliation. Oh well. Too late now.

I check my watch. It's five fifteen, and Grace should be here any second. Sure enough, her blue Jetta rounds the corner. The windows are open, and I can hear music blaring from inside—Madonna's “Crazy for You.” Grace is kickin' it old-school, and the symbolism of her song choice cuts a little close for comfort.

She kills the motor and gets out of the car, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder. Then she sees me, and a smile spreads across her face. “Nicholas!” she says.

I can't bring myself to smile back. Instead I just regard her until her own smile freezes, fades. I see the truth break over her face, fill up her eyes. She stops at the bottom of the steps, sets the bag down.

“You said we were getting married. That I proposed to you, and you said yes.” Why this is the opener I go with, I have no idea. It's just what comes out. “I trusted you,” I say, and to my surprise, my voice breaks. “I had nothing—less than nothing—and you lied to me.”

She doesn't try to deny it. “I'm so sorry,” she says. “I am.”

I reach into my pocket, pull out my cigarettes, and light one. I'd hoped regaining my memory would negate my addiction to nicotine. So far, this has not proved to be the case. “Why did you do it?” I ask, but that's not exactly what I mean. What I mean is,
How could you do it?
I doubt she has a good answer, but I ask anyway. Unsurprisingly, she doesn't respond.

“I felt so guilty,” I say. “I went around flagellating myself all the time.
Why don't I feel this? How can I treat her this way?
I felt like a complete asshole. And then yesterday! You let me come back here, with those stupid flowers and that bottle of wine, and grovel like an idiot.” My nails dig into my palms.

She takes a step back, away from me. “Nick—”

“Did you enjoy your little trick? I hope so, because I believed every word you said.”

“I just … I felt like it was a fresh start,” she says, and her voice is less confident than I've ever heard it. “A chance to start again.”

“Right. Because I didn't have enough of that going on.”

“I meant for us.” She reaches out to touch me, and I draw back without thinking. I don't want her hands on me.

She has the nerve to look hurt when I flinch back. “I loved you so much, Nick. I still do. I couldn't understand what was happening to us, why you wanted to break up. And when the accident—I know I took advantage of the situation. I know it was wrong. I just thought maybe—if you couldn't remember that we were supposed to be done—that you'd want to be with me.”

“I beat myself up about those times we were together,” I say, my voice even. “I felt like a total shit, leaving after that. And the whole time, you were using me.”

“I wasn't—”

“I hope it was worth it,” I say.

She grabs the porch railing, like she needs the support. “What are you saying?”

“I think you know.”

“Don't,” she says, and she is pleading with me.

I look down at the steps, take a deep drag of my cigarette. “Give me a break, Grace. You don't expect me to just get over this, do you? Sweep it under the rug, like your Gram used to say?”

She gapes at me. “Gram?”

I sit up straight then. I look right at her. “I remember,” I say. “I remember everything.”

For a moment she says nothing. I mistrust her enough to wonder if she's calculating her odds, trying to figure out if I'm bluffing. Maybe she is planning her next move. But in the end I decide she's simply trying not to cry, because when she speaks, it sounds like she's forcing her voice past a giant lump in her throat. “I'm so glad.”

“I can't imagine why you would be.”

Now that's the God's honest truth.

“I know what I did was wrong,” she says. “I just didn't know how to take it back.”

“Lucky you. You didn't have to go to the trouble,” I say, grinding out my cigarette. I stare over her head, at the widow's walk of the house across the street.

“Nicholas, please,” she says in a small voice. “I am sorry. I don't expect you to believe me, but I didn't do it to be malicious. I made a mistake, a bad one, but I made it out of love.”

She is so pathetic, standing there, that some of my anger bleeds away. “God, Grace,” I say, rubbing my temples. “A mistake is when you forget to pick up the milk. A mistake is when you add wrong on your deposit slip. It implies a lack of premeditation.”

“I didn't plan to do it,” she says. “It just … piled up.”

“Now that I believe,” I say, and I force a rueful smile. It doesn't cost me anything. This will end the same way, anyhow. I can do my best not to make it ugly. Well, uglier.

Relief sweeps her face when she sees me smile, and I sigh. She eyes me cautiously, like she's waiting for me to snap at her again. “I hope one day you can forgive me,” she ventures, and because I hope that, too—who wants to walk around dragging grudges behind them like the chains on Marley's ghost?—I nod my head.

“I'll work on it,” I tell her. “But shit, Gracie. You can't
make
someone be with you, even if it's what you really want. There's this little thing called free will.”

“Every time I thought about saying something, I just—I couldn't,” she says, tracing the railing with one long finger. “How do you tell somebody you've lied about their whole life?”

“Don't exaggerate,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Not my whole life. Just your part in it.”

“Same difference,” she says, smiling a little, and I know why. I used to get after her for saying that; it drove me crazy. Like saying
most unique.

“You liked me better when I was lying,” she says.

“Not true. I like you better now. You make more sense.”

“Were you ever happy with me?” She's back to that small voice.

“I wasn't happy with myself. It had nothing to do with you. I just wasn't brave enough to admit it.”

She considers that, digests it. “So what will you do now?”

It's the same question Maddie asked me, and I have even less of an answer for Grace. I told Maddie I'd go home, try to make things right. And I am, insofar as I know how. I'm being honest with myself, and honest with Grace. But after this, it's anyone's guess. Maybe that should frighten me, but it doesn't. It fills me with anticipation.

“I have no idea,” I say, watching a seagull swoop down to the widow's walk and land on the railing. I try to make the next part come out gentle. “But whatever it is, I wouldn't worry too much about it, Grace. You don't really love me, or you never would have treated me like you did. You were just afraid of letting me go.” There's a difference, and no one knows that better than I do. We were both afraid—her of moving on, me of what I really wanted. It brought us together, it bound us, but no longer. I am done with making decisions based on fear. “You deserve to be happy,” I say. “And so do I.”

“Nick,” she says, and now she is begging. “When you woke up—and you looked at me—I felt like it was a miracle. First, that you were alive at all … and then that I would have another chance to make it right between us. I just … I couldn't face losing you twice.”

I look away from the seagull and focus on her face, but there's nothing there for me to see. “Make that three times,” I say. And standing, I leave Grace behind.