The Memory Thief (33 page)

“I'll stand,” I tell him.

“Don't be silly. Sit down,” he says, rolling his eyes up to meet mine. “I'm not going to bite you.”

Grudgingly, I sit across from him. “So talk.”

He cracks his knuckles. “Okay. Look. When you called me from New York—I'd been drinking, like I told you. I didn't have the—I don't know what you'd call them—the defenses, I guess, that I normally have in place when I talk to you. I was just happy to hear your voice. And then when you said what you did, about kissing that other guy—I just lost it. I know that must seem ridiculous, after all those years you were with A. J. But him—that was different. You loved him, you had a child together. I could handle that a lot better, I could force it to make sense in my mind. But for you to hook up with some random dude, after all those years I spent wishing that we—well, never mind. Suffice it to say, it just killed me. Made me feel like the times we were together, they meant nothing to you. Like I could've been anyone. It tore me up.” He meets my eyes across the table, and I can see his true self in them, the J. C. I know.

Having my suspicions confirmed doesn't make me feel any better. “That wasn't it,” I say. “Being with you—it was special, J. C. It scared me how natural it felt, how easy it was, especially coming right after the accident. It petrified me, if you want to know the truth.”

“So you ran. You ran like A. J. did, when he fell in love with you.”

“No!” I say, indignant.

He just waits, his hands folded on the table, his eyes on mine. Finally I say, “Well, maybe. But not on purpose. I just couldn't think in a straight line. I don't understand how the two can coexist, the way I hurt over losing Aidan, and the way … the way I feel about you.”

“How do you feel?”

“Right now? I feel confused.”

“That's a shit answer,” he says, and there is heat in his voice. “I can't do this by myself, Madeleine. Don't ask me to. You think this isn't a risk for me? You think this is easy?” His voice shakes. “I told myself that when you came home, I was going to shut the door on this whole thing, for good. But then you show up with these damn drawings, looking beautiful like you do, and it just wrecks me. I don't know whether to hold you or hate you. You tell me. What am I supposed to think?”

“I'm sorry I've been so selfish,” I say, which is the best answer to his question that I can give. “I'm sorry I took you for granted.”

He inclines his head in acknowledgment. Then he says, “You remember before, when you asked me what I wanted?”

“Of course I do.”

“I want a family,” he says. “I want a life. I'm thirty-three years old and when I look into the future, all I see is your face. I told you I didn't expect you to ride off into the sunset with me, and I don't. But what I expect and what I want, they're not the same thing. I want you, and I'm tired of making excuses about it. I want a life with you. And if there's no possibility that I can have that, which I completely understand, then I need to cut my losses and move on.”

I try to swallow and give it up as a bad job. “What are you asking me, J. C.?”

“I asked you to give me a chance for this to be something real,” he says. “Can you? Be honest with me, please. Whatever the answer is, I need to hear it. Even if the answer is no.”

His face is still, expectant, as he waits for my reply. Only his hands, pulling at a loose string on one of the placemats, give away how he feels.

I take a deep breath, then another. I picture Aidan's face. Then I see the drawings, both of them. I remember the words. And I do what Aidan asked all those years ago, I have faith. At the edge of the cliff again, I do what is so unlike me. For the second time in my life, I look into the unknown, and I jump.

“You'll have your chance,” I tell J. C.

“For real?” he says. “No hiding, no keeping secrets? Like a real couple, out in the world?”

I shudder at the thought of what our friends will make of this development. It won't be pretty, and I can just imagine the vicious gossip that will spread. But I know that if I act ashamed of whatever's between us, I will ruin it. J. C.'s pride will never be able to sustain a relationship like that, and as for me, I can't stand the thought of living a lie. Plus, I think, looking at the drawings that J. C. has placed on the table, this is what Aidan wanted. To hell with what other people think.

“For real,” I say with conviction, and he smiles.

“I thought you were never coming back,” he says, taking my hand. “I was going crazy, baby. Really.”

“I know. I could tell.”

“I was a total ass earlier. I'm sorry. But I was sure you could see right through me, anyhow.”

“So you
were
jealous.”

“Of course I was. What did you think?”

“I didn't know what to think. You were so distant, it was like talking to a wall. I'd never seen you act that way. You did an excellent impression of a first-class jerk.”

“Sorry about that. I have lots of practice hiding how I feel when I'm talking to you. Plus, I was mad. And tired of putting my heart out there for you to kick around like a football on Super Bowl Sunday. Not to mention, between the goddamn avalanche nightmares and obsessing over you, I'm running on a minimum amount of sleep. Like, hardly any.”

“You were very convincing,” I tell him. “I bought every word you said.”

A shadow crosses his face. “You did, huh? You really believed I thought what happened between us was a total mistake?”

“You can be pretty persuasive when you want to be.”

“Yeah?” He still has my hand, and now he leans across the table, pulling me toward him, slow, so I have every chance to draw back. “Let me show you how I really feel,” he says, and then he is kissing me. He lets go of my hand and winds his fingers into my hair. His other hand is on my face, cupping my jaw, stroking my cheek. There's nothing careful about it, nothing hesitant. I kiss him back the same way, and when we separate, both of us are out of breath. My heart is pounding, hard.

“When did you say Gabe was coming home?” he says, cradling my face in his hands.

“By one. Any minute now.”

“Damn. Otherwise, I'd be happy to persuade you some more, if you think it's necessary. Or even if you don't.” He frees one hand to rock the table back and forth, and I realize he's trying to judge its ability to withstand our combined weight.

“Seriously? Right here?” I can't help but smile.

“Honest to God,” he says, and from the look on his face, I can see he means it. “But if we've got to wait, we've got to wait.” He comes around the table and puts his arms around me. I feel safe, like this is where I belong. Maybe that should scare me, but it doesn't. I lean against him and breathe him in.

“Welcome home, baby,” he says, and then he kisses me again. He's trying to be good, I can tell, but it doesn't quite work out that way. After a minute he picks me up and sets me on the edge of the table, anyhow. I wrap my legs around him and he slides his hands under my shirt.

“We should probably stop,” I whisper to him.

“Uh-huh,” he says, his lips against my neck, not stopping in the slightest.

“Seriously, J. C.” I struggle to marshal my wits. “It's not a good idea to unveil our couplehood by having sex on my kitchen table in front of Jill and Aspen and Gabriel.”

“Not even a tiny bit of sex?” He presses against me in a way that nearly undoes my resolve.

“Not even that,” I say, pulling my shirt down.

“If you say so,” he says, and with reluctance, he backs off. The expression on his face is such a comical blend of disappointment, lust, and happiness that I burst into laughter. He eyes me quizzically but sets me on the floor, and just in time, too. The front door opens, and Jill calls, “Knock knock!” in her cheerful throaty voice.

“Oh shit,” J. C. says, and he bolts for the bathroom, presumably to hide the state of his shorts. This doesn't do a great deal to help stifle my laughter, and I am still giggling when Jill comes into the kitchen, followed by Aspen and Gabe.

Jill raises her eyebrows—the last few times she's seen me, I've either been in tears or close to it—but all she says is “I can't stay long. This one has soccer practice.”

“Another time,” I assure her, getting my giggles under control. “Thanks for watching Gabe. Was he okay?”

“He was fine,” she says. “Like usual. They talked about Lego Batman the whole time. I lost about thirty brain cells, just listening.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Mommy,” Gabe says, tugging on my sleeve. “Can I go get my Batmobile out? And my action figures?”

“Sure,” I tell him, and he runs out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room.

Jill puts her bag on the floor, between her feet. “I thought I saw J. C.'s car outside. Is he here?”

“He's in the bathroom,” I say just as J. C. emerges, looking none the worse for wear.

“What's up, home slice?” he says to Aspen, and they bump fists. “Hey, Jill.”

“You're alive,” she says. “I've been trying to call you for, like, three days.”

“Sorry. I was off the radar for a little while there. What did you need?”

“Business stuff. I don't have time to go into it right now.” She reshoulders her bag. “I'll call you later, if you'll answer your phone.”

“I'll answer,” he says.

“You'd better,” she warns him. “Come on, Aspen. Time to kick some butt.” She hugs us goodbye, Aspen waves, and off they go. They cross paths with Gabe, who comes running into the kitchen.

“Mommy, look!” he says. Then he sees J. C., and he skids to a halt.

“Hi, little man,” J. C. says. He gets down to Gabe's level, the same way he did at the airport. “Thanks for taking care of your mama, like I asked.”

“You're here,” Gabe says, and, his small face alight, he leaps into J. C.'s arms.

After my little tête-à-tête with Grace, the pieces fall into place like they're part of a master plan. My mom always told me that when you're doing what you're supposed to do, the universe will help you out. It may throw you a few curveballs, but they're all in the name of a good cause. Once you leave your path behind, that's when you start swimming upstream. It's good advice. My parents may have wanted security for me, but more than that, they wanted me to be happy. They would be proud of me right now. I'm sure of it.

I drive home from Grace's house. Back home, I put the key in the lock, filled with the sense that a loop has closed. It's the same feeling I had when I kissed Madeleine, and when I think about it for a minute, I realize that if I hadn't gotten hit by that car, this is what I would have done on June 7—come home after my little joyride, unlocked the door, taken Nevada for a walk. My life is back on course, just with a few extras, and I intend to take full advantage of them.

That's how I come to find myself in the window seat of a plane, headed across the Atlantic Ocean, on the first leg of a twenty-three-hour transcontinental flight. It's 6:30
A.M.,
Mountain Standard Time. Somewhere in Colorado, the sun is rising. Maybe Gabe and Maddie have gone home. Maybe he is waking up, maybe she is nursing her first cup of coffee. Or not. Somewhere in Alaska, Aidan James's body lies under a massive amount of snow, waiting to be discovered. Or not. Somewhere in Wilmington, Grace is driving to work, cursing my name. Or not.

I've quit my job, rented my house, sold my furniture, broken up with my girlfriend for the third time, and gotten Taylor to look after my dog, which wasn't a tough sell. And aside from having to leave Nevada behind, I've never been happier in my life.

I'm on my way to India, to teach English at a school in Dharamsala. I didn't set out to choose a location surrounded by mountains—much less the awe-inspiring peaks of the Himalayas—but this is how it's worked out, and somehow I'm not surprised. Though Aidan's spirit is gone, I can still feel him with me somehow, guiding my way. That's one reason I chose to go to India; maybe through yoga, meditation, and spiritual studies, I can make sense of what happened to me. Or not.

In the meantime, I am struggling manfully to quit smoking, and I still prefer whisky to wine. Aidan may have moved on, but traces of him are still here, within me. Somehow I find this comforting. After all, without him, I doubt I would have the nerve to do what I'm doing right now. He gave me back to myself, even if that wasn't his primary purpose, and I will always be grateful for that.

As my plane soars higher, the sun breaks out from behind the clouds, outlining them in orange, then red. I think back to the avalanche dream, how we refused to look away from the light even when it made our eyes tear, how we confronted what was coming head-on. That confidence is with me now, as I speed across the Atlantic toward an uncertain future—but this time, instead of a warning of dire things to come, the sun's rays are a beacon, lighting my way. Once again purpose fills my soul and courses through my limbs, but this time it is accompanied by an unmistakable presentiment of peace. Even though I've never done anything like this before, even though I have no idea what will happen, I recognize the path I've chosen. It is foreign, but familiar; it is scary but so right, there's no room for doubt.

It is the way home.

Below me the mountain falls away, an infinite stretch of snow and rock and ice. Above me it rises, magnificent and cruel. I survey its pitches and angles, the quality of the lines. This is not a route I recognize, and I'm free-soloing it; there's no ropes, no partner to back me up. By rights, I should be worried, but I'm not. I feel strong, and confident. There is nothing to fear.

Either the sun hasn't risen yet, or it's just set. Alpenglow fills the sky as far as I can see. The view is awesome, but there's no time to linger over it, not now. It's not that I'm in a hurry, precisely—more like I've got somewhere to go, and there's no point in waiting.

As I scale the next pitch, the sun breaches the horizon, shooting prisms of color across the ice. Something about this sight arrests my upward motion, and I almost remember. There is something I ought to know about this climb, an element that makes it especially significant. It bothers me that I can't figure it out. The memory dances just out of reach, tantalizing me.

Puzzled, I look down the mountain again, then up, searching for the source of my unease. I see black rock, glittering ice, snow-covered peaks bathed in light. There is no noise except for my breathing, quick and even, and the sound of distant seracs breaking free, crashing into the valley below. I am at home in this world, as comfortable as I ever am, unless I'm lying in Maddie's arms.

Suspended halfway up this spectacular column of ice, I open my eyes and gaze upward, into the rising sun. Though I could have sworn I was alone, I hear a voice calling me from the top of the pitch, just out of sight. At this distance, I can't tell whether it's male or female. What I do know is that it's warm, and full of the kind of enthusiasm I've always found hard to resist.

“Climb on,” the voice tells me—a dare, a directive, an unmistakable invitation.

And so I do.