The Memory Thief (24 page)

It's 10
P.M.
, a few nights after my little indiscretion—make those indiscretions, plural—with Grace, and Taylor is at my house. We're drinking whisky. Ostensibly, we are also playing poker. But what I am really doing is watching him get wasted, and trying to postpone the moment that he leaves and I fall asleep.

For the past month, I've kept all of this insanity to myself—the not-dreams, my obsession with a dead man's wife—on the grounds that a) maybe if I don't mention it, it will go away, and b) if I tell anyone, the little men with the white jackets will come and cart me off. But tonight I feel like I need another person's perspective, someone who will hear me out. Someone who knows me, or at least the me I used to be.

“Taylor,” I say.

He looks up from his hand of cards. “Huh?”

“I have to tell you something,” I say. “It's going to sound completely wacko, and I know that. I want to get that out there, right up front. But I just need you to listen.”

“What's going on, Nick?” He puts the cards facedown on the table.

“Maybe we should go outside.” Sitting still seems like a bad idea; the walls are closing in on me, and the ceiling is getting lower. Air would be a good thing. That, and space.

“You okay, bud? You look like you've seen a ghost,” he says, which is such a peculiar choice of words given the circumstances, I almost drop my tumbler of whisky.

“No. Okay is one thing that I am most definitely not.” I stand up, grabbing my cigarettes and my lighter off the coffee table, and head for the back door, Nevada in my wake.

Taylor's right behind me. “You've got me scared now,” he says.

“Not half as scared as I am,” I tell him. And then I unload the whole story, from before I woke up in the hospital to tonight. The dreams, the laughing woman, the man and the boy, the voice in my head. The cigarettes, the whisky, the smoke rings, the way Grace said I was different when we had sex. Everything I found on the computer. The sense that Grace is the wrong person for me, that where I belong is with Maddie. The compulsion to find her, to make things right. By the time I finish, I have chain-smoked five cigarettes and drained my glass. I don't feel well at all, and from the way Taylor is staring at me, I probably don't look all that well, either.

“Damn,” he says when I am done, which about sums it up. “I knew about some of it, but the rest … that is some seriously freaky
X-Files
shit.”

“You're telling me.”

“Don't tell Grace. She'd flip.”

“I wasn't going to. But thanks.” I flip my lighter in the air and catch it. “I haven't told anyone, except you. For obvious reasons.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Don't.”

“Do you think I'm crazy?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. “I don't know what to think. I'm a real estate lawyer, not a psychiatrist. But you don't seem like a crazy person to me. More like a person caught up in crazy stuff.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Now that, I have no idea. You've hung around here for a month, and you haven't gotten any of your memories back yet, right?”

“Not a one.”

“But this guy Aidan, you said that these dreams or whatever they are, just keep getting stronger.”

“Stronger, and more detailed.”

“You don't think that there's a possibility you read about him somewhere, before your motorcycle accident, and your brain's just spinning stories around it? That that's where all of this is coming from?”

“Given that all my memories are wiped, I wouldn't know. But for one thing, why would I read all of these details about some random mountain climbing guy? It's not like I was into climbing before all of this happened, was I?”

Taylor shakes his head again. “Nope. Surfing and biking, yes. Climbing, no. What are you going to climb around here? A dune?”

“So there you have it. And for another thing, it doesn't feel like that, for what it's worth. It feels … like memories, not like some shit I made up.”

“You can't know that for sure, Sullivan,” he says, and his voice is gentle. I don't care for the way it sounds, not at all. It sounds like he pities me.

“No,” I admit, petting Nevada, who's leaning against my legs. “I can't. But that's how it feels.”

“Did you tell any of this stuff to that shrink they made you see?”

“Some. Not all of it. I didn't want him to think I was crazy.” Which is pretty ironic, considering his choice of profession. “Plus, I hadn't slept with Grace back then.”

“You still seeing him?”

“Nope. I went three or four times, but it just seemed … I don't know, pointless. How many times can you talk about how your brain's a blank? He even tried to hypnotize me, but no dice.”

Taylor's eyes are wide. “He tried to hypnotize you?”

“Yep. I wasn't a very cooperative subject.” I remember my urge to impersonate the Notorious B.I.G., and smile. “The whole thing seemed like a waste of time, so I quit going, which he wasn't happy about either. AMA, he called it. Against Medical Advice. So here I am.”

He ogles me for a moment, at a loss for words. Then he says, “Where are Mulder and Scully when you need them?” He's trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn't work. And I realize that telling him was pointless after all, that the best I can hope for is that he's too drunk to remember any of this tomorrow.

“Come on,” I say. “Forget about it. I'm sure you're right. Let's go back inside and finish the game.”

“You sure?” He looks at me with concern, and I realize he's not so far from calling the little men with the white jackets after all. In fact, that's probably a best-case scenario. I'm lucky he hasn't gone shrieking into the street, waving his hands above his head: This way to the Delusional Dude.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “No worries.” I give him an ain't-this-shit-something kind of grin. “Let's finish up the game. You want another shot?”

“Okay,” he says. He looks dubious, but he and Nevada follow me back inside, where I proceed to get him blitzed, in the hopes that I can engage in some creative memory-wiping of my own. I feel like a frat boy, trying to take advantage of a sorority sister who won't put out. I also feel like an asshole. But then again, what are my other options?

Eventually he passes out on the couch. I toss a blanket over him and go back outside, leaning on the railing. I close my eyes and see Aidan's face, then Madeleine's, then Gabe's, then J. C.'s. Sadness sweeps over me, and regret, and a sense of loss so profound it leaves me shaking. Mine? His? Both? Who knows? One thing's for sure, I have to do something. I can't just sit here and let life happen to me, spend the rest of my days having nightmares, waking up on my hands and knees, afraid to tell anyone what I'm really thinking. I can't run scared forever.

The thing is, I don't even know what to hope for. I know I should want my memory back. And I do, I do. But right now, this is all I have, all I know. In its absence, what would there be?

On the one hand, it would be fantastic to be rid of my little deceased companion. On the other, my feelings for Maddie are the best, the strongest element of my life right now. They're what drives me from one day to the next, what pushes me forward.

It can't be too hard to find her, and maybe once I did, whatever happened would restore some kind of balance to my life. Then again, what makes me think she would even speak to me? She'd probably think I was some kind of bizarre stalker. Most likely, she'd call the police.

Or maybe I'd get lucky, and she'd hear me out. Maybe, in some freakish turn of events, she'd believe me. Then what? What am I supposed to do? Tell her I love her? Yeah, that would go over really well.

“What do you want from me, Aidan?” I ask out loud. But nobody answers, in my head or otherwise. In fact, I haven't heard anything from him since the night Grace was here, at least not while I'm awake. The nights, of course, are a different story.

I sit on the deck, smoking one cigarette after the next, lighting them off each other until the pack is almost gone. They taste disgusting, and I curse Aidan for my newfound nicotine habit. Nevada sits at my feet and I look into his wise doggy eyes. I kiss his muzzle. Then I close my eyes again.

I am tired now, my defenses aren't at their strongest, and the mountain swims into view almost immediately. This time I'm in a small plane, which is swooping low over the glacier. “Check it out,” someone says next to me. I turn and see J. C. peering out the window, his dark eyes narrowed. “I don't care who you are. That's one tough mother.”

“You got that right,” I say as I watch the snow blowing off the summit. “And three weeks from now we're going to be able to say we kicked her ass.”

He laughs, and the image fades as I open my eyes again. I smoke the last of my cigarettes, and I peer into the night, and I know what I have to do.

I have to leave.

J. C. and I don't say a word to each other all the way back to my house. After five minutes in which he excitedly informed us about the ins and outs of Lego Batman, Gabe has fallen asleep and so the drive is completely silent. J. C. clenches the wheel so hard the tendons in his arms stand out, and once or twice he opens his mouth like he wants to say something. Then he closes it again, once with a snap so loud I'm afraid he's bitten his tongue. It would be funny if the atmosphere in the car weren't so tense. I look over at his face several times, hoping to get a clue about what he's thinking, but his expression is blank, his eyes fixed on the road. My stomach churns. If he's going to lose his temper, I wish he would just go ahead and get it over with. Then again, he hates confrontation as much as I do. A fine pair we make.

After an eternity, we pull into my driveway. J. C. cuts the engine, goes around to Gabe's door, and lifts him out of the booster seat as if it's the most natural thing in the world. He waits for me to unlock the front door and then he carries him into the house, like Aidan has done a hundred times.

In Gabe's room, I pull the covers down and J. C. settles him on a pillow. He turns Gabe's night-light on as I pull off his shoes and socks. It's as smoothly choreographed as if we'd planned it. Together we stand by the side of the bed and look down at Gabriel, and then J. C. leans over and kisses him on the forehead with a tenderness that takes me off guard. “Night, buddy,” he whispers, and we tiptoe out of the room, shutting the door behind us.

We have walked all the way down the hall and are back in the living room before J. C. breaks the silence. “So,” he says. “If you want me to go home, I'll understand.”

His voice mirrors his face—empty, careful. There's no anger in it, but there isn't any love in it, either. If I didn't know him so well, I'd say he was calm. It's a good act. Most people would buy it.

I sink down on the couch, fingering the quilt that's draped over one arm. “I don't want you to go home,” I say. This is true. Selfish, but true all the same. I remember my vow outside the Walrus—to fix this, to set J. C. free—and I intend to honor it. Still, that doesn't mean I have to evict him. We are adults. We can sit in my living room and talk about this like grown-ups. “I think we got ourselves on Beth's bad side, though,” I tell him. “You, especially.”

“Like I give a shit. That's just because she wants to get in my pants, you'll excuse the expression, and I keep not letting it happen.” He sits down next to me, making sure to keep his hands to himself. “I don't care what she thinks, babe. Or any of the rest of them, either. It's none of Beth's goddamn business, or anybody's except ours.”

He sounds so sincere, it breaks through all my defenses and I ask him the question that's been bothering me since last night, the one that I honestly don't know the answer to. “Are we evil people, J. C.?”

“No, baby. Of course not. How can you even say that?”

“Look at what we're doing!” I say, and a tear makes its way down my cheek, quickly followed by another.

He looks stricken. “Don't cry, sweetheart. Don't cry. It will all work out, I promise.”

“How? How will it work out? Because from where I'm sitting, I've got to tell you, things look pretty messed up.” I rub my eyes, wipe the tears from my cheeks.

“I don't know how it will work out. However it's supposed to, I guess.”

“Is that meant to reassure me?”

“I'm not an oracle, Maddie. But I do love you, and I know you care about me. As far as I'm concerned, that's a pretty decent foundation for whatever happens next.”

“I do care about you,” I say. “A lot. But this … J. C., I just can't …” My voice trails off and dies.

He swallows, so hard I can hear it. “Maddie, do you want me to back off? You want to quit this, go back to the way things were?”

“We can't go back to the way things were,” I say, raising my head to look at him.

“Okay, but the way things were between you and me, before this.” He gestures between us.

He is giving me an out, and I should take it. But instead I hear myself say, “I don't know what I want, exactly. I miss Aidan, all the time. I'm not sure how I feel about what happened last night. And I'm worried about Gabe.”

“Of course you miss him. I miss him, too. But you know what, as crazy as it sounds, I don't think he'd be angry about this. I don't think he'd mind.”

“I know he wouldn't,” I say before I can help myself.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I know he wouldn't. He told me so.”

“What are you talking about?” J. C. says. He leans closer, peering into my face.

“I wasn't going to say anything about this. It just seemed too weird.”

“What, for God's sake?”

I gather the material of the quilt between my fingers, crumple it, and release it again. “It's just odd, J. C. It's awkward, is what it is.”

“That'll be a change,” he says, and he smiles, though it seems forced. “Just tell me, Maddie.” He pats my hand where it lies on the quilt, a brotherly gesture. Then he takes my hand and holds it.

I look at our intertwined fingers. His are broad, with dark hair dusting the knuckles, and capable-looking. I think about all of the times I saw him swing a hammer, the times I watched him cut a piece of wood to size, his eyes narrowed in concentration and the tip of his tongue between his teeth, one big hand holding the wood steady while the other guided the jigsaw along the lines he'd traced. I think about him standing waist-deep in the creek, tossing Gabe into the air and catching him before he hit the water, about him standing in my kitchen the day he came home from Alaska, slicing avocados for our burritos. About the time he climbed the third Flatiron with Aidan and Gabe that first time; how he cheered when Gabe reached the top, and hoisted Gabe onto his shoulders and did a silly victory dance. About him standing under a streetlight, the night that Aidan kissed Kate, telling me that he didn't like drama, but he liked me just fine. Oh, I think dismally, he is going to be so pissed off.

J. C. squeezes my hand. “Hey,” he says. “Earth to Madeleine.”

“Um.” I turn to look at him, and he gives me an encouraging smile. One of his bottom teeth is chipped; I never noticed that before. “I feel kind of strange talking about this,” I say, running my fingers over the stitching of the quilt. “But you know the day you and Aidan had that fight?”

“Of course. Not one of my finer moments.”

“Right. Well, he asked me if you … if there was any weight to what you said, about how I wouldn't marry him because I had feelings for you.” I wad the corner of the quilt into a ball, then smooth it out with the tips of my fingers. I can't look at him.

J. C. is quiet. His silence is a solid thing, an object that settles between us on the couch, taking up space. After a bad little moment, in which I shudder to imagine what he is thinking, he says, “And you said …?”

Gathering my courage, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. His face is inscrutable. I bite my lip. “I told him most of the truth.”

“Which was what?”

“I told him that I liked you a lot, that I thought you were kind and interesting and great to talk to, that you'd been there for me when he messed around with that girl Kate. Some other stuff, too, I can't remember all of it. But basically that was what I said.” Grief twists in my stomach when I think about that night, and I reclaim my hand.

“You said you told him most of the truth,” J. C. says, spreading his palms on his thighs. “What was the rest of it?”

Heat creeps over my face. I duck my head, trying to hide behind my hair.

“You're blushing,” J. C. says with some surprise.

“I am not.”

“You are so. How come?”

“It's embarrassing,” I mumble. Truly, I wish I'd never brought up this entire subject; but it's too late to turn back now.

“So? This is me, right? How many times have I put myself out there for you to stomp all over? Come on. Play fair.” He raises my face and looks into my eyes with a wicked little grin I've seen a thousand times. “Give,” he says.

Maybe it's this flash of the familiar, the way the old J. C. blends with this brand-new one, that gives me the fortitude to blunder on. Either that, or it's the realization that he'll pester me until I tell him what he wants to know. Whatever the reason, I surrender. “Fine,” I say. “Sometimes I used to think about how it would be if we were, you know, together.”

His smile widens. “Together, like, dating? Or together, like, in the biblical sense?”

“The latter,” I mutter, tossing dignity to the wind.

“Really,” he says, making it into a three-syllable word. His eyes narrow. “What did you think about, specifically?”

“Oh no,” I say when I see the way he is looking at me.

“‘Oh no,' what? Come on. Tell me.”

“Use your imagination.”

“Babe, I've done enough of that where you're concerned to last me a lifetime. Now spill.” He folds his arms over his chest and stares me down.

I give a big, put-upon sigh. “I used to think a lot about your hands,” I say, so quietly it's a wonder he can hear me at all.

“My
hands
?” He looks down at them as if he's never seen them before. “What about them?”

“I like them, that's all. They're very … oh, Jesus, J. C., do we have to talk about this?”

“Yeah, I think we sure do. I've never seen you so uncomfortable. I'm having a great time.” He grins at me to demonstrate just how much he's enjoying himself.

“Fine. I think you have sexy hands, and I used to think about what it would feel like if you … if you touched me with them.” I am now as red as the tomatoes Jos used to grow in her backyard every summer. My cheeks burn.

“And were you disappointed?” he says.

I shake my head, flushing redder still.

“My hands, huh? Anything else?”

“I did think about kissing you, in a fair amount of detail. Satisfied?”

“Not even close,” he says, looking me up and down in a speculative kind of way. “But that's neither here nor there at the moment. We were talking about your conversation with A. J.”

“Right.” I might as well get it over with. “He said if anything happened to him … that he would want me to be with someone who cared about me, like you. That you would be good to me. He would have said more, but I didn't give him the chance.”

J. C.'s eyes widen, and his jaw drops. “That motherfucker,” he says. “I should have known.” And then he laughs, but it's not a happy sound. “Is that why you had sex with me, Maddie? Because A. J. told you to?”

“No,” I say, studying my own hands. “But it's why I don't feel like a total harlot.”

“What a goddamn mess,” he says. “This would have been nice to know, before.”

“You're mad at me, aren't you,” I say to my hands. “For not telling you.”

“No, baby. I'm not mad. I'm confused. I've been feeling pretty guilty, myself, for making a pass at you given the circumstances. I mean, the last time the topic came up, A. J. and I wound up beating the crap out of each other. But now it turns out he was okay with it all along. So now I'm not real sure how to feel. Used, maybe. Or maybe relieved. Maybe both.”

“I'm not using you,” I say.

“I wasn't talking about you.” He lifts my chin, so I have no choice but to look at him. “I don't expect you to ride off into the sunset with me, or anything. You know that, right?”

“What do you expect, then?” I ask him. “What do you want?”

“Which? Because they're probably mutually exclusive.”

“Both,” I say. “Either.”

“I've given up having expectations right now. It seems pretty pointless, given that I could never have predicted everything that's transpired in the past few weeks, much less last night. But what I want … God, I don't know that I'm even ready to talk about that. I want to be happy, Maddie. I would like to try being happy with you, if that's a possibility.”

My heart picks up speed, thudding against my rib cage. This is where I should stop him, tell him that what he wants is not an option. But I don't, and he goes on, each word measured. “I know you're dealing with a lot. And so am I. I wouldn't want us to do things for the wrong reasons. But I feel like … well, I don't know that I can be with you halfway. And if you don't feel the same, then maybe we shouldn't keep this up. Then again, it's not like this is a good time to make any major decisions. Like you said, it's hard to see clearly. So, maybe we should just take this one day at a time and see how it goes.”

“I don't know if I can do that,” I say. “It's too soon. And I'm such a mess. It's not fair to you.”

“Why don't you let me decide that?” He leans forward so he can see my face. “We're still here, Maddie. We have to go on somehow. If we can make each other happy, is that so wrong?”

“I don't think so. But I can't just turn my heart off and on like a faucet.”

“I don't expect you to,” he says, taking both my hands in his. “Just give me a chance, that's all I'm asking. Give me a chance to let this be something real, instead of some stupid interlude we're both going to regret.”

He waits, and when I don't say anything, he slides closer to me on the couch. He runs his fingers over my hair, turning my face toward his. The look in his eyes is so serious, it scares me a little bit. But all he says is “Dance with me,” and it isn't a question.

“To what music?”

“Surely you've got something decent. Or if all else fails, you can choose a song and I'll sing it. It's handy, having a human jukebox.”