The Memory Thief (26 page)

Nicholas is awake. I am cast out, at least for the moment. Sometimes this happens, sometimes it doesn't. I take advantage of the opportunity, coalescing in Gabe's room. I miss him so much. I'd give what passes for my existence right now to be able to really hold him, to put my arms around Maddie and have her know I'm here.

If my plan works out, if Nick and I can come to an understanding, I'll get my wish. He's a stubborn son of a bitch. He is fighting me. But I am stronger. I'm tethered here by sheer force of will, by a promise I need to keep. He can fight me all he wants, but he won't win. I'm sorry for co-opting his life like this, but not sorry enough to try to undo whatever metaphysical shit binds me to him. I don't know how it works, what I'm doing, but if it means getting to see Maddie again, getting to see my son, I'll keep it up.

Gabe is lying in bed, tucked under his soft blue blanket, a copy of
The Velveteen Rabbit
next to him on the pillow. I think he's asleep, but his eyes open and when he sees me, a smile spreads across his face. “Daddy!” he says. He jumps up on his knees and his old white teddy bear goes flying. Without thinking about it, I put up my hand. I expect the stuffed animal to go right through me, but wonder of wonders, I catch it. For a second I just look at it in my hand, matter and antimatter, or whatever the hell I am right now. Then I hand Teddy back to Gabe.

“Hi, monkey boy,” I say. “How's it going?” I don't expect him to hear me—last time, he couldn't—but he does. His eyebrows pull down, like mine do when something confuses me.

“But you're dead, Daddy,” he says. “Aren't you?”

How do you answer a question like that? “Looks that way, champ,” I say. I run my hand over my jaw and feel stubble.

“But, Daddy, I don't get it. How can you be here and dead at the same time?”

“That's a good question,” I tell him. I wish I had the answer. “If I figure that one out, I'll let you know.”

“I miss you a lot,” he says. His eyes swim with tears, and I watch him fight them back. He hates to cry.

“I miss you too, Gabe. You and your mommy both.” Tears prick my own eyes when I think of Maddie. Can ghosts cry? I don't want to find out.

Gabe has moved on to another topic, a determined set to his face. “Mommy doesn't believe that you came to see me before. She thinks it was just a dream. I told her and told her and she got all mad.”

“I can see why.” I smile at him, just a little bit. “I don't understand it myself.”

“Are you real, though?”

“What is real?” I say back to him, courtesy of
The Velveteen Rabbit.

He shrugs. I don't know how much time I have, so I figure I'd better cut to the chase. “Gabe, this is important,” I tell him. “A man's going to come to see you and your mommy. His name is Nicholas. He has black hair, and blue eyes, like yours and mine. The stuff he says, it may sound crazy, but you need to get your mommy to listen to him, okay?”

Gabe knits his eyebrows again. “When is he coming? Because Mommy says we're going to New York.”

“To see Grandma and Grandpa Kimble?”

“No. They're going on a trip. We're just … going, I guess. Mommy says she needs to think about stuff.”

I run one hand through my hair. This could be complicated. I'll have to figure out some way to reroute Nicholas, to let him know where Maddie's going and make him think it's his own idea. I'm not the best at manipulation; I'm more of a head-on kind of guy. But I'm lucky to be here at all, in whatever capacity. I'll take what I can get. “How is your mommy?” I ask. The answer's bound to hurt, but I need to hear it anyway.

“She's sad,” Gabe says. “She cries a lot. But when Uncle J. C. is here, she's happier. He makes her smile.”

Shit, fuck, and damn. I would say my body's not even cold yet, but I know better; wherever I am, physically speaking, I am a Popsicle. I know I gave her permission, I all but pushed her into it, but … damn. I never expected to be around to deal with the consequences.

Gabe's looking at me like he thinks I'm going to start yelling. “I know you told me to take care of her, Daddy, and I'm trying, honest. But it's hard. And he … well, he's a grown-up. I guess he's just better at it than me.”

“I'll bet he is,” I say. “Tell me something, Gabriel. Does Uncle J. C. stay overnight? Like, for sleepovers?”

“Sure, sometimes,” Gabe says, confirming my suspicions. “He's here right now.”

This is just wrong. Please tell me I am not trapped in this room with my son, while my wife is fucking my best friend down the hall. I close my eyes, try to hold my breathing steady. I wanted this to happen, I tell myself. I told her to. And him, what did I expect he would do?

I remember that moment in the tent, right after … well, after. What did he say?
I'll take care of your family. I won't let you down.
This wasn't exactly what I had in mind, motherfucker.

I can't blame him, though, much as I want to. He has loved her for years, not just lusted after her but really, truly loved her. I saw it in the way he looked at her, the way he never touched her unless she initiated it first. He locked himself down like Attica so he wouldn't break the trust between us again. I know J. C., and if I think I'm conflicted right now, he's got to be feeling ten thousand times worse. He's got that whole savior complex going on. I'm sure he's found a way to blame himself for what's happened, and that every time he puts his hands on her, it's threaded through with guilt.

Still, it hurts to think of him kissing her, touching her. I picture his olive skin against her paleness, imagine his body inside the woman I still think of as mine, and feel a spark of rage so intense it makes me dizzy, even in this altered state.

“Damn,” I say finally, letting my breath go in a low, whistling sigh.

“Daddy?” Gabe asks. “Why can't you go see Mommy yourself? How come you can only see me?”

It's more like the other way around—he's the only one who can see
me—
but that seems too complicated to explain to a four-year-old. “I wish I knew, buddy man. It would sure make things simpler, if I could talk to Mommy right now.” I roll my eyes. What would I find if I materialized in the room with Maddie? Her and J. C., talking? Making love? Or dancing maybe; he loves to dance and he's good at it. Roma and I used to tease him, call him the sex machine. I don't know that I could handle seeing him dance that way with my wife. Nope, better to stay here, with Gabe and Optimus Prime.

“Do you want me to go get her, Daddy? I will. You can stay right here and I'll bring her back to see you. Then she'll believe me, for sure.” Gabe is excited now. He's so much like me—once a solution comes to mind, then it's full speed ahead, and damn the torpedoes.

“I don't think it works that way, buddy,” I say, and watch his face fall. “You'll just have to keep trying. Maybe I can come up with an idea, to convince her. And in the meantime, you tell your Uncle J. C. to behave himself.”

Gabe thinks this over. “Okay,” he says. “Will you still come see me when we go to New York?”

“If I can, I will. I promise, and you know I always keep my promises, right?” It's true, I've always kept my promises to Gabe. When he wanted the new Boba Fett figure for Hanukkah—we always celebrated that and Christmas, too, just to cover all the bases—and every frigging place was out of stock except for one little store over the Utah line, I put the chains on the Jeep and drove way the hell out to bumfuck to get it for him. When I got home, cursing bad drivers, snow, and ice six ways from Sunday, Madeleine asked why I hadn't just ordered the damn thing online. I told her the truth: It wouldn't have gotten here fast enough.

“I know,” Gabe says to me now. “Like with Boba Fett.”

“Yeah, like that. So if I don't come, you'll know it's because I couldn't, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“Do you remember the name of the guy I told you about?”

“Nicholas,” he says, slow, to make sure he has it right. “And he has blue eyes like us.”

“Nicholas Sullivan,” I remind him. “From North Carolina. Can you remember that?”

“North Carolina,” he repeats. “Where is North Carolina, Daddy?”

“A long ways from here. Get Mommy to show you on a map. It's where I met her.”

“Okay. But why is he coming? Does Mommy know him?” Gabe leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees.

“No, buddy. And chances are, she won't want to talk to him, either.”

“Why not?”

“Because people run away from what they don't understand. They see what they want to see. And I doubt your mom will want to see Nicholas Sullivan. She may even say bad things about him, like he's crazy or not nice. But you'll know better, right? You'll know I sent him.”

“Yes, Daddy,” he says. “Nicholas Sullivan. From North Carolina.”

“Good boy,” I say. I lean close then, to kiss him. He throws his arms around his neck, but just like last time, his hands lock around air where my neck should be. I see him sitting there, his arms empty, his eyes filled with tears. More than anything, I want to hug him, tell him it will be okay. But that would be a lie, and besides which, I couldn't tell him anything, even if I wanted to. His room fades away. There is a tunnel, and I am inside it. Someone is calling me. Nicholas slips down into sleep, pulling me with him, and I can't break free. I slide down the length of the tunnel, into Nick's body, and wake up in his dreams.

I have learned quite a bit about myself since what I've come to think of as the Great Awakening. For instance, I used to like wine, and now I prefer whisky. I never touched a cigarette, but now I could take out stock in American Spirit. I am a decent dancer, I have eclectic taste in music, and I can't cook worth a damn. Also, apparently I am a coward.

This is not a nice thing to discover about oneself, but it's the truth. Because otherwise, I would have called Grace to let her know I was leaving soon. After all, I told Taylor, the victim of my successful memory wipe, when I asked him if he'd watch Nevada for me while I was gone. He wanted to know where I was going, of course, which was tricky. Since I discovered Aidan's Facebook memorial, I've been checking it every day; it helps me focus, makes me feel less insane. Maddie hasn't posted anything before, but yesterday she wrote a note thanking everyone for their support, and saying that she and Gabe are going to New York to visit her parents for a while. I guess they live in Brooklyn, and that is where she's staying. Which is nice to know, because it's not like Aidan has been dropping any little hints. Ever since that night with Grace, he's been completely silent when I'm awake, leading me to wonder if the voice I heard was really my own. This decreases my fear that he's going to take me over,
Exorcist
-style, but ups the ante in terms of the insanity factor. Oh well, you can't have everything, right?

Speaking of having everything, I'd give a lot to have a nice little face-to-face palaver with Aidan James. I mean, for real. But since this doesn't seem likely to happen anytime soon—given the inconvenient truth that he's dead, and all—I've been forging ahead on my own. Madeleine kept her maiden name, Kimble, and her parents are listed. Presto, I have their address. Nicholas Sullivan, private eye extraordinaire, that's me. Next I make a plane reservation, find a Brooklynite on Craigslist who's off to the Hamptons for the summer and is renting out their place week by week, arrange for Taylor to watch Nevada, and I'm all set … except for a Grace Robinson–shaped wrinkle in time.

Who knows what Grace would've said if I told her I was leaving? Maybe I could've passed it off as a vacation, like I did with Taylor. Or maybe Grace and I would have had a nice dinner, complete with anxiety and miscommunications, which I would have suffered gladly because I am, after all, leaving the state for an indeterminate amount of time after having sex with her not once, not twice, but three times in a twenty-four-hour period. Yes, that would have been appropriate, if awkward as hell. It would be the least she deserves.

But I don't tell her that I'm leaving, or invite her to dinner. What I do instead is, I write her a note, and I stick it in her mailbox when I know she'll be at work. And then I console myself with the fact that I didn't send her an email. Yep,
coward
is the word for me, and I'm willing to bet Grace will have several more colorful ones in mind when she gets home and reads my note. And she'd be right, because aside from the guilt that's become so habitual I barely notice it anymore, my predominant emotions are excitement and relief.
Now,
I think.
Now everything begins.

I come to myself next in our bedroom, watching Maddie sleep. Given what Gabe told me, I half-expect to see J. C. lying next to her—or, hell, on top of her for that matter. I brace myself for it. But no, she is alone.

Like before, she fights the pillows, pushing at them.
Aidan,
she says, and
why,
and
I'm sorry.
Her hands clench the blanket and she says my name, she says to hold on, she says she's coming.
Wait for me,
she says, clear as if she knows I'm here beside her. Then her breath comes faster, and she says
No.
Over and over she says it, until the syllables blur together into a wordless shriek. Her eyes snap open then and she sits up, panting. Into the silence of the room she says,
You were gone. I didn't mean to.

It doesn't take too much imagination to figure out what she means. I wait for that spark of rage to burn me up again, but it doesn't come. Instead I think, He will take care of her. He promised. She doesn't have to be alone.

For a while she stares at the ceiling, expressionless. Then her gaze shifts left, and in the dim light of the lamp I see what she's looking at: the photo of me and Gabe on the dresser. Sadness comes over her face, so immediate and deep, it transforms her features like a mask. She wipes at her eyes.
Fuck,
she mumbles, and I grin. It sounds like something I'd say when under duress. Maddie is usually more eloquent than that.

She glances at the neon numbers of the clock—3
A.M.
—then gets out of bed and walks into the kitchen. She pulls open the cabinet where we keep the cups and glasses, and at first I think she's going to get some water, but that's not what she's after. Instead she takes out the plate and the mug Gabe and I made her at that pottery place last year. She cradles the plate, looking at the heart-shaped faces. Tears slip down her cheeks.

I look at her standing there, wearing one of my Ouray T-shirts, her hair loose down her back. The shirt is way too big for her; it falls off her shoulder on one side, exposing the pale curve of her neck. I am close enough to smell the salt on her skin.

Gabe said J. C. makes her smile, and for a moment I am so jealous, I could deck the guy. It rips me up to watch her fall apart this way night after night, because of me. It breaks me into pieces inside. She's suffering, and I can't do anything about it. But maybe he can.

Goddamn it, if he can make her happy, then let him. I don't have to like it. No one would. But I love her enough to show her I meant what I said, I love her enough to open the way. I stand there in our kitchen, looking at the plate Gabe and I made for her together. She cries, and I decide.