The Memory Thief by Emily Colin

don’t know myself?
    Jill gives up, and I go back to staring into space. Then the phone beeps again, a text this time. I pick it up. It’s from Lila, my editor at Boulder’s
Women’s Magazine.
I had a piece due yesterday, a personal essay on the challenges of motherhood when your husband is a professional climber. I’d planned to write about how I missed Aidan when he was gone, but how his absence also gave me a sense of freedom and independence. As glad as I had always been to have him home, as relieved as I was to feel his arms wrapped around me, to know he was safe, it always took me a while to adjust to having him in the house, making decisions about Gabriel, talking to me when all I wanted to do was think. And as soon as I’d made the adjustment, he’d be off again, disappearing into the office with maps and charts, on the phone with potential sponsors, giving speeches and slide shows to raise money, and then getting on a plane. When he was gone, I felt like a single mother, or a military wife.
    I’d told Aidan about the piece when I’d pitched it, and he’d put his head in his hands. “You’re going to ruin me,” he’d said. “Feminists will attack me when I walk down the street. What are they gonna call it? ‘Selfish Asshole Abandons Family for the Sake of Personal Gratification and Athletic Glory’? Or did you have something more flattering in mind?”
    â€œDo you not want me to write it?” I’d asked him, and he’d laughed.
    â€œWrite what you want, honey,” he’d said. “You put up with me, don’t you? You’re only telling the truth. Write whatever the hell your little heart desires.”
    Needless to say, I haven’t submitted the piece. Not only is it impossible for me to concentrate for more than two minutes at a time, but the subject matter itself is ironic to the point of tragedy, given the circumstances. Ever the responsible person, and operating in a state of shock, I’d emailed Lila to let her know what had happened and that I wasn’t going to make the deadline. She’d emailed me back, called twice, and now she here she is, texting me.
Call me,
her text read.
I am v. worried about you.
    I sigh and close my phone. Then I glance at the digital clock on the stove. With a start, I realize that the search and rescue team is due in any minute; Roma posted their flight information on Facebook yesterday, along with a bunch of photos. I tried to look at the pictures from the rescue effort, but every time I saw J. C., Jesse, and Roma standing together without Aidan, it broke me a little more inside.
    The Facebook site is hard for me to handle. I’m overwhelmed by how many people knew Aidan, on how many people he’d left an impression. There are a ton of comments about his charisma, his determination, his talent as an alpinist and mountaineer, his excellence as a public speaker. People have written about what an excellent guide he was, what a good friend, how he was always up for a new adventure, how he’d try anything, how he was always the last guy to leave a party and the first one up in the morning. A couple of the filmmakers who worked with him, including Roma and his buddy Spy, have written about how he hammed it up for the camera, how he loved to be the center of attention and the more they focused on him, the wilder he got. Some of our close friends have posted comments about his talent as an artist, his patience as a father, his commitment to his family.
    J. C.’s posting is one of the last, uploaded just before they left Alaska. He’s written only, “Thanks for all of your support. It’s been hard times out here. He will be missed. RIP A. J.” I stare at these few short lines, reading them over and over. J. C. is the master of understatement, and this posting is no exception. I know how much he has left unsaid.
    The comments hurt, but the pictures are worse,