somehow. I donât know where all of them have come from, but there are hundreds, a photographic chronicle of Aidanâs adult life and career. Everywhere I look, there he is, halfway up a mountain with his ice axes dug in; perched on the edge of a cliff, grinning; swinging from a rope with his arms flung out wide. There are pictures of him and J. C. and Roma drunk at the Walrus, their arms around one anotherâs shoulders, the night Over the Top Ascents first turned a profit; pictures of him and Gabe at the Spot, with Gabe hooked into a harness, making his way up a wall with Aidan belaying him from below, looking as proud as if Gabe had just memorized and recited
War and Peace.
There are pictures of him cliff diving in Hawaii and pictures of him fording a river in Thailand, the sharp end of the rope tied to his waist. There are pictures of him Iâve never seen, high up on some godforsaken peak with snow coming down on his jacket and his gear and his hood, only his nose peeking out, smiling like he couldnât be happier. There he is, summiting Annapurna with an orange oxygen mask strapped to his face, and then without the mask the next time he went upâ
Just to see if I can do it,
he told me. His Patagonia videos are on there, too, and all the times Roma went along on expeditions to film him and J. C. There are pictures of the Shishapangma trip, with him and J. C. raising a glass to Alex Lowe, and pictures of him scaling Moroccoâs Taghia Gorge. And then there are recent pictures of him and me together, which I didnât expect to see, sitting on our back patio holding hands and looking happy, at a café in downtown Boulder. After I see those, I have to close the laptop and walk away.
The images have stayed with me, though, and the worst part about them is, they have set off some horrible kind of ricochet effect. I see him everywhere I turnâbehind the wheel of his Jeep, having a beer with J. C. in the backyard, lying on the floor of Gabeâs room, helping him build a Lego city. Heâs there, I swear it. Over and over I glimpse him in my peripheral vision, but when I turn to look at him, heâs gone. When I close my eyes, pictures of him spool out, like a reel. Itâs like heâs the only thing I can see, with my eyes and my imagination, too, like heâs demanding my attention.
With Gabe around, I havenât allowed myself to sink into memories of Aidan; breaking down is an indulgence I canât afford. He isnât here now, though, and I relax into that thought like warm bathwater. I put my head on my hands and breathe deeplyâin through my nose, out through my mouth, like we do in Vinyasa Flow. Itâs odd, but I can smell Aidan now, his earthy, woodsy scent, like leaves on the forest floor. If I concentrate, I can feel him standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders, bracing me. I lean back into the feel of his hands, the line of his body, and let myself remember.
Seven
Madeleine
The first time I saw Aidan James, he stopped my heart.
I mean this literallyânot in a gushy, love-at-first-sight kind of a way. I was walking down a tree-lined trail at Wildacres Retreat in the mountains of North Carolina, obsessing about snakes, pondering the writing workshop I was about to lead, and wondering whether I should have worn different shoes, when I happened to look up and see a man dangling from a tree branch, about thirty feet in the air. All I could think was that he was going to fall to his death, and Iâd be the only witness, haunted to the end of my days by his spectacular crash to earth. My heart stuttered in my chest. Staring up at the suspended figure swaying in the breeze, I screamed, a shrill, jagged sound that echoed off the trees, the ground, the not-so-distant mountains. And then I tripped over a log and landed on the damp, pine-needle-covered ground, scraping my palms and bruising my knees.
As I was collecting my breath and my dignity, I heard
War and Peace.
There are pictures of him cliff diving in Hawaii and pictures of him fording a river in Thailand, the sharp end of the rope tied to his waist. There are pictures of him Iâve never seen, high up on some godforsaken peak with snow coming down on his jacket and his gear and his hood, only his nose peeking out, smiling like he couldnât be happier. There he is, summiting Annapurna with an orange oxygen mask strapped to his face, and then without the mask the next time he went upâ
Just to see if I can do it,
he told me. His Patagonia videos are on there, too, and all the times Roma went along on expeditions to film him and J. C. There are pictures of the Shishapangma trip, with him and J. C. raising a glass to Alex Lowe, and pictures of him scaling Moroccoâs Taghia Gorge. And then there are recent pictures of him and me together, which I didnât expect to see, sitting on our back patio holding hands and looking happy, at a café in downtown Boulder. After I see those, I have to close the laptop and walk away.
The images have stayed with me, though, and the worst part about them is, they have set off some horrible kind of ricochet effect. I see him everywhere I turnâbehind the wheel of his Jeep, having a beer with J. C. in the backyard, lying on the floor of Gabeâs room, helping him build a Lego city. Heâs there, I swear it. Over and over I glimpse him in my peripheral vision, but when I turn to look at him, heâs gone. When I close my eyes, pictures of him spool out, like a reel. Itâs like heâs the only thing I can see, with my eyes and my imagination, too, like heâs demanding my attention.
With Gabe around, I havenât allowed myself to sink into memories of Aidan; breaking down is an indulgence I canât afford. He isnât here now, though, and I relax into that thought like warm bathwater. I put my head on my hands and breathe deeplyâin through my nose, out through my mouth, like we do in Vinyasa Flow. Itâs odd, but I can smell Aidan now, his earthy, woodsy scent, like leaves on the forest floor. If I concentrate, I can feel him standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders, bracing me. I lean back into the feel of his hands, the line of his body, and let myself remember.
Seven
Madeleine
The first time I saw Aidan James, he stopped my heart.
I mean this literallyânot in a gushy, love-at-first-sight kind of a way. I was walking down a tree-lined trail at Wildacres Retreat in the mountains of North Carolina, obsessing about snakes, pondering the writing workshop I was about to lead, and wondering whether I should have worn different shoes, when I happened to look up and see a man dangling from a tree branch, about thirty feet in the air. All I could think was that he was going to fall to his death, and Iâd be the only witness, haunted to the end of my days by his spectacular crash to earth. My heart stuttered in my chest. Staring up at the suspended figure swaying in the breeze, I screamed, a shrill, jagged sound that echoed off the trees, the ground, the not-so-distant mountains. And then I tripped over a log and landed on the damp, pine-needle-covered ground, scraping my palms and bruising my knees.
As I was collecting my breath and my dignity, I heard
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