A Traitor to Memory

She set her water glass on the counter and ducked outside, bounding up steps that were grey-green with lichen. She called out, “Hey, Gideon!” as she strode down the path in his direction. “You in there?”


There was no response, which gave Libby a qualm and slowed her steps for a moment. She hadn't seen Richard Davies' Granada out in the square, but she hadn't been looking for it. He might've come calling for another one of those pain-in-the-butt father/son talks of his that he appeared to be addicted to. And if he'd managed to piss off Gideon just enough, Gideon might've left on foot and Richard might even now be getting some vengeance on that leaving by wrecking Gideon's kites. That would be just like him, Libby thought. The one thing Gid did that wasn't connected to that stupid violin—besides gliding, which Richard also despised—and his father wouldn't hesitate a second to smash them to smithereens. He'd even come up with a good excuse afterwards. “It was taking you away from your music, son.”

As if, Libby thought scornfully.

Richard continued, if only in her head, “I accepted it as a hobby before, Gideon, but I can't accept it now. We've got to get you well. We've got to get you playing. You've concerts scheduled, recordings to make, and a public waiting.”

Fuck off, Libby told Richard Davies. He's got a life. He's got a good life. Why don't you think about getting one, too?

The thought of actually going mano a mano with Richard for once—of actually telling him off without Gideon there to stop her—renewed Libby's energetic surge along the path. She reached the shed and knocked the door the rest of the way open.

Gideon was there, no Richard with him. He was sitting at his makeshift design table. A piece of butcher paper was taped on the work surface before him, and he sat staring at it like it had something to say to him if he only listened to it long and hard enough.

Libby said, “Gid? Hi. I saw the light.”

He didn't act like he'd heard her. He kept his gaze on the paper in front of him.

Libby said, “I knocked on the door upstairs. I rang the doorbell, too. I saw your car in the square, so I figured you were home. Then, when I saw the light out here …” She heard her own words die off, like a plant that's wilting without its necessary water.

He said, his eyes still fixed on the paper, “You're back from work early.”

“I got my deliveries better organised today so I wouldn't be backtracking all over the place for once.” Her aptitude for hasty lying surprised her. Something of Rock was rubbing off on her.

“I'm surprised your husband didn't want you to stay on anyway.”

“He doesn't know, and I'm sure as hell not telling him.” She shivered. A small electric heater stood on the floor near him, but Gideon didn't have it on. She said, “Aren't you cold without a sweater or something?”

“I hadn't actually noticed.”

“Been out here long?”

“A few hours, I think.”

“So what're you doing? Another kite?”

“Something to fly,” he said. “Higher than the others.”

“Sounds cool.” She went to stand behind him, eager to see his latest design. She said, “You could do this professionally. No one makes kites like you do, Gid. They're incredible. They're—”

The sight of the design paper stopped her. What he'd produced was an elaborate mass of smudges where he'd drawn and then erased what he'd drawn. They covered the paper, with some of the erasures tearing through it.

Gideon turned to look at her when she didn't complete her remarks. He turned so quickly that she didn't have time to arrange her face.

He said, “I've lost this as well, it seems.”

She said, “No, you haven't. Don't be dumb. You're just … blocked or stopped up or something. This is a creative thing, right? Making kites is creative. Anything creative gets stopped up now and then.”

He read her face and apparently saw on it what she hadn't said. He shook his head. He looked the worst she'd seen him look in all the time since he'd been unable to play his music. He looked worse even than he'd looked just the previous night when he'd come to tell her that his mother was dead. His light hair lay flat and unwashed against his skull, his eyes seemed sunken, and his lips were so chapped that they looked like scales were growing on them. It all seemed so extreme, she thought. Hell, he hadn't even seen his mother in years, and he hadn't exactly been tied to her when she was alive, had he? Not like he was tied to his dad.

As if he knew her thoughts and wanted to respond to correct them, he said, “I saw her, Libby.”

“Who?”

He said, “I saw her, and I forgot that I saw her.”

“Your mom?” Libby asked. “You saw your mom?”