The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Twenty Four

"I'm not really the judging type," he says. "And no, he told me next to nothing, to be honest."

Instantly, I relax.

I nod, lifting my cup to my mouth and gulping quietly. I take a deep breath. "Oliver came. Found us together.  I asked Aidan to leave." I say.  Three whole sentences to explain what had happened back at the lake house. Reductive, to say the least. Patrick nods and sips at his tea again. "They fought," I add.

He raises his eyebrows. "Seriously? So that was the bruise? He mumbled something about jumping into a lake?"

A warm shiver rolls over me as I recall that night. The memory of him moving inside me, submerged in the cold of the water. Everything was better with him.

My body physically aches for him. Every inch of it. I need him. I'm not sure I'll survive if he doesn't want me anymore.

"So, how much do you think he hates me?" I ask, hesitant. 

Pat shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable and I immediately regret asking the question. Why do I need to know this second hand?

"I'm pretty sure he's incapable of hating you, Eloise," he says. He sounds sincere and I feel myself relax a little further.

I lift my cup and gaze around the room which is now empty of Aidan and his things. His records are gone. His clothes, drying on vents around the room, are gone. The dining table which had always been scattered with his sketches and photos is now sparse and clean. 

"It's upstairs if you want to see it," Patrick says.

I glance at him, confused. "What is?"

"Your piece. It's not parcelled yet. I was going to call you to arrange the delivery. Tomorrow was the soonest pick-up I could get."

My heart stops. How could I have forgotten about it? My piece. The one he'd made for me. The only thing I have left of him at this point. Although technically this isn't true, I have the hand-drawn flowers in the insert of my bag. I need to frame it as soon as possible because the edges were starting to wear. Folding and unfolding it the number of times that I had being the cause of its distress.

"I want to see it," I practically spring up from the couch.

"On you go," he gestures with his head, "I'm guessing you probably want to be alone."

When he smiles a warm smile I decide that I like Aidan's friend immensely. He loves him, which I like. I also enjoy being in his company because it makes me feel close to Aidan, somehow like I have access to some of his thoughts and feelings. I get just to the bottom of the stairs when Patrick calls after me.

"Eloise, hang on," he says, standing up. I watch him walk to the record player and lift up a medium-sized white envelope which he brings to me. "He wanted me to send this with it. But you may as well have it now," he says. I reach out to take it from him. He shrugs, "I've no idea what's in it. He's written something about the final payment he said."

I glance down at the thing. It feels warm and a little heavy and a strange vibration runs over me knowing Aidan wrote this. His beautiful talented hands. Suddenly I don't want to read it. I'm afraid of what it might say. But I have to because I need to pay him for his work. Because that's likely all I am to him now. A customer. A client.

"Thank you," I nod, turning back to the stairs.

I take each one with heavy-footed dread. I suppose I half expected him to have destroyed it. To have torn the canvas holding my face in half, or to have slaughtered it with red paint to show the depth of his rage for me now. When I arrive at the top, I can't see it immediately because it isn't hanging in the same spot it was before. I have to come fully up and into the room and turn forty-five degrees before I see it resting almost casually against the brick wall.