Thought I Knew You (20 page)

“I’m sorry, Claire. I really am. Do you have any questions?”

Do I have any questions? Sure. Does anyone have any answers?
“What should I do now? How do we move on?” I picked at a piece of hardened jelly stuck to the table.

“I don’t know. Maybe a memorial service wouldn’t be a terrible idea.” His eyes were compassionate. I always thought Matt Reynolds had the kindest smile I’d ever seen.

I mulled it over. No, it wouldn’t be a terrible idea. I could tell the girls that Daddy was in Heaven. With Annie’s Grandpa. I could start to close the door, exit Purgatory, stage right.

Would I have the gall to go through with it? Half of Clinton thought Greg had left me. Would I be a laughingstock if I had a memorial service for him? Seeds of doubt began to sprout in my mind. My anger over the last few months had been directed toward a man who had left me. What if he hadn’t? What if something terrible had happened to him? While it wasn’t the first time I wondered that, previous musings had always been through a thin veil of anger. Free of anger and resentment, I felt profoundly sad. I felt, for the first time, like a widow. Everything was upside down. Even if he hadn’t left me, our marriage wasn’t what I thought. I thought of the money, the probable affair, and all the ways in which I never knew Greg, how he had never let me know him. He had held himself hostage, a husband in law and practice only, emotionally checked out. His phony business trips. The Grand Del Mar, his apparent golf game. How could I memorialize someone I never knew?

Then, I thought of the girls. To keep my sanity, to not dissolve into bitter anger, I had to believe they knew Greg as a daddy, that to them, at least, he gave his entire self. Images of Greg the Dad flashed in my mind—Greg taking Hannah on a piggyback ride, rocking the newborn Leah in the middle of the night in the dimly lit nursery, teaching Hannah to play catch in the yard, letting them take turns on the riding mower while I watched nervously from the window.
The blades aren’t running, Claire. I swear!
Yes, we could memorialize Greg, the father, and it would mean something.

It could very well mean everything.

I arranged the memorial for the second Sunday in August, which also happened to be Greg’s birthday. Pastor Joe agreed to give the service. I invited Mom, Dad, Drew, and Sarah. Some people from the community would show up, I knew—Melinda and Steve, some of Greg’s old coworkers. The church congregation would be already there, as it was simply a service dedication. I asked my dad to speak, as I couldn’t do it, and Greg had no close family. The Saturday prior to the service, I sat the girls down and told them that their daddy was in Heaven.

“Did the policeman find him?” Hannah asked.

“No, he didn’t, sweetheart. But…” I faltered, unsure of how to continue. “It’s the only thing that makes sense, Hannah. The police have all these alerts set up. So if Daddy used his credit card, or spent money, or really did anything, they would find him. And he hasn’t. And you can’t go this long without spending any money. He wouldn’t be able to live anywhere or do anything. We’ve looked in hospitals all over, and we’ve had his picture up on the internet, on a special webpage for missing people.”

“But what if he’s not dead? What if he’s hiding? Like Leah does, but bigger somehow?”

“That’s okay, Hannah. Tomorrow, we’re just going to talk about Daddy and how much we loved him. It’s a special day to remember what a good daddy he was. And if he is hiding, and he comes home, we can tell him all about the day we had where we talked about how wonderful he was. Okay?”

She nodded uncertainly, and Leah mimicked the motion.

“The policeman is still going to look at those things I said earlier, okay? His credit cards and spending money. We’re not totally giving up, but it makes sense that Daddy is probably in Heaven.” Their eyes were so heartbreaking, clouded with confusion, I couldn’t look at them. Was I making things worse? There should be instructions for such an event. I had convinced myself that I couldn’t screw up if I loved them enough, but what if I was wrong?

The day of the memorial service dawned unusually sunny and cool. Cloudless, the sky seemed too cheery, a day for flying kites or picnicking in the park, hiking through a forest or swimming in a lake, not for memorializing your
most likely
deceased husband.

As I lay in bed in the quiet of the morning, I had my own memorial for Greg. The girls needed the service, and to some extent, so did I. I needed the closure it could bring, the finality. I would get a label—
widow.
Are you married? I’m a widow.
At least that sounded official, better than
sort of.

As I lay in bed, I wondered how many of my memories were true? Memories were tricky that way. Time tinted perception, which altered the memory, bending it like light through a prism, until what a person remembered might only contain slivers of fact. The rest was just a colorful reflection of emotion—hope, denial, anger, fear. I knew our marriage hadn’t been perfect, but like so many people with drifting marriages, I believed we had all the time in the world to figure it out. I believed we would be fine. When he said it was “work” or “stress,” I bought it. Marriages ebbed and flowed. I never knew how little of Greg I had access to. I thought back to all the things we had never talked about.

That night with Drew, Greg had clearly heard us talking, heard Drew’s anger. The words he repeated back the next day weren’t a fluke. They were a hint. So why hadn’t we talked about it? I had thought of Greg differently after that night. He always knew how Drew felt about me, aware of the undercurrent I’d inadvertently tried to suppress for years. Yet never once did he ask us to end our friendship. I wondered how long Greg had felt married to both Drew and me? I wondered how much of myself I had really given Greg. A part of my heart had always belonged to another man. Could I really be angry if Greg eventually gave part of himself to another woman?

Yet for ten years—two years of dating and seven of the eight years we were married— Greg had never seemed to falter in his dedication to me, our marriage, and our family. If we had talked, would things have been different? If he had asked me to temper back my friendship with Drew, how would I have reacted? I would have been angry, incredulous.
How could you? He’s my best friend.
But
would I have done it? To save my marriage? No. Without question. No. I wouldn’t even have taken the suggestion seriously. Greg might have been my husband, but Drew was as necessary to my life as food or air.

In my mind, the truth dawned. So raw and bleeding, I couldn’t accept it with my eyes open. Drew had
always
come first. He was there first. Simply, he was
loved
first. The failure of my marriage, if in fact it did fail, was
my
fault. Acknowledging that was the very least I could do for Greg on the morning of his memorial service. He may have stepped outside the marriage officially, and should that come to light, I could easily play the wounded party with believability. But in my core, deep down where it carried the most weight, I knew I never had both feet in our marriage from the beginning.

With a heavy heart, I got up and took a shower. It felt reminiscent of the days when Greg first disappeared, when I found it almost impossible to get out of bed. My feet were leaden, and my chest ached. Alone in the spray of water, in the quiet before the girls woke up, I sobbed for the last time that day.

When Pastor Joe had asked me if I wanted anything special at the memorial service, the only thing I specified was for my father to read some verses from Ecclesiastes.
Turn! Turn! Turn!
was Greg’s favorite song. We had been driving somewhere once, and the song came on the radio. He was singing the words, and I made a joke about how you’d think he grew up in the sixties.

I would have loved to live in the sixties!

Really? Why? So much insecurity. War, the civil rights movement, the Kennedy assassination, the Martin Luther King Jr. assassination. That’s a lot of death for one decade. It would have been so sad.

Yeah, but a man on the moon, Kennedy elected, the war protests—people believed in what they did then. Instead of apathy or hopelessness, there was so much passion in the country. It was such a crazy time.

At the time, I thought it odd that Greg would ever use the word “passion” about anything. I dismissed him. I couldn’t remember when that conversation took place. Years ago, I was sure. But the Bible quote the song was based on seemed apropos.
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die…

When Dad read, tears came to my eyes, but I couldn’t cry. I thought of how Greg wouldn’t see his girls grow up, go on a first date, go to the prom, graduate. He would never walk them down the aisle. I still couldn’t cry. My self-realization that morning had shelled me, and I watched the service through invisible Plexiglas. The voices were muffled; the din of a crowded church was non-existent.

I had Leah on one side and Hannah on the other. Leah squirmed, and I did not scold. Hannah whispered to me, but I didn’t answer her. As we filed out of the church, I was bombarded by people. Parishioners waiting to be able to
finally
offer their condolences, to officially acknowledge our newfound family of three, like an inverse marriage. Drew followed me and, as usual, understood without being told that I needed only his presence, not his words or his touch. I was gracious to the mourners.
Thank you for coming. It’s so nice to see you. How’s little Samantha doing?
After all, their relief was palpable. I had a label; I was Claire Barnes
,
a widow.
Her husband died mysteriously. Poor thing!
I had no reception after the service.

Mom, Dad, Sarah, and Drew came back to the house, and everyone went out of their way to be overtly happy, laughing and joking, playing with the kids. Sarah and Drew were happy to see each other again. They talked about city life, dating, and their lives, sharing war stories. I watched the scene unfold before me as though it took place in a Macy’s window display at Christmas.
Death of a Husband
.

Later, Drew left to go back to the city, and Sarah went upstairs to take a nap. She thankfully planned to stay for the week. Under her tutelage, I hoped my drugged haze would go away. The memorial service had triggered a change in my mood, from anger and resolve to the true sadness of a mourning woman whose husband has tragically died, compounded by guilt that accompanied my morning insight into our marriage.

That evening, I went through the motions of the evening, dinner, bath, and bed. Sarah waited for me in the dimly lit living room. A glass of wine stood on the coffee table.

I sat next to her and put my head on her shoulder. “Thank you for coming today. Without you and Drew, I really don’t know where I’d be. All I do is thank you two.”

“That’s because we’re such great people.” She smirked, swirling the wine in her glass. I smiled thinly. No, she wasn’t going to let me wallow very long.

“Let’s talk about Drew,” she blurted.

“What about him?” I asked warily.

“What’s going on there? With you two?”

“Sarah, really? Today was Greg’s memorial service. Nothing about that question seems inappropriate to you?”

“Claire, come off it. You’ve been in mourning for a year now. You’ve run the whole gamut of emotions, some of which landed you in someone else’s bed on the other side of the country. So let’s not act like you just buried the man.”

I sulked for a minute, then I caved. I knew Sarah. We could sit in silence all night; she always won.

“I don’t know. I’m all over the map with Drew.” I recounted the
beach story. “I didn’t want him to leave when he did. And then when I called him back and he sprang the Olivia thing on me, I was caught completely unaware.”

“I think you’re both afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of being anything more than friends. Your whole lives, you’ve had each other. If it doesn’t work, you won’t have anything anymore. You’re both terrified.”

“I think it’s more complicated than that. Frankly, I’m scared of dating anyone right now. Drew would feel like the safest bet, I would think.”

“What are you going to do when you have to meet his girlfriend?” she asked.

“The same thing he’s been doing for the last ten years, I guess. Pretend.” I didn’t relish the thought. “I’m sure she’s beautiful.”

Sarah put her hand over her mouth and giggled. “Remember that one girlfriend in college? She was Austrian or something? What was her name?”

“Inga!” we said in unison. Yes, I remembered Inga, the Austrian model. Dumb as a Box of Rocks Inga. Yoga Instructor Inga. I hated her. Drew’s guy friends made continuous infuriating comments about her bedroom prowess.

“What did you do to her again?” Sarah was looking upward, searching for the memory.

“I drew a mustache on her face at a party. She was half-passed out in the bathroom, and I used eyeliner.”

Sarah dissolved into laughter. I could barely think about it. My face burned, not from guilt, but from humiliation. I never wanted to admit the effect Drew’s love life had on me. He slowed down quite a bit in his old age, but his college years had been filled with women. Girls, really. Almost all of them were blondes, with a cumulative IQ significantly less than their nightly take at the Luscious Ladies gentleman’s club. Yes, I was fairly sure that Olivia was beautiful. I hoped that I could manage to keep my eyeliner in my purse.