Thought I Knew You (31 page)

Claire said, “Of course it’s been hard. Greg doesn’t remember our life together. He doesn’t remember our youngest daughter most of the time. I travel to Toronto every weekend, and we work on what the doctors call his episodic memory, basically reconstructing his past through talking, photographs, and mementos.”

Greg currently resides in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, in a community housing environment designed specifically for the brain-injured. He participates in six to eight hours of therapy every day and volunteers for the community one day a week.

But when asked what will happen after Greg can come home, Claire Barnes shrugs and appears lost in thought. “I don’t know. We’re all taking it one day at a time.”

I was in shock. The article was so blatantly slanted. It contained no mention of Greg’s lies or the reason why we had no idea he was in Toronto, several hundred miles from where he had claimed he was going. I sat dumbfounded at the kitchen island.
My newly remodeled island
, I thought bitterly.

Drew came into the kitchen, whistling, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He stopped when he saw my face and the newspaper. “Can I read it?”

Wordlessly, I handed it to him. He wasn’t painted so great in the article either.

As he read, his mouth dropped open. “What did you say to her?” he asked tautly.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I told the truth. That was the point, remember?”

“Hey, relax. Don’t get mad at me. I thought giving an interview was a bad idea to begin with.” His eyes flashed and we faced off across the island.

I waved my hand, defeated. “Whatever.”

Drew looked pained. The last few weeks had taken their toll on him. He smiled tentatively. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” He touched my hand lightly. I laced my fingers through his. He massaged my palm with his thumb and looked down at the counter thoughtfully. “One day at a time?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Drew. Yes, right now, one day at a time. Will Greg move in here? No, probably not. Do I know what will happen? No, not at all. I’m so scared. He still has no idea he and I aren’t married anymore.” I dropped my head into my hands and stared at the counter.

Drew moved behind me and massaged my shoulders. “I’m sorry. Again, Claire. I’m sorry. I’m… I guess I’m scared.” He rested his cheek against the top of my head.

I hugged his arms around me, leaning back into him. “I know. Me, too, you know? And I’m pissed. Who does Rebecca Riley think she is? I picked her because her writing was so damn boring. Why did she get all sensationalistic on me?”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, digesting the morning, another new kink in our lives.

“Do you still love Greg?” Drew asked.

I knew he’d wanted to ask that question since I had started commuting to Canada every weekend, leaving him to take care of
my
kids in
my
house.
Our house.
I considered how to answer. “Yes. I do. He’s the father of my children. I’ll always love him.”

I saw his eyes go blank, defensively shutting down. He looked down.

Placing my hands on either side of his face, I forced him to look me in the eyes. “I will always be his family. Can you understand that? Can you live with that? Forever?”

Drew didn’t respond. I didn’t expect him to; it wasn’t a question he could answer on the fly. I was asking him for some serious considerations. Things had been strained between us, my trips to Toronto interrupting any chance of the two of us connecting. Forging our own life together had been temporarily put on hold. I had nothing left in me to devote to our relationship.

My closest friends were supportive after the article was published. Robin brought me a bottle of wine one night to “drink my anger away” and then stayed to share it. Sarah ranted and raved on the phone as much as I needed her to. Mom wrote a letter to the editor. Even Melinda called to ask me if I needed anything, saying she thought Rebecca Riley was a muckraker, which I found rather humorous, considering the source.

But strangers and even acquaintances were not as kind. At my yearly checkup, the receptionist was borderline rude. A few women from church wouldn’t even say hello to me when I volunteered to help with the rummage sale fundraiser. Since I wasn’t going to be around to help with the event, I offered to help set up a few days early. My offer was received with cold glares and an offhand comment about it “being taken care of.” I resisted the urges to grab people by the collars and yell, “Do you realize he was cheating on me? That he lied about where he was?” I doubted doing that would convince anyone of my sanity.

Since our conversation in the kitchen, Drew stayed close to my side, protective and, conversely, insecure. He frequently touched my hand or my shoulder, making sure I was still there, anchored in our life as much as I could be, with one foot in Toronto. He kissed me goodbye every Saturday morning at six o’clock, as if I were off to work or shopping with Sarah. I wondered what lengths he was willing to go to for me, and if I could ever repay him. I doubted it. I pondered the debt I owed and what a toll the situation had to be taking on him. Then, I swallowed my guilt, pushing it down, deep into the place I only acknowledge when I’m alone. And sometimes, not even then.

Chapter 38

T
he fifth Friday, while I
packed, we fought. He stood at the foot of the bed, silent and brooding, watching me fold shirts and jeans and place them carefully into my red Samsonite. Without looking up, I asked, “What?”

He sighed like a petulant child. “What’s going on, Claire?” His voice held a pleading, almost panicky, note.

“I don’t expect you to understand.”
Socks, underwear, an extra pair of shoes.
I packed virtually the same suitcase every weekend with Dr. Goodman in the back of my mind.
Even something as simple as wearing the same shirt can help.
Greg’s condition and his recovery were my only thoughts anymore. “You’ve never been married.”

“I’ve only ever wanted to marry one person. Who doesn’t seem to want to marry me.”

I looked up from my packing, astonished at his childishness. “Really? You’re going to pick this fight? This time?”
The worst time in the world.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so…” He ran his hand through his hair and, with his left hand, threw an imaginary baseball at the back wall, expending energy. He let out a groan, almost a half-growl. “I’m frustrated by all of this. I
know
it’s selfish. I’m not an idiot.”

“It’s not about you,” I said, turning back to my suitcase.

“It never is, Claire. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.” And he left. Not in a fury, with slamming doors and yelling, but quietly, slipping out of the bedroom before I even realized he was gone, and somehow that was worse.

I came to bed late, and he was either asleep or pretending to be, and for the first time, I wondered if that fight was the beginning of the end. We’d always been honest with each other. But our conversations had become strained and halting, and I didn’t know how to fix it. There was resentment there, for sure, bubbling right under the surface, like superheated water, ready to explode at the slightest disturbance. It had only been a month—
a month!—
not that long when I said it out loud. But when the days blended into each other, and the weekends came breathlessly, one on top of the other, a month was forever.

Greg was getting better. I could see it every weekend. His strength was returning, although his body was still slight compared to his old stature. His memory was quicker; he could recall things I’d already told him, but it was still slippery, a suitcase full of silk scarves, sliding around, their fabric tumbled together in a rich heap of color. Indistinguishable. Possibly, it always would be, Dr. Goodman said.

“What will happen when I come home?” Greg asked.

We’d been sitting together, looking at pictures. I’d brought up his childhood pictures, photos of his mom and dad and some cousins.

I closed the book and ran my hand over the cover. “I don’t know, Greg. Maybe a group home, like you’re in now?”

“And you’ll be where? In our old house? With the kids?”

It sounded so ridiculous, even to me. I nodded, not knowing what else to do. For the first time, I realized that I hadn’t even glimpsed the impact Greg’s return was going to have on my life. Moving would be in my future. I thought back to Friday and the fight with Drew. I wondered if Drew would stay with me.
Who would, really?
If the roles were reversed, would I stay? Could anyone blame him if he left?

That night, I lay on the bed in the dark hotel room, the television on for light, but no sound. The flickering lent a dreamlike quality to the room, a vacillation that mimicked our conversation. I called Drew, and we spoke at the same time.

“Did you—”

“When are you—”

We both laughed, soft and unsure.

My mind drew comparisons to the calls with Greg, in the months before he disappeared when our halting phone conversations were heavy with silence and alternately, ill-timed starts and stops. I couldn’t think of anything to say to Drew, and it was easier to make excuses to hang up.

I slept fitfully, tossing and turning with the sensation that I was failing on all accounts—as an ex-wife and caregiver, as a mother, as a girlfriend.

The next day, when I kissed Greg goodbye on the cheek, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into a rare embrace. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

I turned away because there was nothing to say and I couldn’t face my anger, which still simmered under the surface.
What kind of person would still hold a grudge? Hadn’t Greg paid enough?
And
yet
, in my weaker moments, when Greg would forget Leah’s name,
again,
or forget,
again,
that the album we were looking at was from Maine, when we were first married, but before Hannah was born, even though I’d told him three times already, I would stare at him and think, horribly,
This is all your fucking fault.
And those were the moments that kept me awake at night, the fear of failure creeping up on me in the dark, black and wet and suffocating until I sat up, feeling for Drew on the other side of the bed and finding only the cold, empty expanse of hotel sheets.

When I returned Sunday evening, Mom had already dropped off the girls. Every other week, I arranged for them to spend the weekend with my parents instead of Drew, to mix it up and give Drew a break. A wonderful mixture of garlic and lemon hung in the air, and it smelled like home to me. I paused in the hallway, watching him stir something on the stove, laugh at something Hannah said, and take a sip of wine at the same time. He looked at ease in his kitchen, his house. When he turned and saw me, he smiled tentatively, traces of our Friday night argument still between us. I wrapped my arms around him from behind, burying my face in his back, inhaling the scent of him. I thought about how unfair things were to both of us and wondered what the future held. I rubbing my nose back and forth between his shoulder blades, saying,
I’m sorry
for Friday
.