Thought I Knew You (8 page)

I nodded. I wanted to add,
Could you tell me what’s in them?
But I bit back the words.

“One other thing. We found a few calls to a nine-oh-eight area code that didn’t match up with any number we knew. We traced the number, and it came back to a Go phone, one of those pay-as-you-go things. Some of the calls lasted an hour or more in the early morning hours. Any thoughts on who he was talking to?”

The realization hit me, low and solid in my core, churning my stomach. “Greg hasn’t been sleeping much at night. He wanders the house at all hours. I never know when he comes to bed or when he wakes up. I always considered it part of whatever he was going through lately.” I closed my eyes. I felt so stupid. It was a feeling I was getting used to. My life was a mockery. To have Greg living a drastically different self-contained life that I knew nothing about felt like a raw betrayal.

Detective Reynolds continued hesitantly, “We also looked at your cell phone records. The last time Greg used either his credit cards or his cell phone was Tuesday morning. In fact, we can’t find anything to prove he was alive after Tuesday at seven p.m., which is when he withdrew the cash from the ATM.”

I inhaled sharply. “Do you think he’s dead?”

Detective Reynolds shook his head. “I don’t think we can say that yet. He had a thousand dollars. You can go for a while on that kind of money, even longer if you have someplace to stay. Does he know anyone else that you can think of in the Rochester area? Think hard. He stayed there for six months when you first met, right? He must have made friends. Is there anyone he kept in touch with?”

I searched my memory, but came up blank. “No, he never talked about anyone he knew up there.”

“What about his itineraries? Did he leave you with information when he left?” I got up and retrieved the travel notebook where Greg always documented his trips. The detective stood to leave, tapping the notebook on the cover. “If you go anywhere else, Claire, let me know. I’ll keep you posted, okay?” We shook hands, and he left.

I felt bone-weary. I needed to see my kids. Drew wrapped his arms around me from behind and kissed my head. I relaxed into him briefly, but my thoughts wandered to Hannah and Leah. I needed to see them, to touch them, be with them. Either because he sensed that, or simply because he was tired, Drew retreated upstairs to take a nap.

I drove to my parents’ house to pick up the girls. When I got there, they ran to me and clung to my legs.

“It’s been a rough few days, Claire,” Mom said.

I closed my eyes. I needed to talk to Hannah. But what could I say?

“I’m glad you came back, Mommy,” Hannah said.

“I’ll always come back, Hannah-banana,” I said without thinking.

“Not like Daddy,” she said, still holding my leg.

I picked her up and looked in her eyes. “Listen, Hannah, I want you to understand. Daddy didn’t leave us. You didn’t do anything wrong. Daddy loves us, and we love him. He just can’t find his way home right now.” I glanced at my mom over Hannah’s head. She shrugged, shaking her head. She couldn’t help me; no one could. There were no instruction manuals on how to talk to a four-year-old about her missing parent.

I held Hannah and inhaled the scent of her hair—berry shampoo and remnants of babyhood. She was growing into a child faster than I could handle. I prayed that I would do and say the right things, that I could guide her through the crisis, regardless of the outcome, as unscathed as possible. I wished they’d have as little fear as possible, as little uncertainty as possible, and hoped my desire to protect their small hearts would be enough. That my love would, somehow, be enough.

“Mommy, don’t be sad.” Hannah touched my cheek, a gesture absorbed from four years of observation, grown up beyond her years. “Daddy still loves us. You said so, right?”

I nodded, unable to answer. I held Hannah in one arm and Leah in the other, and gave Mom a kiss on the cheek.
Thank you,
I mouthed, quietly buckling them in the car. I drove into the setting sun, to the home that didn’t feel like a home anymore.

Chapter 11

W
hen I picked Hannah up
from school on Friday, her teacher pulled me aside. She had a long blond ponytail and wore jeans that hung too low on her hips for a preschool teacher. I had seen more than one dad ogle her during pick up, and I remember thinking,
Not Greg, thank God.
What a joke that had become. I motioned to another teacher in the school-age room, and she took Hannah’s hand, guiding her gently into the neighboring classroom.

“Mrs. Barnes, I wanted to tell you, today we interviewed the children. You know, what are your mommy’s and daddy’s names? Your favorite food, your favorite toy, and so on. When we asked Hannah what her daddy did for a living, she said he was lost and that he took her dog with him.” She paused then, looking at the ceiling, not knowing where to go. “I think, um… maybe you should talk to her about her dad?”

I clenched my fists at my sides and concentrated on not slapping her. “Miss Katie, what do
you
suggest I tell her? Besides the truth? That yes, her daddy is missing. I’m wondering what
you,
not being a mother, not having
any
life experience
whatsoever,
would tell your four-year-old. That her daddy left her? That’s possible. That he’s been murdered? That’s possible. Please. Advise me. I’d
love
to know what they’re teaching in the community college early childhood education classes these days about how to appropriately make a
fucking
four-year-old understand that her daddy might not be coming home, but maybe he will. Who the
hell
knows?”

I grabbed Hannah, who stood wide-eyed in the doorway, and left Miss Katie gaping with her mouth open. I could see the tears shimmering in her eyes and a very,
very
small part of me felt completely terrible. But most of me felt fantastic.

“Mommy,” Hannah said, “you said a really bad word.”

I sighed. I seemed to fail miserably at keeping the poor kid from being terrified at every turn. I kissed her head. “Yes, I did, Hannah-banana, and it wasn’t nice.” I gave her a big smile. “It’s our secret, okay? So, what do you want for dinner? Anything you want. Ice cream? Pizza? You pick,
aaaaannnnnyyyy
dinner you want,” I sing-songed.

Hannah thought for a second. “Can I have broccoli?”

I laughed and ruffled her hair. “Sure. You can definitely have broccoli if that’s what you want. You’re so weird, kiddo!”

When we got home, the four of us had dinner, a playact of a suburban family. Drew asked Hannah about school. Leah threw food, and Hannah scolded her. We watched
The Little Mermaid
, which Drew kept pretending he’d never seen, dramatically exclaiming over every scene, extracting giggles galore from Hannah. I gave the girls a bath and tucked them into bed. Low chords of sleep music drifted from their bedrooms, overlapping in a disorganized orchestra, the eerie result being both dissonant and harmonious at the same time.

Drew and I sat in the living room on opposite ends of the couch. I curled my feet underneath me and rested my head on the back of the sofa, feeling flattened by the day, the past few weeks. Drew laughed, coughing into his glass of wine when I relayed the preschool incident.

“I have no control over my mouth anymore,” I said. “I feel horrible, that poor girl.”

“That
poor girl
was a bit insensitive.” He shrugged. “But then, isn’t everyone at that age? Hmm, on second thought, how cute did you say she was?”

I hit him with a pillow. “Not funny.”

“Look, seriously. I think genuinely kind-hearted people will forgive your occasional outbursts and overlook any inappropriate behavior for the moment.”

I put my head in my hands. I felt tears pricking my eyelids. “This is how it is now. I’m laughing and normal, then I’m swearing and yelling, then I’m crying. I have the emotional range and self-control of Leah.”

Drew reached over and put his hand on my back.

The wine made my head spin. “I really don’t know what we’d be doing without you, Drew.”

When I lifted my head, his face was inches from mine. His blue eyes, framed in dark lashes, held a love and intensity that I wanted to wrap myself in. I studied his face, olive skin and dark hair. He gently rubbed his thumb along my jaw. I closed my eyes, reveling in the touch of another person. Missing Greg. Loving Drew. I laid my head on his shoulder. He rubbed my back, his touch warm through the cotton of my shirt, that of an old friend. Or an old lover.

A shiver went through me, and I fought the desire to turn my head and kiss the tender spot between his collarbone and shoulder, where I’d kissed once before, years ago, and been crushingly rejected.
A person isn’t meant to live without the touch of another person.
Before Greg left, how long had it been since we’d made love? Two months? Maybe.

A wave of longing went through me, and I brought his hand up to my lips and kissed his palm.

He let out a small gasp. “Claire.” His voice was raspy. I’d heard it before, and I knew what he would say next.
We can’t.

Drew and I always had missed opportunities, blown chances. Fear, ego, and good common sense, those were our enemies.

Slowly, he withdrew his hand. His eyes were dark with desire, clouded with conflict, as he searched mine.

I closed my eyes, inhaling the scent of freshly washed laundry and something else distinctly male, distinctly Drew, like musk and sandalwood.

“Drew,” I said, clutching his wrist as he gently rubbed his thumb over my lips, which naturally parted, the longing low in my belly.

He closed his eyes, his breathing ragged. “I know. Me, too.” He leaned forward, touching his forehead to mine. “But you know we can’t. Not now, not like this.”

His words echoed back to me from fifteen years earlier, a memory of the prom, the sensation of his collarbone under my mouth, the humiliation that had followed then. Deep down, I knew using Drew to physically exorcise my pain and grief would damage beyond repair the one relationship keeping me from falling apart.

Greg had been missing for one month. All the women in the Mommy circles knew what had happened. Most people were kind and offered words of comfort, but when I ran into Nicole Lambert in Super Fresh, instead of her usual bubbly, “Hi, how are ya,” she cast her eyes down and pretended not to see me.

I tried to understand. If Greg had died, then people could say, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and move on. There would be a viewing or a funeral, closure not just for me, but for the community. The women could offer condolences, then go home and kiss their husbands, make love, and reaffirm that it couldn’t happen to them. But the uncertainty, not to mention lack of an appropriate Hallmark card, made women question themselves. Did Greg leave us? And if he did, because we had seemed so happy, could their husbands leave them? But my problem was not their problem and since there was no way to officially acknowledge my pain, many people chose the option of unofficially pretending it wasn’t there. Because of the anger I carried at all times, I didn’t care about the discomfort of others. I reveled in it. I was a vampire, and other people’s discomfort was my sustenance.

“Hi, Nicole,” I said loudly.

She nodded curtly at me and quickly pushed her cart past the milk she surely needed for her three children.

The only person who didn’t avoid me like the plague was Sarah, who called several times a week, sometimes to relay some bubbly gossip about her life, a distraction I welcomed. Other times, she’d just call to check-in and accept my moods however she found me. I found myself looking forward to her calls. She treated me like a person.
Like I was normal.

Drew stayed another week. He helped me adjust to everyday life, giving the right amount of distraction to aid in the transition. I got out of the bed every morning because small hungry bellies didn’t care if I wanted to pull the covers over my head and hide for the day, or the week. I tried to resume our routine of kid activities.

At night, after I put the girls to bed, I’d sit in Greg’s chair, a physical and sensory barrier between Drew and me, while Drew would take the far corner of the couch. We’d talk and laugh easily, as though our near miss had never happened. Briefly, I wondered if the air between us would shift, but it didn’t. Perhaps it was purely accustomed to the years of pulsing electricity, high-voltage moments intermingled with the steady line of friendship. An electrocardiogram of our relationship.

Before he left, he pulled me into a longer than normal hug. Part of me wanted to cling to him.
Stay. Stay and fill the hole in the house.
Impractical, of course. Probably also unhealthy.

“Are you going to be okay? Alone?”

I assured him we would be fine and promised to call. As he drove away, I waited on the front steps, hoping he’d come back. I knew he couldn’t, but I stood paralyzed, unable to face the emptiness of the sleeping house, truly alone for the first time in my life.