Thought I Knew You(11)

Detective Reynolds had genuinely seemed to think our conversation would help. I also hoped that he would find something in his investigation of our family and friends. Conversely, I didn’t believe Greg’s disappearance was connected to anyone we knew.

Then what did I believe? I didn’t know. That he had amnesia and was wandering around Rochester? That would be the most positive scenario. If I didn’t believe there was an affair, or that he had left voluntarily, or that he had been kidnapped, then what did I believe had happened? I couldn’t think about it; I couldn’t focus on the why. I just asked myself the same question, a hundred times a day. Where in the hell is Greg?





Chapter 6



I took a sabbatical from work. I moved in slow motion. My heart and my feet felt heavy. I broke two glasses because I forgot I was holding them and simply let go. Hannah sometimes had to say “Mommy” three or four times before I would answer her.

Hannah knew something was wrong. The Pollyanna explanation she had gotten earlier in the week no longer held water after ten days. She was withdrawn and sad, repeatedly asking me when Daddy was coming home. Even Leah missed him, particularly long after she’d been asleep, crying out, “Daddy!” as his presence in her life had been reduced to a shadowy figure in her dreams. My chest ached for them.

On Sunday morning, someone knocked on the door. I stood immobilized, gripped by fear. That had become my normal response to the doorbell or the phone ringing. I was always convinced the moment had come, that I would learn my husband was dead. But an equal part of me believed that the moment had come for me to learn the truth, that Greg stood on the other side of the door or was on the other end of the line. The battle of my conflicting instincts resulted in paralysis. I couldn’t will myself to action, and inevitably, the answering machine would click on, or Mom would answer the door.

“Mo-o-o-m!” Hannah called, a four-year-old going on seventeen. “Get the door. Someone’s been knocking.” Then, frustrated with my all-pervading hesitation over everything, she marched to the door.

“Hi, Squirt!” The deep male voice boomed down the hall. “Have you gotten taller? I feel like you are much, much taller than the last time I saw you!”



“Uncle Drew!” Hannah yelled.

A balloon of relief popped in my chest. What Greg couldn’t fix, Drew could. Drew would bring Greg home. I ran down the hall and threw my arms around Drew’s neck, nearly pushing Hannah into the wall. I sobbed as he held me, his body a wall of strength. I inhaled the scent of laundry detergent and a faint hint of cologne, his Drew-ness that felt like home to me.

“How did you know? Why are you here?” I blubbered into his shoulder.

“Your dad called me. I’m so sorry about what’s going on. What can I do?”

I laughed the strange seal bark, as though I’d forgotten how to laugh, and when I tried, it came out unnatural and jarring.

“Please, please help.” Truthfully, just having him there would help. I felt safer, not so vulnerable in my own home. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I just couldn’t… I didn’t want to talk about any of this…”

He waved away my apology, and I motioned for him to follow me into the kitchen.

When I was five, we moved into the house next door to Drew’s family. Mom told me that the secret to making friends was to act as if you were having the time of your life. I rode my bike up and down the street, singing as loud as I could, convinced that I could lure the neighbor kids with my siren song of fun. After about an hour, all I had to show for it was a broken bike chain. While I was trying to fix the dislodged chain, six-year-old Drew appeared with what I thought was a small metal screw.

“It’s a bike chain tool,” he said matter-of-factly. He deftly pushed out the pin, snapped the two sides of the chain apart, and reconnected them, pushing the pin back into place while loosening the new connection.

“How do you know how to do that?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I fix all my own stuff, mostly ’cause I break so much, my dad won’t fix anything for me anymore.”



Drew’s parents were older, and they passed away when Drew was in his early twenties, two years apart from each other. Mr. Elliot went first from a heart attack, and Drew claimed his mom died of a broken heart. They left him with a sizable inheritance, and since Drew was a bona fide genius, he quit his job to be a day trader. He saw the dot-com bubble about to burst and sold everything he had in 1999. In five years, he made enough to keep him afloat for the rest of his life.

With his newfound free time, he learned photography. He specialized in capturing images of the poor and indigent. Ironically, he recently sold a print collection for a few hundred thousand dollars. With that sale, he made a name for himself in the art world and has since fought off potential buyers with a stick.