Thought I Knew You(30)

Having Drew stay with us felt peculiar and right, if such a combination existed. After the girls went to bed in the evenings, Drew and I talked, drank wine or beer, and laughed. The conversation always eventually worked its way back to Greg. We’d bounce ideas off of each other, a macabre version of Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego. Drew came up with a theory that Greg had witnessed a crime and was in the witness protection program. I favored a Cayman Islands scenario. Had I been talking to anyone else, I wouldn’t have been able to be so flippant. Somehow, anger and resolve had paved the way for other, more rational thought. An emotional Zamboni, I felt tenuously normal. We had no more near-intimate moments; Drew was simply there, my rock and much needed comic relief.

Christmas Eve dawned gray with heavy clouds drooping to the ground in a soupy fog. Although the temperature was low enough to hold out hope for a white Christmas, the easy feeling of the week slipped away, sadness edging its way back in. It was Christmas, for God’s sake; the girls needed their father, not a stand-in.

I banished the thought and bustled around the kitchen, preparing ham, potatoes, corn, and a green bean casserole—all the fixings of a proper Christmas dinner. While the girls napped, I wrapped presents in my room. Drew had gone out, destination unknown. I was just putting away the wrapping paper and scissors when I heard the door to the bedroom inch open, and there stood Hannah, small and uncertain, afternoon sleep still in her eyes, linen lines creased her face.

“I miss Daddy,” she said.

I opened my arms and folded her head into my shoulder. “Oh, sweetheart, I miss him too,” I said, blinking back tears. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

She shook her head.



I thought if I could get her to talk, it might help. “What do you miss the most, Hannah?”

She thought about it for a while. “The way he would chase me, and also his potatoes.”

“Oh, I really miss his potatoes!” I exclaimed. Greg thoroughly believed that every meal needed potatoes, and he had a hundred ways to make them.

“What else do you miss?” she asked.

“Remember when he taught you how to hit a wiffle ball?” She nodded, her eyes misted with tears. “Or how about when he would carry you around on his shoulders and you’d have to duck through all the doorways?”

“He’d call me, like I was lost!”

We both laughed then. I hugged her to me. “Hannah, you have to believe me that your daddy loves you, no matter where he is or what he’s doing.”

“Is he in Heaven?”

I was taken aback. “What do you know about Heaven?” I asked casually. Heaven wasn’t a new concept—we’d gone to church—but I had no idea what she’d gleaned from her mornings at Sunday School. She was four.



“Annie said her grandpa went to Heaven and she doesn’t get to see him anymore, but she knows that he can see her. And she said that maybe my daddy was there, too.” She smiled. “Annie’s grandpa loved baseball like Daddy, so maybe they’re playing baseball together.”

“Hannah, I think your daddy would love to play baseball with Annie’s grandpa.” I kissed her head. I made a mental note to call a child psychologist after the New Year. I needed guidance. How could I prevent my children from carrying tragedy around for the rest of their lives? How could I ensure that losing their father would just be something that happened to them, rather than reshape who they would have become? I didn’t know. I realized then that my children’s future was irreversibly altered; the women they would have become no longer existed. My heart ached.



That night, I got the girls ready for bed in their Christmas pajamas. Greg had always read The Night Before Christmas. It seemed unfair to have Drew do it, so I settled on the couch and tucked the girls under each arm. I opened the book, hoping I could do it justice. I must have passed the test because they were each half asleep when I finished. Drew carried Hannah to her room, while I tucked Leah into bed.

After filling the living room with my Christmas extravaganza, we gazed at the tree. How many Christmases had Greg and I done the exact same thing?

Drew took the chair; I sat on the couch. He had been careful with me all week. Not to get too close. Not wanting to get caught up in something we’d regret. The undercurrent had been there as long as I could remember, and our timing was always terrible.

“Remember that Christmas you came, right after Hannah was born?” I asked suddenly. We never talked about that Christmas. I wonder how long you’ve been in love with my wife. I’d heard only that one line, a portion of the conversation. What else had been said? I never knew. In the years since, Drew’s visits frequently fell while Greg traveled, as I subconsciously kept them apart. The revelation came so clear in the muted colorful glow of the tree lights. I had partitioned my life, made myself a bridge for the gap between the two people I loved the most.