After five months, the police hadn’t found any major clues as to Greg’s whereabouts. Detective Reynolds still followed his breadcrumbs, but his updating visits were less frequent. The FBI became peripherally involved, but because no one could be sure Greg wasn’t missing of his own volition, they wouldn’t fund a task force to aid the Hunterdon County police department. Greg’s picture appeared on the FBI’s missing person’s website, and Detective Reynolds had permission to use FBI resources should he find information leading to Greg. But Greg had vanished, gone without a trace.
Most of the time, I was resigned to the fact that Greg would never return. I didn’t believe he was dead. Although logically, I had no way to know, I somehow thought I would feel it. On the other hand, Greg and I had been so disconnected prior to his disappearance that insisting I would somehow “know” if he died sounded senseless.
I resumed my life, to some extent. We went back to church and attended story time at the library. Hannah returned to preschool full time, which meant her scheduled three days a week, as opposed to the sporadic times I remembered to take her in the first three months after Greg’s disappearance. I frequently felt like an observer of my life, rather than someone actually partaking in it. I read to the children and periodically played the piano and sang. But I watched things around me happen and felt nothing.
I had yet to touch the inheritance. I didn’t need the money yet, and I fluctuated between repulsion and wanting to spend the whole thing on something lavish that Greg would have despised. Sometimes after the girls went to bed, I’d trawl online travel sites for exotic locales—Madrid, Paris, and the Turks and Caicos. I spent hours looking at expensive jewelry I’d never wear—large diamonds with sapphire accents, necklaces, and earrings. To where? The supermarket?
I didn’t have the courage to return to work. I was still on unpaid leave, and I felt no guilt from dipping into our savings account. My boss would periodically call to check in, and I would make the concerted effort to sound sadder and more listless than I was until the silence stretched out across the line, and out of pity or laziness—I was never sure which—she would agree to another month. Can I just fax you the leave paperwork?
Greg’s manager called to tell me that, unfortunately, the company was going to have to terminate Greg’s employment. For the first four months, Greg’s pay had continued to be deposited—I supposed from vacation time, personal time, and sick time, and then the kindness of his management—but understandably, that couldn’t go on forever. I had some financial fear, but not much. I contemplated paying off the house with the inheritance money, but knew I really needed to see a financial advisor.
In the meantime, I shape-shifted into a suburban stay-at-home mom. The real me was hollow, checked out, unavailable.
Five months had passed, and I decided I needed a vacation. I didn’t consciously choose to go to San Diego to look for Greg. But knowing he had been there and lied about it, I needed to see for myself where he had stayed, where he had eaten. The trip was different from my Rochester one, where I had been convinced I would find him and bring him home. Going to California was an act of closure. I simply had to say that I had tried.
I called to tell Sarah, who squealed with delight. She lived north of Los Angeles, but happily agreed to meet me in San Diego for three nights and four days. I felt excited as I packed. My excitement was stifled, like the sound of a band playing in the basement. I could feel the steady thumping of the beat, hear the high notes, but the melody and lyrics were lost. I used Greg’s frequent flyer miles to get my ticket, first-class upgrade included.
Mom and Dad agreed to babysit at our house to lessen the impact to the girls. Hannah was doing better with the adjustment to life without Greg, under the circumstances. She’d had some bedwetting incidents, but they didn’t last. She missed her daddy and frequently asked for Cody. I had no explanation to give her for Cody other than “He ran away.” But we talked regularly, and she was able to express herself.
Leah, on the other hand, was having a tougher time. She still asked for Daddy, and being only two, didn’t understand any given explanation—though there wasn’t one anyway. She cried often and started waking up nightly, wailing for hours on end, high-pitched and painful. I sat in her room, the lights dimmed low, rocking her gently like a newborn, overwhelmed by my solitary responsibilities. Night after night. I was worn out, and my vacation would at least provide me a full night’s sleep, which I hadn’t had in months.