I pulled out the notepad. I was a list maker.
1. Call Rochester hospitals.
2. Call Greg’s hotel.
3. Call Rochester police.
4. Call Hunterdon County police.
5. Find Greg.
I enjoyed lists. Lining through completed items gave me a sense of satisfaction, and I couldn’t wait to line through number five.
Leah and Hannah rattled around the house, whiny and bored.
“Mommy, can we go outside today? Are we going to the library?” Hannah asked.
“No, honey, I’m sorry. We’re going to play inside. Mommy has a lot to do.” I almost laughed at the absurdity of the phrase. A lot to do.
How would I figure out what happened to Greg and keep things normal for the girls? How did people function in real crisis situations with small children? It wasn’t even a real crisis, just a missed flight and a dead cell phone battery. Except, except… Why couldn’t he call from the hotel? Borrow a cell phone from a stranger? Nothing made sense.
I fed Leah and asked Hannah if she wanted to watch Cinderella. The time would give me an hour or more of thinking and planning. I plopped them back down in front of the television, Leah clutching her ever-present Uglydoll, and they zoned out.
I jumped when the doorbell rang. I ran to the door, my heart thudding. Just as I reached for the knob, I remembered Mom had said she was coming.
“I have a plan,” Mom said. My mother was always a force, in her element during a crisis, strong and sure.
We divvied up my list. I gave her number one, as I needed to be the one to call his hotel. I passed the computer to her so she could look up the Rochester hospitals. I had Greg’s notebook: departing flight number, returning flight number, hotel, date. Every single time. Greg the Metronome.
I dialed the hotel number. “Hi. My name is Claire Barnes. My husband Greg stayed there this week. He should have checked in on Tuesday and checked out early Friday morning. Would you be able to tell me if he did check in and out?”
“Yes, we can tell you that, Mrs. Barnes.” I heard the clicking of a keyboard. “Yes, Greg Barnes did check in on Tuesday night. However, he did not check out on Friday morning.”
My mouth went dry. What’s going on? “Okay.” I needed to talk to this faceless voice on the phone and force her to be human, not like the calls to the police station or the airline. I needed her to be on my side. I took a deep breath. “My husband was scheduled to return yesterday, and he didn’t come home. He never boarded his plane. The police won’t help me until tomorrow, at the earliest. Is there any way you can check his room? I don’t know. Make sure he didn’t have a heart attack up there or something? Please. I’m begging you.”
“Oh, my goodness, sweetheart.” She had a deep southern drawl, not Carolinas. Alabama, maybe. “I’m sure the manager would be happy to check the room. Can I call you back? What’s your number?” I gave her my cell phone number, and we hung up.
I sat in the dining room and stared out the window. I counted to seven hundred and fifty nine before my phone rang. I checked the display. Ten minutes had passed. Before I answered, I just knew he was dead in his room. His father had had a weak heart and died at fifty-eight. The phone rang again. I picked up and mouthed hello; the actual word stuck in the back of my throat. My stomach churned with fear.
“Mrs. Barnes? This is Carol Ann from the Fairmont in Rochester?” Yes. I know who this is. Please, is my husband alive? “Honey, I don’t know if this is good or bad, but I swear, I don’t believe he ever set foot in the room.”
My mind raced. He had checked in, but not used the room?
“Honey, are you still there? Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. No, I’m not okay, but I’m here. So you’re telling me he checked in on Tuesday, but you don’t think he stayed there? How could you know that?”
“Well, we put little welcome cards in the locks of all the doors, you know? Our guests have to remove them to swipe their cards, but his is still in there. The bed doesn’t seem to have been slept in, and the cleaning staff said they haven’t cleaned it because it didn’t need it. So either he never entered his room, or he wanted it to look that way.” She coughed nervously.
An affair. She thinks Greg was having an affair. Why didn’t I think of that? I laughed, a barking sound, like a seal. Greg with another woman? Of all the scenarios that had run through my head, another woman had never been one of them. Greg could barely make a move on me half the time. He was reserved that way. I had never seen him even look at another woman. He never went to strip clubs or commented about actresses. When I teased him about it, he asked, “Why would I look at other women when I can look at you anytime I want?” I used to think it was sweet. The thought, and the raw tenderness that accompanied it, brought tears to my eyes.