Thought I Knew You(57)

“I’m sorry, Claire. I really am. Do you have any questions?”

Do I have any questions? Sure. Does anyone have any answers? “What should I do now? How do we move on?” I picked at a piece of hardened jelly stuck to the table.

“I don’t know. Maybe a memorial service wouldn’t be a terrible idea.” His eyes were compassionate. I always thought Matt Reynolds had the kindest smile I’d ever seen.

I mulled it over. No, it wouldn’t be a terrible idea. I could tell the girls that Daddy was in Heaven. With Annie’s Grandpa. I could start to close the door, exit Purgatory, stage right.

Would I have the gall to go through with it? Half of Clinton thought Greg had left me. Would I be a laughingstock if I had a memorial service for him? Seeds of doubt began to sprout in my mind. My anger over the last few months had been directed toward a man who had left me. What if he hadn’t? What if something terrible had happened to him? While it wasn’t the first time I wondered that, previous musings had always been through a thin veil of anger. Free of anger and resentment, I felt profoundly sad. I felt, for the first time, like a widow. Everything was upside down. Even if he hadn’t left me, our marriage wasn’t what I thought. I thought of the money, the probable affair, and all the ways in which I never knew Greg, how he had never let me know him. He had held himself hostage, a husband in law and practice only, emotionally checked out. His phony business trips. The Grand Del Mar, his apparent golf game. How could I memorialize someone I never knew?

Then, I thought of the girls. To keep my sanity, to not dissolve into bitter anger, I had to believe they knew Greg as a daddy, that to them, at least, he gave his entire self. Images of Greg the Dad flashed in my mind—Greg taking Hannah on a piggyback ride, rocking the newborn Leah in the middle of the night in the dimly lit nursery, teaching Hannah to play catch in the yard, letting them take turns on the riding mower while I watched nervously from the window. The blades aren’t running, Claire. I swear! Yes, we could memorialize Greg, the father, and it would mean something.



It could very well mean everything.





I arranged the memorial for the second Sunday in August, which also happened to be Greg’s birthday. Pastor Joe agreed to give the service. I invited Mom, Dad, Drew, and Sarah. Some people from the community would show up, I knew—Melinda and Steve, some of Greg’s old coworkers. The church congregation would be already there, as it was simply a service dedication. I asked my dad to speak, as I couldn’t do it, and Greg had no close family. The Saturday prior to the service, I sat the girls down and told them that their daddy was in Heaven.

“Did the policeman find him?” Hannah asked.

“No, he didn’t, sweetheart. But…” I faltered, unsure of how to continue. “It’s the only thing that makes sense, Hannah. The police have all these alerts set up. So if Daddy used his credit card, or spent money, or really did anything, they would find him. And he hasn’t. And you can’t go this long without spending any money. He wouldn’t be able to live anywhere or do anything. We’ve looked in hospitals all over, and we’ve had his picture up on the internet, on a special webpage for missing people.”

“But what if he’s not dead? What if he’s hiding? Like Leah does, but bigger somehow?”

“That’s okay, Hannah. Tomorrow, we’re just going to talk about Daddy and how much we loved him. It’s a special day to remember what a good daddy he was. And if he is hiding, and he comes home, we can tell him all about the day we had where we talked about how wonderful he was. Okay?”

She nodded uncertainly, and Leah mimicked the motion.

“The policeman is still going to look at those things I said earlier, okay? His credit cards and spending money. We’re not totally giving up, but it makes sense that Daddy is probably in Heaven.” Their eyes were so heartbreaking, clouded with confusion, I couldn’t look at them. Was I making things worse? There should be instructions for such an event. I had convinced myself that I couldn’t screw up if I loved them enough, but what if I was wrong?



The day of the memorial service dawned unusually sunny and cool. Cloudless, the sky seemed too cheery, a day for flying kites or picnicking in the park, hiking through a forest or swimming in a lake, not for memorializing your most likely deceased husband.

As I lay in bed in the quiet of the morning, I had my own memorial for Greg. The girls needed the service, and to some extent, so did I. I needed the closure it could bring, the finality. I would get a label—widow. Are you married? I’m a widow. At least that sounded official, better than sort of.