As I lay in bed, I wondered how many of my memories were true? Memories were tricky that way. Time tinted perception, which altered the memory, bending it like light through a prism, until what a person remembered might only contain slivers of fact. The rest was just a colorful reflection of emotion—hope, denial, anger, fear. I knew our marriage hadn’t been perfect, but like so many people with drifting marriages, I believed we had all the time in the world to figure it out. I believed we would be fine. When he said it was “work” or “stress,” I bought it. Marriages ebbed and flowed. I never knew how little of Greg I had access to. I thought back to all the things we had never talked about.
That night with Drew, Greg had clearly heard us talking, heard Drew’s anger. The words he repeated back the next day weren’t a fluke. They were a hint. So why hadn’t we talked about it? I had thought of Greg differently after that night. He always knew how Drew felt about me, aware of the undercurrent I’d inadvertently tried to suppress for years. Yet never once did he ask us to end our friendship. I wondered how long Greg had felt married to both Drew and me? I wondered how much of myself I had really given Greg. A part of my heart had always belonged to another man. Could I really be angry if Greg eventually gave part of himself to another woman?
Yet for ten years—two years of dating and seven of the eight years we were married— Greg had never seemed to falter in his dedication to me, our marriage, and our family. If we had talked, would things have been different? If he had asked me to temper back my friendship with Drew, how would I have reacted? I would have been angry, incredulous. How could you? He’s my best friend. But would I have done it? To save my marriage? No. Without question. No. I wouldn’t even have taken the suggestion seriously. Greg might have been my husband, but Drew was as necessary to my life as food or air.
In my mind, the truth dawned. So raw and bleeding, I couldn’t accept it with my eyes open. Drew had always come first. He was there first. Simply, he was loved first. The failure of my marriage, if in fact it did fail, was my fault. Acknowledging that was the very least I could do for Greg on the morning of his memorial service. He may have stepped outside the marriage officially, and should that come to light, I could easily play the wounded party with believability. But in my core, deep down where it carried the most weight, I knew I never had both feet in our marriage from the beginning.
With a heavy heart, I got up and took a shower. It felt reminiscent of the days when Greg first disappeared, when I found it almost impossible to get out of bed. My feet were leaden, and my chest ached. Alone in the spray of water, in the quiet before the girls woke up, I sobbed for the last time that day.
When Pastor Joe had asked me if I wanted anything special at the memorial service, the only thing I specified was for my father to read some verses from Ecclesiastes. Turn! Turn! Turn! was Greg’s favorite song. We had been driving somewhere once, and the song came on the radio. He was singing the words, and I made a joke about how you’d think he grew up in the sixties.
I would have loved to live in the sixties!
Really? Why? So much insecurity. War, the civil rights movement, the Kennedy assassination, the Martin Luther King Jr. assassination. That’s a lot of death for one decade. It would have been so sad.
Yeah, but a man on the moon, Kennedy elected, the war protests—people believed in what they did then. Instead of apathy or hopelessness, there was so much passion in the country. It was such a crazy time.
At the time, I thought it odd that Greg would ever use the word “passion” about anything. I dismissed him. I couldn’t remember when that conversation took place. Years ago, I was sure. But the Bible quote the song was based on seemed apropos. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die…
When Dad read, tears came to my eyes, but I couldn’t cry. I thought of how Greg wouldn’t see his girls grow up, go on a first date, go to the prom, graduate. He would never walk them down the aisle. I still couldn’t cry. My self-realization that morning had shelled me, and I watched the service through invisible Plexiglas. The voices were muffled; the din of a crowded church was non-existent.
I had Leah on one side and Hannah on the other. Leah squirmed, and I did not scold. Hannah whispered to me, but I didn’t answer her. As we filed out of the church, I was bombarded by people. Parishioners waiting to be able to finally offer their condolences, to officially acknowledge our newfound family of three, like an inverse marriage. Drew followed me and, as usual, understood without being told that I needed only his presence, not his words or his touch. I was gracious to the mourners. Thank you for coming. It’s so nice to see you. How’s little Samantha doing? After all, their relief was palpable. I had a label; I was Claire Barnes, a widow. Her husband died mysteriously. Poor thing! I had no reception after the service.