I decided to acknowledge the anniversary on September twenty-eighth, the Tuesday that Greg left for his trip, the last day I had seen him. I didn’t know the date he technically disappeared, or died, if we were going with the current theory.
The morning of September twenty-eighth dawned like every other morning. I got Hannah on the bus. I took Leah to the toddler gym and chatted with the other mothers while Miss Megan clapped her hands and directed all the children to circle time. But I was repeatedly jolted by memory. I found myself trying to remember what I had done last year at whatever exact time I had the thought. I couldn’t. I could remember October first, that Friday when Greg didn’t come home, but I had no memory of kissing my husband his last kiss goodbye. I was sure that I did kiss him goodbye; I always did. Later, I was struck by the fact that I couldn’t remember our last words to each other. I love you. Be safe. That was what we always said. Try as I might, I could not specifically recall saying it.
I didn’t remind Hannah and Leah about the anniversary. I went about the evening ritual, as if the day were like any other.
After I put them to bed, I sat in the living room with Greg’s notebook and pen. I turned to the back of the book, where there were about twenty blank pages.
Dear Greg,
Today, I’m honoring you in my heart as you’ve been gone from our lives for one year. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what happened to you. I’m writing this to help with my never-ending quest for closure, and in the farfetched chance I ever see you again, may you read it and know how I felt.
First and foremost, I miss you. I miss your laugh. I miss our early mornings and our late nights and our private moments. Our marriage wasn’t perfect, but I did believe that it was good. I have since learned that you kept things from me. Your inheritance. Apparently, you golf? You possibly had a girlfriend. You stayed at a lavish hotel together. I feel like a fool, naïve and trusting. For our marriage was so very dear to me and clearly not equally important to you. You held parts of yourself hostage, parts I never had access to. Because of that, I never really knew you. Which makes my whole life seem like a joke. For that, I am angry and may never forgive. I’ll try.
The girls miss you. Even with all the things I am angry about, I cannot take away the fact that you were a wonderful father. Hannah has stopped asking for you daily. It was hard on Leah, but it’s getting better. Our life is permanently altered now. And if it ever comes out that you chose this path, I will never forgive you.
I heal a little every day. I finally fixed the broken spindle in the banister. I replaced the doorknob in Hannah’s room. I’m learning to do your household chores. It’s tough work, being you and me at the same time, but I’m stronger than I ever imagined.
Love, Claire.
I opened one eye. Hannah stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed in fury. I closed my eyes and prayed for it to be a dream. Will I ever sleep past seven again?
“Mommy, this is ’portant. Leah said that she wants to be Rapunzel, too. Today is trick or treat, and Leah’s gonna ruin it. Wake up!”
“I’m awake, Han. I’m awake.” I sat up and blinked. Geesh, the bedroom was a mess. “Well, Hannah, we have two Rapunzel dresses somewhere, I think, in the playroom. If Leah wants to be Rapunzel, too, I don’t see why not.”
“Because. The movie did not have two Rapunzels.” She held up one finger an inch from my face. “It had one Rapunzel. And that’s me. Because I have long blond hair, and Leah has curly brown hair. She can be Belle.”
It was easily the fourth Halloween discussion that week.
“I am not Belle. I don’t even like Belle. She wears ugly yellow. I want to be Rapunzel,” Leah said from the doorway.
Hannah turned to her. “Leah, you are the little sister. You have to do what I tell you to do. And I say you have to be Belle.”
I held up my hand. “Hannah, you know as well as I do that no one tells Leah what to do. Now listen. We have two trick or treat nights. One tonight here, and one tomorrow in Nanny and Pop-pop’s neighborhood. You can be Rapunzel tonight, and Leah can be Rapunzel tomorrow.”
“But—” two voices cried in unison.
“That’s it. Take it or leave it,” I commanded.
They filed out of the bedroom, angry at each other, but angrier at me. Newly joined in solidarity against a common enemy, they huddled in Hannah’s room. I heard whispering. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I looked at the clock. Six thirty. Good grief.
That evening, I escorted two Rapunzels up and down the neighborhood streets. I made small talk with the neighbors and visited briefly with Robin and Rob Masters who, prior to Greg’s memorial service, I hadn’t seen in months.