Thought I Knew You(79)

“Greg’s mother has been dead for almost ten years. And we have another daughter, Leah. She’s younger than Hannah, so she was only two when Greg… disappeared.”

“He knows his mother is not living, but he never mentioned Leah.” I felt my jaw drop in a silent oh, and she continued quickly. “The earliest and latest memories are the last to recover, if they ever do. So the baby memories we have, those quick snatches of time that are snapshots in our mind? For him, those might be long gone. The last year or two of his life before the accident might come back eventually, but it’s not guaranteed. He never mentioned Leah, so I’m guessing he doesn’t remember her.” She sat next to me, with her soft cool hand covering mine, seeming human for the first time, and explained, in detail, all the ways in which I would no longer know my husband, or more accurately, all the ways in which he would no longer know me. The medical jargon flew over my head, but certain phrases sliced through me, sharp and cold, a surgical knife carefully bisecting my life. Learned behavior… impulsive… skewed moral compass… increased anger and irritability…

Finally, to my relief, she seemed to run out of facts. “Claire, are you ready to see Greg?”

I felt lightheaded, but I nodded. She stood and motioned for me to follow. We left the conference room and walked down the hall, where I would see my husband for the first time in over two years.





Chapter 33



I hesitated at the door.

“When you’re ready,” Dr. Goodman said.

When I gathered my nerve and pushed open the door, he stood at the window on the opposite side of the room, his back to me. He was unrecognizably short and very thin, and for a moment, I felt a wilting relief. It’s not him. Thank God. My vision wavered and I grabbed the doorframe for support.

He turned, and his face was thinner than I remembered, but unmistakable. I knew it as well as my own. Greg. I recognized his deep brown eyes and his easy smile, which he gave me almost immediately. “Claire, I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would.”

He looked like a runner, although judging by what I’d been told, he couldn’t have run down the hall if he wanted to. The relief ebbed away, leaving a tumultuous sick feeling in its wake. The desire to turn and run was overwhelming.

Awkwardly, we approached each other. When he hugged me, his arms felt foreign. He didn’t even smell the same. It was like hugging a stranger. I didn’t realize I was crying until he wiped my cheek.

“This is so weird,” I said.

He shrugged. “In my mind, I could have seen you yesterday.”

“What is your last memory of me?” I had no idea where the timeline in his mind had stopped. I needed a reference.

He looked upward, as if searching his fleeting memory for permanent pictures. “I’m not sure. I remember you finding out you were pregnant. Are you pregnant?” He looked confused.



I shook my head. “We had Leah four years ago.” I started to cry again; I really couldn’t believe he had no memory of Leah. When the girls saw him, he would have to pretend. Oh God, when would that be? “Why are you in Toronto?” I asked. He shook his head.

“I don’t know. Did we move here?”

I realized his answers would not be helpful. I was getting no closure from the meeting. It would only bring more questions. But I had to know, had to ask, “Who is Karen?”

He shook his head again. “I have no idea. Who is Karen?” He looked from me to Dr. Goodman.

I put my head in my hands, closed my eyes, and willed myself not to cry.

“Are you happy?” Greg asked. “Did Hannah miss me?” His questions were childlike.

Dr. Goodman had spoken about that, too. The sophistication a person gained with age was gone. The learned deception of hiding emotions, finely honed in most adults, had been stripped away by the injury. He wore them on his sleeve.

“I’m happy you’re alive, Greg.” That, at least, was the truth. My children had a father again. The confusion of that would eventually pass. To have their father back was permanent.

I searched the large room, awkwardly looking for a place for us to sit and talk. In one corner stood a round table with two chairs and in the other, a long corporate-looking couch. In the middle of the room was a hospital bed, and at the foot of the bed was an entertainment console and a television. The bed was stripped bare and uninviting.

I motioned to the couch, and as we sat, I reached over and, out of sheer habit, lightly touched his knee. The gesture was so natural and easy, and I marveled at how it hadn’t faded with years of disuse. He put his arm around me, and we stayed that way for a moment, faintly rocking like the gentle sway of a boat. He seemed unable to sit still, physically moved by some unknown source of energy, like a toddler.