Thought I Knew You(85)

Several times, Greg cried openly, marveling at his children—so grown, small adults with opinions he didn’t help form and views of the world he didn’t give them. Hannah would shrink against the back of the couch, unused to seeing grown-ups cry so candidly.



Greg’s memory was spotty when it came to the year before he disappeared. He finally remembered Leah, or at least he said he did, although not specifically the day she was born. He sat on the wooden chair across from the couch, rapt as Hannah spoke. His face was alight with a joy I’d never seen. Because his baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes, I was struck frequently with the sensation of talking to a stranger. Not one expression or mannerism was recognizable as something I’d seen on my husband’s face. He had never worn baseball caps; he claimed they gave him a headache.

When we stood to go, he looked crushed. “Will you come back?”

“Yes, Greg, I will come back,” I promised. “Why would you think I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know.” His expression pierced a hole in my heart—pained, nervous, and so very sad.

I motioned for the girls to wait in the hallway for me. I kissed Greg on the cheek.

“Were we happy, Claire? As a family?” he asked.

I thought so, but you weren’t. How could I say that? The answer was, simply, that I didn’t. So I did what I’d gotten quite good at the last few weeks. I lied.

“Yes, we were happy, Greg.” And I left.





Drew and I took the girls to Applebee’s for dinner, and then we watched Cinderella in the hotel room. Hannah and Leah slept in one bed, while Drew and I slept in the other. Drew was quiet and withdrawn all night, a trait I was unused to in him. His reticence bothered me, but I let it go. I told myself that it was hard on him, too, and he had been nothing but accommodating.



The girls were fast asleep halfway through the movie, and Drew and I lay in bed, talking in whispers. I gave him an overview of the day, how the girls did, how Greg did. He pulled me to him, my head resting in the crook of his shoulder.

“How will this work?” he asked. “When Greg gets out of rehab, can he even live alone? Is he going to move back in?”

“No, he’s not living at our house. We’re divorced now, Drew.” But I’d had the same thoughts. Could Greg ever live alone? I had no idea. “It doesn’t matter right now. He has months of therapy ahead of him before he will be released anyway.” I sighed. “How can I tell him? He asked me tonight if we were happy, and I got so scared, I didn’t know what to say. I lied and said yes. I mean, it wasn’t a total lie. I thought we were happy.”

“Were you happy?” Drew asked.

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I would have been, if I had never known what it could be like. With you, I mean. Is that crazy?”

He shook his head. “This whole situation is crazy.”

He kissed my temple, then my mouth, sparking the same longing he always did. I wanted to drag him to the bathroom and make violent love to him. I wanted to erase Greg from my mind, from my heart. Instead, I lay in Drew’s arms until we both fell asleep.

Sunday, we spent the morning with Greg and left around noon for the eight-hour drive home. The first half of the ride, the girls chattered excitedly about their daddy being back. They fell asleep for the second half, exhausted from the weekend roller coaster. At eight o’clock, we pulled up to our house. Cameras, spotlights, news vans, reporters, and cameramen were all over the front lawn.

I clutched Drew’s arm. “Oh, my God! What the hell?”

Hannah woke up and looked out the window. “Mommy,” she cried, panic in her voice. “What’s going on?”

As we pulled into the driveway, reporters approached the car and knocked on Drew’s window. Questions were shouted out from all directions.



“Mrs. Barnes, how do you feel now that your husband is awake?”

“Who is in the car with you?”

“Are you in another relationship?”

“How are the children doing?”

I grabbed Leah, and Drew took Hannah. We ran inside and slammed the door. Both kids were crying, and I was shocked.

Drew slammed his fist against the door. “Shit!”

“Everyone calm down!” I shouted. “This is not a surprise. Our story is extraordinary, and I’m shocked it’s taken this long to spark interest.”

I rummaged in the cabinets until I found an empty coffee can. Before I could lose my nerve, I opened the front door and walked outside. Within seconds, flashes were going off, and people started shouting questions. I held up my hand.

When everyone quieted, I spoke loudly and clearly. “I realize my family’s story is exceptional. I will speak to one reporter, sometime later this week. I’ll call you. Please don’t call my house. You will win my favor by being respectful. My children are going through a lot right now, and this is scary to them. We’ve spent the weekend with their father, and we are exhausted. Please, go home. If you don’t go home and leave us alone, I will, without a doubt, not speak to any of you. Put your business cards in the can. This will be my last public comment. Thank you.”