Detective Matt Reynolds gave a statement on Saturday. “Our investigation was sound. We never stopped searching for Greg Barnes, and we have the records to prove that.”
You still have to wonder why they couldn’t find him. Both Claire Barnes and Detective Reynolds claim they searched tirelessly for her husband. And then, they stopped searching. A mere three months ago, Claire Barnes filed for, and was granted, a divorce from her husband. A month ago, Greg Barnes regained his memory.
Claire said, “Of course it’s been hard. Greg doesn’t remember our life together. He doesn’t remember our youngest daughter most of the time. I travel to Toronto every weekend, and we work on what the doctors call his episodic memory, basically reconstructing his past through talking, photographs, and mementos.”
Greg currently resides in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, in a community housing environment designed specifically for the brain-injured. He participates in six to eight hours of therapy every day and volunteers for the community one day a week.
But when asked what will happen after Greg can come home, Claire Barnes shrugs and appears lost in thought. “I don’t know. We’re all taking it one day at a time.”
I was in shock. The article was so blatantly slanted. It contained no mention of Greg’s lies or the reason why we had no idea he was in Toronto, several hundred miles from where he had claimed he was going. I sat dumbfounded at the kitchen island. My newly remodeled island, I thought bitterly.
Drew came into the kitchen, whistling, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He stopped when he saw my face and the newspaper. “Can I read it?”
Wordlessly, I handed it to him. He wasn’t painted so great in the article either.
As he read, his mouth dropped open. “What did you say to her?” he asked tautly.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I told the truth. That was the point, remember?”
“Hey, relax. Don’t get mad at me. I thought giving an interview was a bad idea to begin with.” His eyes flashed and we faced off across the island.
I waved my hand, defeated. “Whatever.”
Drew looked pained. The last few weeks had taken their toll on him. He smiled tentatively. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” He touched my hand lightly. I laced my fingers through his. He massaged my palm with his thumb and looked down at the counter thoughtfully. “One day at a time?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Drew. Yes, right now, one day at a time. Will Greg move in here? No, probably not. Do I know what will happen? No, not at all. I’m so scared. He still has no idea he and I aren’t married anymore.” I dropped my head into my hands and stared at the counter.
Drew moved behind me and massaged my shoulders. “I’m sorry. Again, Claire. I’m sorry. I’m… I guess I’m scared.” He rested his cheek against the top of my head.
I hugged his arms around me, leaning back into him. “I know. Me, too, you know? And I’m pissed. Who does Rebecca Riley think she is? I picked her because her writing was so damn boring. Why did she get all sensationalistic on me?”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, digesting the morning, another new kink in our lives.
“Do you still love Greg?” Drew asked.
I knew he’d wanted to ask that question since I had started commuting to Canada every weekend, leaving him to take care of my kids in my house. Our house. I considered how to answer. “Yes. I do. He’s the father of my children. I’ll always love him.”
I saw his eyes go blank, defensively shutting down. He looked down.
Placing my hands on either side of his face, I forced him to look me in the eyes. “I will always be his family. Can you understand that? Can you live with that? Forever?”
Drew didn’t respond. I didn’t expect him to; it wasn’t a question he could answer on the fly. I was asking him for some serious considerations. Things had been strained between us, my trips to Toronto interrupting any chance of the two of us connecting. Forging our own life together had been temporarily put on hold. I had nothing left in me to devote to our relationship.
My closest friends were supportive after the article was published. Robin brought me a bottle of wine one night to “drink my anger away” and then stayed to share it. Sarah ranted and raved on the phone as much as I needed her to. Mom wrote a letter to the editor. Even Melinda called to ask me if I needed anything, saying she thought Rebecca Riley was a muckraker, which I found rather humorous, considering the source.
But strangers and even acquaintances were not as kind. At my yearly checkup, the receptionist was borderline rude. A few women from church wouldn’t even say hello to me when I volunteered to help with the rummage sale fundraiser. Since I wasn’t going to be around to help with the event, I offered to help set up a few days early. My offer was received with cold glares and an offhand comment about it “being taken care of.” I resisted the urges to grab people by the collars and yell, “Do you realize he was cheating on me? That he lied about where he was?” I doubted doing that would convince anyone of my sanity.