Thought I Knew You(89)

Since our conversation in the kitchen, Drew stayed close to my side, protective and, conversely, insecure. He frequently touched my hand or my shoulder, making sure I was still there, anchored in our life as much as I could be, with one foot in Toronto. He kissed me goodbye every Saturday morning at six o’clock, as if I were off to work or shopping with Sarah. I wondered what lengths he was willing to go to for me, and if I could ever repay him. I doubted it. I pondered the debt I owed and what a toll the situation had to be taking on him. Then, I swallowed my guilt, pushing it down, deep into the place I only acknowledge when I’m alone. And sometimes, not even then.





Chapter 38



The fifth Friday, while I packed, we fought. He stood at the foot of the bed, silent and brooding, watching me fold shirts and jeans and place them carefully into my red Samsonite. Without looking up, I asked, “What?”

He sighed like a petulant child. “What’s going on, Claire?” His voice held a pleading, almost panicky, note.

“I don’t expect you to understand.” Socks, underwear, an extra pair of shoes. I packed virtually the same suitcase every weekend with Dr. Goodman in the back of my mind. Even something as simple as wearing the same shirt can help. Greg’s condition and his recovery were my only thoughts anymore. “You’ve never been married.”

“I’ve only ever wanted to marry one person. Who doesn’t seem to want to marry me.”

I looked up from my packing, astonished at his childishness. “Really? You’re going to pick this fight? This time?” The worst time in the world.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so…” He ran his hand through his hair and, with his left hand, threw an imaginary baseball at the back wall, expending energy. He let out a groan, almost a half-growl. “I’m frustrated by all of this. I know it’s selfish. I’m not an idiot.”

“It’s not about you,” I said, turning back to my suitcase.

“It never is, Claire. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.” And he left. Not in a fury, with slamming doors and yelling, but quietly, slipping out of the bedroom before I even realized he was gone, and somehow that was worse.



I came to bed late, and he was either asleep or pretending to be, and for the first time, I wondered if that fight was the beginning of the end. We’d always been honest with each other. But our conversations had become strained and halting, and I didn’t know how to fix it. There was resentment there, for sure, bubbling right under the surface, like superheated water, ready to explode at the slightest disturbance. It had only been a month—a month!—not that long when I said it out loud. But when the days blended into each other, and the weekends came breathlessly, one on top of the other, a month was forever.





Greg was getting better. I could see it every weekend. His strength was returning, although his body was still slight compared to his old stature. His memory was quicker; he could recall things I’d already told him, but it was still slippery, a suitcase full of silk scarves, sliding around, their fabric tumbled together in a rich heap of color. Indistinguishable. Possibly, it always would be, Dr. Goodman said.

“What will happen when I come home?” Greg asked.

We’d been sitting together, looking at pictures. I’d brought up his childhood pictures, photos of his mom and dad and some cousins.

I closed the book and ran my hand over the cover. “I don’t know, Greg. Maybe a group home, like you’re in now?”

“And you’ll be where? In our old house? With the kids?”

It sounded so ridiculous, even to me. I nodded, not knowing what else to do. For the first time, I realized that I hadn’t even glimpsed the impact Greg’s return was going to have on my life. Moving would be in my future. I thought back to Friday and the fight with Drew. I wondered if Drew would stay with me. Who would, really? If the roles were reversed, would I stay? Could anyone blame him if he left?

That night, I lay on the bed in the dark hotel room, the television on for light, but no sound. The flickering lent a dreamlike quality to the room, a vacillation that mimicked our conversation. I called Drew, and we spoke at the same time.



“Did you—”

“When are you—”

We both laughed, soft and unsure.

My mind drew comparisons to the calls with Greg, in the months before he disappeared when our halting phone conversations were heavy with silence and alternately, ill-timed starts and stops. I couldn’t think of anything to say to Drew, and it was easier to make excuses to hang up.

I slept fitfully, tossing and turning with the sensation that I was failing on all accounts—as an ex-wife and caregiver, as a mother, as a girlfriend.