“Annie said her grandpa went to Heaven and she doesn’t get to see him anymore, but she knows that he can see her. And she said that maybe my daddy was there, too.” She smiled. “Annie’s grandpa loved baseball like Daddy, so maybe they’re playing baseball together.”
“Hannah, I think your daddy would love to play baseball with Annie’s grandpa.” I kissed her head. I made a mental note to call a child psychologist after the New Year. I needed guidance. How could I prevent my children from carrying tragedy around for the rest of their lives? How could I ensure that losing their father would just be something that happened to them, rather than reshape who they would have become? I didn’t know. I realized then that my children’s future was irreversibly altered; the women they would have become no longer existed. My heart ached.
That night, I got the girls ready for bed in their Christmas pajamas. Greg had always read The Night Before Christmas. It seemed unfair to have Drew do it, so I settled on the couch and tucked the girls under each arm. I opened the book, hoping I could do it justice. I must have passed the test because they were each half asleep when I finished. Drew carried Hannah to her room, while I tucked Leah into bed.
After filling the living room with my Christmas extravaganza, we gazed at the tree. How many Christmases had Greg and I done the exact same thing?
Drew took the chair; I sat on the couch. He had been careful with me all week. Not to get too close. Not wanting to get caught up in something we’d regret. The undercurrent had been there as long as I could remember, and our timing was always terrible.
“Remember that Christmas you came, right after Hannah was born?” I asked suddenly. We never talked about that Christmas. I wonder how long you’ve been in love with my wife. I’d heard only that one line, a portion of the conversation. What else had been said? I never knew. In the years since, Drew’s visits frequently fell while Greg traveled, as I subconsciously kept them apart. The revelation came so clear in the muted colorful glow of the tree lights. I had partitioned my life, made myself a bridge for the gap between the two people I loved the most.
Drew nodded, averting his eyes. His face was impassive, but his eyes flickered imperceptibly.
“What happened with you and Greg?” I could never have asked Drew before; the question seemed too violating, a betrayal of Greg. I don’t much care if I betray Greg at this point.
Drew shook his head. “Let it go, Claire. This helps no one.”
“It helps me. Right now, I feel like it’s possible I never knew my husband as well as I thought I did. I’m second-guessing all sorts of things so that I can put together the puzzle. You have a very small piece of this puzzle. I need it, Drew. Please.”
He took a deep breath. “He was insecure about our relationship—mine and yours, that is—and he confronted me about it.”
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I literally said nothing. I didn’t deny anything; I didn’t confirm anything. I just remained silent. He was resolute, Claire, adamant in what he was going to believe. I didn’t answer, and he went upstairs.”
I thought back to that night, heat flushing my cheeks. Something had shifted after that. I had tried in a roundabout way to question Greg, who feigned ignorance and scoffed as though I were imagining things. I couldn’t tell him I’d been eavesdropping like a child and heard part of the conversation on the stairs. Before that night, I had never seen Greg jealous. I had never witnessed insecurity in him at all. He seemed above all that, brash in his knowledge that I loved only him. Or so I thought. I even deluded myself into believing our lovemaking that night had been about us. But in hindsight, the sex was completely territorial. He should have just lifted his leg to urinate on me.
I laughed out loud at the thought. Drew looked up in surprise, raising his eyebrows.
“I heard part of it,” I blurted. “I was on the stairs.”
“Ahh, Claire…” Drew stared into his wine glass, swirling the red like a witch doctor looking for answers in a bubbling cauldron.
The silence stretched out between us, taut like wrapped canvas. His face was hidden in shadow, unreadable for so many reasons. I felt nakedly vulnerable and wished I could reach out and pull the words back. Regardless of what Drew said next, they would always be there between us, the suggestion of Drew’s tightly guarded feelings, that up until now, I had perhaps not even acknowledged to myself.
Drew reclined the chair with an audible creak, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles. In his supine position, eyes on the ceiling, his face went from unreadable to invisible. “Remember the day we played hide and seek?”