“Yeah, about three now. She’s pretty great, very funny. I actually think you’d like her. It’s what I was going to talk to you about. I want you to meet her.”
I felt sucker punched. I could handle hearing about his girlfriends. Sort of. Meeting them would be another story. I briefly flashed back to all the years Drew had endured me being married. The shoe was on the other foot. I had pretended for years that he was unaffected by my love life, my dating, my marriage.
“Oh. It must be serious, then?” I tried to sound casual.
He coughed. “Yeah. I think it might be.” He sighed. “Timing,” he said softly.
“Yeah, it always sucks.” But I knew that for Drew to want me to meet one of his girlfriends, he had to be at least halfway in love with her. In love with her. I banged the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. I thought of everything Drew had done for me in the last few months. And the years he’d remained my closest confidant when it must have killed him at times. He had always thought of me then. The least I can do is think of him now.
I put a fake smile on my face, even though he couldn’t see it. I hoped the big smile at least made my next words feel believable. “I’d love to meet her, Drew. When?”
“Thanks for that. For pretending.” He laughed quietly. “I don’t know when. Soon. Can I bring her for dinner?”
“Yes, call me next week. We’ll figure out a date.” I made the excuse of not wanting to talk long while driving and ended the call.
I had my monthly meeting with Detective Reynolds the following Monday. He brought me the customary Boston Creams. After monitoring credit card history, bank accounts, and general social security activity—meaning Greg had not applied for another credit card, a name change, or opened any bank accounts—the police were noting Greg to be “most likely” deceased in his file. But since no direct evidence had been found, the file would remain open, but unsolved. After a year of Greg being missing—the anniversary was only two months away—our monthly meetings would be replaced by a brief appointment every six months, and then eventually, only if new information arose.
“I’m sorry, Claire. I really am. Do you have any questions?”
Do I have any questions? Sure. Does anyone have any answers? “What should I do now? How do we move on?” I picked at a piece of hardened jelly stuck to the table.
“I don’t know. Maybe a memorial service wouldn’t be a terrible idea.” His eyes were compassionate. I always thought Matt Reynolds had the kindest smile I’d ever seen.
I mulled it over. No, it wouldn’t be a terrible idea. I could tell the girls that Daddy was in Heaven. With Annie’s Grandpa. I could start to close the door, exit Purgatory, stage right.
Would I have the gall to go through with it? Half of Clinton thought Greg had left me. Would I be a laughingstock if I had a memorial service for him? Seeds of doubt began to sprout in my mind. My anger over the last few months had been directed toward a man who had left me. What if he hadn’t? What if something terrible had happened to him? While it wasn’t the first time I wondered that, previous musings had always been through a thin veil of anger. Free of anger and resentment, I felt profoundly sad. I felt, for the first time, like a widow. Everything was upside down. Even if he hadn’t left me, our marriage wasn’t what I thought. I thought of the money, the probable affair, and all the ways in which I never knew Greg, how he had never let me know him. He had held himself hostage, a husband in law and practice only, emotionally checked out. His phony business trips. The Grand Del Mar, his apparent golf game. How could I memorialize someone I never knew?
Then, I thought of the girls. To keep my sanity, to not dissolve into bitter anger, I had to believe they knew Greg as a daddy, that to them, at least, he gave his entire self. Images of Greg the Dad flashed in my mind—Greg taking Hannah on a piggyback ride, rocking the newborn Leah in the middle of the night in the dimly lit nursery, teaching Hannah to play catch in the yard, letting them take turns on the riding mower while I watched nervously from the window. The blades aren’t running, Claire. I swear! Yes, we could memorialize Greg, the father, and it would mean something.
It could very well mean everything.
I arranged the memorial for the second Sunday in August, which also happened to be Greg’s birthday. Pastor Joe agreed to give the service. I invited Mom, Dad, Drew, and Sarah. Some people from the community would show up, I knew—Melinda and Steve, some of Greg’s old coworkers. The church congregation would be already there, as it was simply a service dedication. I asked my dad to speak, as I couldn’t do it, and Greg had no close family. The Saturday prior to the service, I sat the girls down and told them that their daddy was in Heaven.