“Did the policeman find him?” Hannah asked.
“No, he didn’t, sweetheart. But…” I faltered, unsure of how to continue. “It’s the only thing that makes sense, Hannah. The police have all these alerts set up. So if Daddy used his credit card, or spent money, or really did anything, they would find him. And he hasn’t. And you can’t go this long without spending any money. He wouldn’t be able to live anywhere or do anything. We’ve looked in hospitals all over, and we’ve had his picture up on the internet, on a special webpage for missing people.”
“But what if he’s not dead? What if he’s hiding? Like Leah does, but bigger somehow?”
“That’s okay, Hannah. Tomorrow, we’re just going to talk about Daddy and how much we loved him. It’s a special day to remember what a good daddy he was. And if he is hiding, and he comes home, we can tell him all about the day we had where we talked about how wonderful he was. Okay?”
She nodded uncertainly, and Leah mimicked the motion.
“The policeman is still going to look at those things I said earlier, okay? His credit cards and spending money. We’re not totally giving up, but it makes sense that Daddy is probably in Heaven.” Their eyes were so heartbreaking, clouded with confusion, I couldn’t look at them. Was I making things worse? There should be instructions for such an event. I had convinced myself that I couldn’t screw up if I loved them enough, but what if I was wrong?
The day of the memorial service dawned unusually sunny and cool. Cloudless, the sky seemed too cheery, a day for flying kites or picnicking in the park, hiking through a forest or swimming in a lake, not for memorializing your most likely deceased husband.
As I lay in bed in the quiet of the morning, I had my own memorial for Greg. The girls needed the service, and to some extent, so did I. I needed the closure it could bring, the finality. I would get a label—widow. Are you married? I’m a widow. At least that sounded official, better than sort of.
As I lay in bed, I wondered how many of my memories were true? Memories were tricky that way. Time tinted perception, which altered the memory, bending it like light through a prism, until what a person remembered might only contain slivers of fact. The rest was just a colorful reflection of emotion—hope, denial, anger, fear. I knew our marriage hadn’t been perfect, but like so many people with drifting marriages, I believed we had all the time in the world to figure it out. I believed we would be fine. When he said it was “work” or “stress,” I bought it. Marriages ebbed and flowed. I never knew how little of Greg I had access to. I thought back to all the things we had never talked about.
That night with Drew, Greg had clearly heard us talking, heard Drew’s anger. The words he repeated back the next day weren’t a fluke. They were a hint. So why hadn’t we talked about it? I had thought of Greg differently after that night. He always knew how Drew felt about me, aware of the undercurrent I’d inadvertently tried to suppress for years. Yet never once did he ask us to end our friendship. I wondered how long Greg had felt married to both Drew and me? I wondered how much of myself I had really given Greg. A part of my heart had always belonged to another man. Could I really be angry if Greg eventually gave part of himself to another woman?
Yet for ten years—two years of dating and seven of the eight years we were married— Greg had never seemed to falter in his dedication to me, our marriage, and our family. If we had talked, would things have been different? If he had asked me to temper back my friendship with Drew, how would I have reacted? I would have been angry, incredulous. How could you? He’s my best friend. But would I have done it? To save my marriage? No. Without question. No. I wouldn’t even have taken the suggestion seriously. Greg might have been my husband, but Drew was as necessary to my life as food or air.
In my mind, the truth dawned. So raw and bleeding, I couldn’t accept it with my eyes open. Drew had always come first. He was there first. Simply, he was loved first. The failure of my marriage, if in fact it did fail, was my fault. Acknowledging that was the very least I could do for Greg on the morning of his memorial service. He may have stepped outside the marriage officially, and should that come to light, I could easily play the wounded party with believability. But in my core, deep down where it carried the most weight, I knew I never had both feet in our marriage from the beginning.
With a heavy heart, I got up and took a shower. It felt reminiscent of the days when Greg first disappeared, when I found it almost impossible to get out of bed. My feet were leaden, and my chest ached. Alone in the spray of water, in the quiet before the girls woke up, I sobbed for the last time that day.