“What are you going to do when you have to meet his girlfriend?” she asked.
“The same thing he’s been doing for the last ten years, I guess. Pretend.” I didn’t relish the thought. “I’m sure she’s beautiful.”
Sarah put her hand over her mouth and giggled. “Remember that one girlfriend in college? She was Austrian or something? What was her name?”
“Inga!” we said in unison. Yes, I remembered Inga, the Austrian model. Dumb as a Box of Rocks Inga. Yoga Instructor Inga. I hated her. Drew’s guy friends made continuous infuriating comments about her bedroom prowess.
“What did you do to her again?” Sarah was looking upward, searching for the memory.
“I drew a mustache on her face at a party. She was half-passed out in the bathroom, and I used eyeliner.”
Sarah dissolved into laughter. I could barely think about it. My face burned, not from guilt, but from humiliation. I never wanted to admit the effect Drew’s love life had on me. He slowed down quite a bit in his old age, but his college years had been filled with women. Girls, really. Almost all of them were blondes, with a cumulative IQ significantly less than their nightly take at the Luscious Ladies gentleman’s club. Yes, I was fairly sure that Olivia was beautiful. I hoped that I could manage to keep my eyeliner in my purse.
Chapter 25
September brought two major milestones. One should have been huge: Hannah’s first day of kindergarten. But that event was usurped by the looming one-year anniversary at the end of the month. One full year without Greg.
When I put Hannah on the bus on the second of September and waved to her with one hand while blotting my eyes with a tissue with the other, I thought for the millionth time in the past year, Her daddy should be here to see this. I was quite used to the sentiment, sure that a milestone wouldn’t pass when I wouldn’t acknowledge Greg in some way.
I felt sentimental about the one-year mark. It was the anniversary of a horrific tragedy, but somehow, guiltily, I felt accomplished. I thought it was terrible, in a way, to feel any benefit from Greg’s death, but I felt stronger, more sure of myself. I could clean a gutter! I could repair plumbing! I had learned a lot in the last year. I am going to be okay. Should Greg be there? Yes, without question. Did I wish things were different? Absolutely. But somehow, life went on. And I had come a long way from the sorrowful wreck of a woman who could barely get herself and her children dressed. I hadn’t even sworn at a stranger in almost six months. So for that at least, I found a very small reason to celebrate.
I decided to acknowledge the anniversary on September twenty-eighth, the Tuesday that Greg left for his trip, the last day I had seen him. I didn’t know the date he technically disappeared, or died, if we were going with the current theory.
The morning of September twenty-eighth dawned like every other morning. I got Hannah on the bus. I took Leah to the toddler gym and chatted with the other mothers while Miss Megan clapped her hands and directed all the children to circle time. But I was repeatedly jolted by memory. I found myself trying to remember what I had done last year at whatever exact time I had the thought. I couldn’t. I could remember October first, that Friday when Greg didn’t come home, but I had no memory of kissing my husband his last kiss goodbye. I was sure that I did kiss him goodbye; I always did. Later, I was struck by the fact that I couldn’t remember our last words to each other. I love you. Be safe. That was what we always said. Try as I might, I could not specifically recall saying it.
I didn’t remind Hannah and Leah about the anniversary. I went about the evening ritual, as if the day were like any other.
After I put them to bed, I sat in the living room with Greg’s notebook and pen. I turned to the back of the book, where there were about twenty blank pages.
Dear Greg,
Today, I’m honoring you in my heart as you’ve been gone from our lives for one year. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what happened to you. I’m writing this to help with my never-ending quest for closure, and in the farfetched chance I ever see you again, may you read it and know how I felt.
First and foremost, I miss you. I miss your laugh. I miss our early mornings and our late nights and our private moments. Our marriage wasn’t perfect, but I did believe that it was good. I have since learned that you kept things from me. Your inheritance. Apparently, you golf? You possibly had a girlfriend. You stayed at a lavish hotel together. I feel like a fool, na?ve and trusting. For our marriage was so very dear to me and clearly not equally important to you. You held parts of yourself hostage, parts I never had access to. Because of that, I never really knew you. Which makes my whole life seem like a joke. For that, I am angry and may never forgive. I’ll try.