Divorcing a missing person was relatively simple and took less than a month. Half of our assets had to be placed in escrow until Greg was found or declared deceased. Everything else was mine. If I were to sell the house, I had to reserve half of the estate in the escrow account. I signed an affidavit that stated that I had attempted to look for the missing person by phone, street address, internet searching, and even social networking websites. Matt Reynolds signed a similar affidavit and appeared at a court hearing as a witness to our search. He provided a judge with an inch-thick case file, including his investigation leading to Lake Onodaga. The judge made his determination on the spot, and I went from a widow to a divorcee. I attended the hearing without Drew, by my choice, but when I got home, he held me gently, knowing that the ruling was bittersweet.
The divorce had to be publicly announced in three newspapers as part of due diligence. In the event that Greg was hiding in the next county over, the court had to be able to say he had been publicly served. I dreaded that, knowing it was always possible that my incredible story would be picked up and splashed across headlines, which would give everyone entitlement to an opinion. I had enough guilt and didn’t need more from public opinion, from people who didn’t know the facts. I waited, but there was no blowback.
Overall, the divorce had little impact on my day-to-day life. I felt slightly freer to plan my future with Drew, but since I had believed Greg to be dead for some time, that wasn’t an emotional freedom, but a legal one. We started to speak of marriage abstractly, the way people did when they first start thinking it was a real possibility, as in Someday when we’re married… I wasn’t sure when that day would be, but if there was one thing I’d learned, it was that life could sometimes change drastically from year to year. There was a certain wisdom in patiently waiting for life to happen. I planned on being a divorcee for a while before I became a wife again.
One Thursday, I sat at the kitchen island, lazily doing a crossword puzzle. In the back of my mind, I thought about being married again, about officially sharing my home, my finances, and my life with another person, as opposed to the separate-yet-equal life I was currently leading. The doorbell rang, interrupting my reverie. Drying my hands on a dishtowel as I walked down the hall, I tried to remember if it was time for Girl Scout cookie sales. I opened the door.
“Hi, Matt. Did we have a meeting today? I must have completely forgotten.” I turned to walk back down the hall, then I realized we couldn’t have a meeting. Our last meeting had been three and a half months ago, in May. We wouldn’t meet again until—I did the math—November.
When I turned back, he still stood in the doorway. “Claire, can we come in?” he asked, his face unreadable.
We? I noticed a tall, gangly man behind him. He wore a navy blue suit and had a mustache and wire-rimmed glasses. I tried to place him and failed.
“Sure, come on in.” My breath caught. Had there been a development? For one split, awful second, I fervently hoped they had come to tell me Greg was dead. The room began to spin. I studied Matt’s face, and suddenly, I knew. “Matt, what’s going on?”
He motioned me into the living room. “Claire, please, sit down, okay?” His hand felt heavy and warm on my back. He was being too nice, too gentle, the way a person acted when he was about to shatter someone’s world.
I sat. Please, just say it.
“Claire, we found Greg.”
The room tilted. The last thing I heard before my world went black was, “He’s alive.”
Chapter 32
When I came to, Matt stood over me, concern creasing his brow.
He helped me up, then brought me a glass of water. He gestured at the tall thin man behind him. “Claire, this is Detective Ron Ferras. He’s from the Toronto police department. Greg is in Toronto, in Canada.” He waited for me to nod. “He’s in a federal care facility. Two years ago, Greg was mugged in downtown Toronto. Whoever mugged him then also pushed him off the curb in front of an oncoming car. The driver of the car called 911. He was taken to St. Michael’s Hospital, where he received treatment for nine months.”
The questions formed faster than I could ask them, as if I had lost the ability to speak. Why was he in Canada? Nothing made sense.
He continued, “When he remained in a persistent vegetative state, he was transferred out of the hospital and into a rehabilitation facility. That’s where he has been until six months ago.”
I had been staring at my hands, numbly. But at that, my head snapped up, and I met Matt’s eyes. I saw sympathy, apology, and something else. Pity?
“What happened six months ago?” I asked.
“He woke up.”