On Saturday, two days later, I sat in the front seat of Matt Reynold’s Suburban. Drew stayed home with the girls; we hadn’t told them anything. Until I knew what we were up against, I wanted to keep them innocent for as long as possible. The last two days had been awful. Drew and I did not speak much, my silence from shock, his from terror. I had nothing in me to reassure him, as I put on a performance every minute of every day for Hannah and Leah.
Three times, I had to ask Matt to pull over while I retched on the side of the interstate. The trip was eight hours long, and I was prone to motion sickness, which seemed to be exacerbated by fear. I called Mom twice to check on Hannah and Leah. She asked very few questions, just if I was all right. I’ll never be all right again. Why was Greg in Canada?
I had a sudden thought. “You said there was an alert on Greg’s passport. Why didn’t it work?”
Matt tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “He may have gone into Canada before we activated the alert. We did pull border control records at the time, but customs doesn’t scan everyone’s passport. Canada is a bit more… lackadaisical in their border control.”
“I just thought… since 9/11… governments were tracking who was going in and out. Seems paranoid, I guess.”
“No, I think it’s a common misconception.”
When we crossed the border into Canada, we were waved through without so much as a glance. Matt raised his eyebrows at me, as if to say, See? I called Drew to tell him we had crossed the border.
As we exited the highway, going into Toronto, Matt explained, “We’re going to a rehab facility. It’s like a nursing home. We’ll speak to Greg’s doctors and his therapists first. He has several of each. Greg spends six to eight hours a day in this facility, but he lives in a community home. It’s a transitional place, like a halfway house for the brain injured.”
“What does ‘brain injured’ mean?” I asked, feeling stupid.
“That’s Greg’s current diagnosis. I’m sure it’s more complicated, but basically, when he was hit by the car, his head was struck with such force that his brain was severely damaged. In many cases of traumatic brain injury, a vegetative state aids with healing. It’s the body’s way of shutting down to the most basic levels, like hibernation. Healing of the brain is the hardest, most arduous and slowest process the body can do.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“After Detective Ferras came to tell me that Greg was awake, I researched it.”
My mind came alive. Which was when? Where had Greg been for six months? Why did they wait so long to find us? I wished for a pen and paper so I could write down all my questions. “So if Greg woke up six months ago, why are we only hearing about this now?”
“Two weeks ago, Greg started remembering who he is.”
“So he woke up six months ago with no memory of who he is?” I asked, incredulous. That was a movie plot, not someone’s real life. My real life.
Matt shook his head. “We’ll find out the details from Greg’s doctors. But from what I understand, he didn’t know his name for the first five and a half months.”
“This is all too much. It’s like a soap opera.” I rubbed my forehead, massaging the information into my brain.
I gazed out the window, trying to organize my questions, my thoughts. I had no feelings; I was numb. If Greg was alive, what did I know to be true with certainty? The answer: nothing.
I felt a piercing guilt. I have been living with, loving, and making love to another man while my husband lay in a hospital in another country. Then, I callously divorced him. I motioned for Matt to pull over again, so I could heave my guilt onto the pavement. Once finished, I sat in the gravel and sobbed. Matt rubbed my back gently.
Take me back to New Jersey, I wanted to beg. But I could never go back, not in the same way. Nothing would ever be the same again.
The rehabilitation facility was a gray brick building in a hospital complex. It looked like every other hospital complex I’d ever seen. Matt led the way across the lobby to an information desk. I hung back, staring at my hands, my feet, or the floor. He spoke softly to the receptionist and then motioned for me to follow. I felt seized by panic. Were we going to see Greg? I bent over at the waist, unable to breathe. Matt started toward me, and I felt a pang of pity for the wonderful, quiet man with the sad eyes who seemed to do nothing but comfort me in times of crisis. I held up my hand and motioned for him to give me a moment. He stopped and waited patiently. After a few minutes, we continued down the hall.