He turned, and his face was thinner than I remembered, but unmistakable. I knew it as well as my own. Greg. I recognized his deep brown eyes and his easy smile, which he gave me almost immediately. “Claire, I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would.”
He looked like a runner, although judging by what I’d been told, he couldn’t have run down the hall if he wanted to. The relief ebbed away, leaving a tumultuous sick feeling in its wake. The desire to turn and run was overwhelming.
Awkwardly, we approached each other. When he hugged me, his arms felt foreign. He didn’t even smell the same. It was like hugging a stranger. I didn’t realize I was crying until he wiped my cheek.
“This is so weird,” I said.
He shrugged. “In my mind, I could have seen you yesterday.”
“What is your last memory of me?” I had no idea where the timeline in his mind had stopped. I needed a reference.
He looked upward, as if searching his fleeting memory for permanent pictures. “I’m not sure. I remember you finding out you were pregnant. Are you pregnant?” He looked confused.
I shook my head. “We had Leah four years ago.” I started to cry again; I really couldn’t believe he had no memory of Leah. When the girls saw him, he would have to pretend. Oh God, when would that be? “Why are you in Toronto?” I asked. He shook his head.
“I don’t know. Did we move here?”
I realized his answers would not be helpful. I was getting no closure from the meeting. It would only bring more questions. But I had to know, had to ask, “Who is Karen?”
He shook his head again. “I have no idea. Who is Karen?” He looked from me to Dr. Goodman.
I put my head in my hands, closed my eyes, and willed myself not to cry.
“Are you happy?” Greg asked. “Did Hannah miss me?” His questions were childlike.
Dr. Goodman had spoken about that, too. The sophistication a person gained with age was gone. The learned deception of hiding emotions, finely honed in most adults, had been stripped away by the injury. He wore them on his sleeve.
“I’m happy you’re alive, Greg.” That, at least, was the truth. My children had a father again. The confusion of that would eventually pass. To have their father back was permanent.
I searched the large room, awkwardly looking for a place for us to sit and talk. In one corner stood a round table with two chairs and in the other, a long corporate-looking couch. In the middle of the room was a hospital bed, and at the foot of the bed was an entertainment console and a television. The bed was stripped bare and uninviting.
I motioned to the couch, and as we sat, I reached over and, out of sheer habit, lightly touched his knee. The gesture was so natural and easy, and I marveled at how it hadn’t faded with years of disuse. He put his arm around me, and we stayed that way for a moment, faintly rocking like the gentle sway of a boat. He seemed unable to sit still, physically moved by some unknown source of energy, like a toddler.
“Are you going to take me home today?” he asked.
Dr. Goodman answered, “Greg, you still need therapy six to eight hours a day. You can’t go home yet. I’m sorry.”
“Greg, tell me how you remembered,” I said. Dr. Goodman had said that talking about remembering would help him remember more. He’d had no one to spoon-feed him memories, which were just foundations for more memories, so in his situation, it was a wonder he ever remembered anything at all.
“I had a card that had your name on it.”
I nodded, encouraging him.
“I stared at it, trying to figure out why that card meant so much to me. And then I remembered you. What you looked like. You were playing in the leaves with a little girl who had blond hair in a ponytail and wore a blue coat.”
“Hannah had a blue coat, light blue. It’s Leah’s now.”
“Who’s Leah?” he asked. He looked at Dr. Goodman, who jumped in again to explain that Leah was his daughter, the child I was pregnant with in his memory.
I tried not to scream. Instead, I said, “Tell me more.”
“And then I just knew. I knew you were Claire, and I was Greg. It took me a few hours, but then I remembered the little girl was Hannah. And Cody, our dog! How’s Cody?”
“Cody ran away. Actually the same day you… disappeared. Do you remember your accident?” I asked cautiously.
“No. I don’t remember anything. The last thing I remember is you being pregnant, I think, because I don’t remember the baby.”
“Leah,” I said, forcefully.
“Right. Leah.” He smiled innocently. “I’m glad you came, Claire.”
“I’m glad I came, too, Greg,” I lied.
That night, I paced my hotel room. I couldn’t relax. I was so incredibly tired, but I could not stop thinking. I called Drew, both dreading and desperately needing the call.