“Claire,” he said, “they’re so big. Hannah is so big. I’ve missed everything. Why?” He sank to the floor, letting go of them, his delight turning to sorrow.
The girls scurried back to me. He put his head on the floor and cried. My heart felt ripped apart for him. For us. I reached out, and for the first time since I discovered he was alive, held Greg in earnest. Hannah stood at the door, protectively embracing Leah.
I waved her back to us. “It’s okay, honey. Daddy is sad because he’s missed you so much.”
She reached out in a gesture beyond her years and patted Greg on the back, shushing him the way I did Leah whenever she fell or got hurt. Greg cried heaving sobs, and we waited patiently for them to subside. When he finally straightened, he didn’t apologize for his outburst or try to make excuses.
It’s the brain injury. He has no idea how to restrain his grief.
We all sat silently on the floor for a few moments, holding each other.
Then, Leah announced, “Daddy, I’m so glad to see you, finally!”
And we laughed.
Chapter 36
We stayed with Greg until four o’clock in the afternoon. By then, the girls were hungry, and we were all mentally exhausted. For three hours, we sat in the small room in the rehab facility and told the stories of our lives, randomly, all talking at once in a jumble of words, which confused Greg most of the time. We told the story of the time we went looking for a Christmas tree, and Greg wanted the biggest tree he found, which wouldn’t have fit in our house. We had gotten in a fight, then, because I tried to be agreeable. We settled on a slightly smaller behemoth of a tree that still didn’t fit in our house. Greg had to carve out the back of the tree to fit into the corner of the living room. On the upside, I had enough greens to make a live wreath. Hannah remembered that well, as it had happened the Christmas before Greg disappeared.
We let Hannah guide the conversation, bringing up memories at random. Some would spark Greg’s memory, and some wouldn’t.
She would turn to Greg, hope shining on her face, and ask, “Do you remember, Daddy?”
He would sadly shake his head and say, “Tell me what you remember, Hannah.”
And she would. But I could tell she was disappointed. Leah didn’t have memories to contribute, but she delighted in telling Greg all about preschool, day camp, and all the new things she could do. Hannah showed me how to tie my own shoes! I can color a whole picture and not go outside the lines at all!
Several times, Greg cried openly, marveling at his children—so grown, small adults with opinions he didn’t help form and views of the world he didn’t give them. Hannah would shrink against the back of the couch, unused to seeing grown-ups cry so candidly.
Greg’s memory was spotty when it came to the year before he disappeared. He finally remembered Leah, or at least he said he did, although not specifically the day she was born. He sat on the wooden chair across from the couch, rapt as Hannah spoke. His face was alight with a joy I’d never seen. Because his baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes, I was struck frequently with the sensation of talking to a stranger. Not one expression or mannerism was recognizable as something I’d seen on my husband’s face. He had never worn baseball caps; he claimed they gave him a headache.
When we stood to go, he looked crushed. “Will you come back?”
“Yes, Greg, I will come back,” I promised. “Why would you think I wouldn’t?”
“I don’t know.” His expression pierced a hole in my heart—pained, nervous, and so very sad.
I motioned for the girls to wait in the hallway for me. I kissed Greg on the cheek.
“Were we happy, Claire? As a family?” he asked.
I thought so, but you weren’t. How could I say that? The answer was, simply, that I didn’t. So I did what I’d gotten quite good at the last few weeks. I lied.
“Yes, we were happy, Greg.” And I left.
Drew and I took the girls to Applebee’s for dinner, and then we watched Cinderella in the hotel room. Hannah and Leah slept in one bed, while Drew and I slept in the other. Drew was quiet and withdrawn all night, a trait I was unused to in him. His reticence bothered me, but I let it go. I told myself that it was hard on him, too, and he had been nothing but accommodating.
The girls were fast asleep halfway through the movie, and Drew and I lay in bed, talking in whispers. I gave him an overview of the day, how the girls did, how Greg did. He pulled me to him, my head resting in the crook of his shoulder.
“How will this work?” he asked. “When Greg gets out of rehab, can he even live alone? Is he going to move back in?”