“No, he’s not living at our house. We’re divorced now, Drew.” But I’d had the same thoughts. Could Greg ever live alone? I had no idea. “It doesn’t matter right now. He has months of therapy ahead of him before he will be released anyway.” I sighed. “How can I tell him? He asked me tonight if we were happy, and I got so scared, I didn’t know what to say. I lied and said yes. I mean, it wasn’t a total lie. I thought we were happy.”
“Were you happy?” Drew asked.
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I would have been, if I had never known what it could be like. With you, I mean. Is that crazy?”
He shook his head. “This whole situation is crazy.”
He kissed my temple, then my mouth, sparking the same longing he always did. I wanted to drag him to the bathroom and make violent love to him. I wanted to erase Greg from my mind, from my heart. Instead, I lay in Drew’s arms until we both fell asleep.
Sunday, we spent the morning with Greg and left around noon for the eight-hour drive home. The first half of the ride, the girls chattered excitedly about their daddy being back. They fell asleep for the second half, exhausted from the weekend roller coaster. At eight o’clock, we pulled up to our house. Cameras, spotlights, news vans, reporters, and cameramen were all over the front lawn.
I clutched Drew’s arm. “Oh, my God! What the hell?”
Hannah woke up and looked out the window. “Mommy,” she cried, panic in her voice. “What’s going on?”
As we pulled into the driveway, reporters approached the car and knocked on Drew’s window. Questions were shouted out from all directions.
“Mrs. Barnes, how do you feel now that your husband is awake?”
“Who is in the car with you?”
“Are you in another relationship?”
“How are the children doing?”
I grabbed Leah, and Drew took Hannah. We ran inside and slammed the door. Both kids were crying, and I was shocked.
Drew slammed his fist against the door. “Shit!”
“Everyone calm down!” I shouted. “This is not a surprise. Our story is extraordinary, and I’m shocked it’s taken this long to spark interest.”
I rummaged in the cabinets until I found an empty coffee can. Before I could lose my nerve, I opened the front door and walked outside. Within seconds, flashes were going off, and people started shouting questions. I held up my hand.
When everyone quieted, I spoke loudly and clearly. “I realize my family’s story is exceptional. I will speak to one reporter, sometime later this week. I’ll call you. Please don’t call my house. You will win my favor by being respectful. My children are going through a lot right now, and this is scary to them. We’ve spent the weekend with their father, and we are exhausted. Please, go home. If you don’t go home and leave us alone, I will, without a doubt, not speak to any of you. Put your business cards in the can. This will be my last public comment. Thank you.”
I placed the empty coffee can on the top step, and I walked back inside to my family.
In some ways, the next few weeks were more strenuous than when Greg went missing. The dichotomy of my week against my weekend was exhausting. My weekdays were spent with Hannah, Leah, and Drew—school, homework, dance class or soccer, bath, and bed. On weekends, I made the eight-hour drive to Toronto to spend with Greg. Mostly I travelled alone. I took the girls once, but told them we would spend a lot more time with Daddy when he came back to New Jersey. I deliberately avoided the phrase “when he comes home.”
At the therapist’s suggestion, we were recounting our life, chronologically and in great detail. I would haul in pictures, mementos, and things I would find around the house. When I gave him his journal, he ran his hands over the soft leather, passing the book back and forth between them. When I asked if he remembered it, he nodded. He opened the journal and read each page. He paused at the poem, I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. C! He ran a finger over the words.
“Was C me?” I asked tentatively, not sure I wanted to know the answer.
“I don’t know,” he said, honestly, regretfully. “I don’t remember writing it.”
That stung. I had hoped it would spark a memory. Our time together was filled with so much of me talking, recounting stories, filling in blanks in Greg’s memory that he might not remember minutes after I told him anyway.
That was the frustrating part. I thought that once he remembered something, it would be retained, but frequently, I found myself retelling stories over and over again.
Once, after three weeks, he forgot Leah again. I excused myself and walked into the hallway, making sure to shut the heavy latched door behind me, then kicked a chair and cursed.
“What did you expect?” a voice asked from behind me. I turned to see Dr. Goodman watching me.
“I don’t know. I thought… I thought it would be easier.”
“It will become easier,” she replied mildly, as if my frustration was just a small part of her day. She started writing on a clipboard, all but ignoring me. When she looked up again, she smiled kindly. “Memory works like a natural tributary.”
I shook my head, confused by the analogy.