Weeks ago, I had pulled the business cards from the coffee can and spread them out on the dining room table. I focused on women only and, after doing some internet searching, chose the one who wrote the least scandalous and most boring stories. Rebecca Riley had reported on the inclusion of the rural outskirts of Clinton into the public sewage system and what that would mean for homeowners. I only hoped Rebecca would write my story with the same level of enthusiasm.
When Rebecca had shown up, I found her to be my age, slightly overweight, smart, and personable. I instantly felt comfortable and spoke honestly and candidly, which was my first mistake. When I got the paper after returning from my weekend with Greg, I gaped in shock. The front page displayed a close-up of my face on the night the media had been all over my lawn. My features were pinched, and my hand was up in the air. I looked bitchy. The use of that photo was surprising because Rebecca and I had taken a few pictures together in the house and out by the barn. I sat down to read.
Claire Barnes: Grieving Wife or Brilliant Opportunist?
By Rebecca Riley
To meet Claire, petite, mild-mannered, and cheerful, you would have no idea of the tragedy her family has undergone in the past two years. Her husband of eight years left for a business trip two years ago and never returned home. Claire and their two children, Hannah and Leah, have remained in the home they shared with her missing husband.
In the meantime, Claire has become involved with her childhood friend, Drew Elliot. Some might say, “Good for her. She’s moved on, made a life in the shadow of tragedy.” Unless you know who Drew Elliot is. Semi-famous in artistic circles, he shoots compelling photographs of poverty-stricken men and women in American cities and makes a nice living doing it. Prior to his photography venture, he was a self-made millionaire when he got lucky during the Silicon Valley years. Then, one begins to think, “Lucky for her. Her troubled marriage seems to end without consequence, she has the endless sympathy of the community, and she gets to shack up with a millionaire? Seems rather convenient.”
Claire is likeable. She’s expressive, cheerful, funny, warm, and kind. Her home is beautiful—an old farmhouse accessorized with appropriate antiques, yet stylishly updated for modern living. She comments that the kitchen was recently redone.
“Most of the rooms in this house have been redone, actually. Since Greg left. It was a way to cleanse, to start over and regroup. You need that when you believe your husband has died, to find your own voice. I needed to make my life mine, where it was once ‘ours.’”
But you can’t help but notice the fine craftsmanship of the redecoration: stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, handcrafted cabinetry custom built from refurbished barn boards. You notice and wonder.
The most jarring part of the whole scene is the knowledge that Claire’s husband did not leave her. Nor did he die. He was robbed at gunpoint and pushed in front of an oncoming car. He lay in a coma for a year and a half, and even after he awoke, had no idea who he was.
Detective Matt Reynolds gave a statement on Saturday. “Our investigation was sound. We never stopped searching for Greg Barnes, and we have the records to prove that.”
You still have to wonder why they couldn’t find him. Both Claire Barnes and Detective Reynolds claim they searched tirelessly for her husband. And then, they stopped searching. A mere three months ago, Claire Barnes filed for, and was granted, a divorce from her husband. A month ago, Greg Barnes regained his memory.
Claire said, “Of course it’s been hard. Greg doesn’t remember our life together. He doesn’t remember our youngest daughter most of the time. I travel to Toronto every weekend, and we work on what the doctors call his episodic memory, basically reconstructing his past through talking, photographs, and mementos.”
Greg currently resides in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, in a community housing environment designed specifically for the brain-injured. He participates in six to eight hours of therapy every day and volunteers for the community one day a week.
But when asked what will happen after Greg can come home, Claire Barnes shrugs and appears lost in thought. “I don’t know. We’re all taking it one day at a time.”
I was in shock. The article was so blatantly slanted. It contained no mention of Greg’s lies or the reason why we had no idea he was in Toronto, several hundred miles from where he had claimed he was going. I sat dumbfounded at the kitchen island. My newly remodeled island, I thought bitterly.
Drew came into the kitchen, whistling, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He stopped when he saw my face and the newspaper. “Can I read it?”
Wordlessly, I handed it to him. He wasn’t painted so great in the article either.
As he read, his mouth dropped open. “What did you say to her?” he asked tautly.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I told the truth. That was the point, remember?”
“Hey, relax. Don’t get mad at me. I thought giving an interview was a bad idea to begin with.” His eyes flashed and we faced off across the island.