“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so…” He ran his hand through his hair and, with his left hand, threw an imaginary baseball at the back wall, expending energy. He let out a groan, almost a half-growl. “I’m frustrated by all of this. I know it’s selfish. I’m not an idiot.”
“It’s not about you,” I said, turning back to my suitcase.
“It never is, Claire. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.” And he left. Not in a fury, with slamming doors and yelling, but quietly, slipping out of the bedroom before I even realized he was gone, and somehow that was worse.
I came to bed late, and he was either asleep or pretending to be, and for the first time, I wondered if that fight was the beginning of the end. We’d always been honest with each other. But our conversations had become strained and halting, and I didn’t know how to fix it. There was resentment there, for sure, bubbling right under the surface, like superheated water, ready to explode at the slightest disturbance. It had only been a month—a month!—not that long when I said it out loud. But when the days blended into each other, and the weekends came breathlessly, one on top of the other, a month was forever.
Greg was getting better. I could see it every weekend. His strength was returning, although his body was still slight compared to his old stature. His memory was quicker; he could recall things I’d already told him, but it was still slippery, a suitcase full of silk scarves, sliding around, their fabric tumbled together in a rich heap of color. Indistinguishable. Possibly, it always would be, Dr. Goodman said.
“What will happen when I come home?” Greg asked.
We’d been sitting together, looking at pictures. I’d brought up his childhood pictures, photos of his mom and dad and some cousins.
I closed the book and ran my hand over the cover. “I don’t know, Greg. Maybe a group home, like you’re in now?”
“And you’ll be where? In our old house? With the kids?”
It sounded so ridiculous, even to me. I nodded, not knowing what else to do. For the first time, I realized that I hadn’t even glimpsed the impact Greg’s return was going to have on my life. Moving would be in my future. I thought back to Friday and the fight with Drew. I wondered if Drew would stay with me. Who would, really? If the roles were reversed, would I stay? Could anyone blame him if he left?
That night, I lay on the bed in the dark hotel room, the television on for light, but no sound. The flickering lent a dreamlike quality to the room, a vacillation that mimicked our conversation. I called Drew, and we spoke at the same time.
“Did you—”
“When are you—”
We both laughed, soft and unsure.
My mind drew comparisons to the calls with Greg, in the months before he disappeared when our halting phone conversations were heavy with silence and alternately, ill-timed starts and stops. I couldn’t think of anything to say to Drew, and it was easier to make excuses to hang up.
I slept fitfully, tossing and turning with the sensation that I was failing on all accounts—as an ex-wife and caregiver, as a mother, as a girlfriend.
The next day, when I kissed Greg goodbye on the cheek, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into a rare embrace. “I’m sorry. For everything.”
I turned away because there was nothing to say and I couldn’t face my anger, which still simmered under the surface. What kind of person would still hold a grudge? Hadn’t Greg paid enough? And yet, in my weaker moments, when Greg would forget Leah’s name, again, or forget, again, that the album we were looking at was from Maine, when we were first married, but before Hannah was born, even though I’d told him three times already, I would stare at him and think, horribly, This is all your fucking fault. And those were the moments that kept me awake at night, the fear of failure creeping up on me in the dark, black and wet and suffocating until I sat up, feeling for Drew on the other side of the bed and finding only the cold, empty expanse of hotel sheets.
When I returned Sunday evening, Mom had already dropped off the girls. Every other week, I arranged for them to spend the weekend with my parents instead of Drew, to mix it up and give Drew a break. A wonderful mixture of garlic and lemon hung in the air, and it smelled like home to me. I paused in the hallway, watching him stir something on the stove, laugh at something Hannah said, and take a sip of wine at the same time. He looked at ease in his kitchen, his house. When he turned and saw me, he smiled tentatively, traces of our Friday night argument still between us. I wrapped my arms around him from behind, burying my face in his back, inhaling the scent of him. I thought about how unfair things were to both of us and wondered what the future held. I rubbing my nose back and forth between his shoulder blades, saying, I’m sorry for Friday.
He leaned back into me and patted my hands. You’re forgiven. He turned his head and, in profile, gave me a wry smile with one raised eyebrow. Sort of.
Later, I was setting the table, lost in thought, when I heard Hannah ask Drew, “When did you get home?”