“By doing that, you tainted it,” I interjected. He looked up, surprised. “When I found it, I was dumbfounded. And even now, knowing there’s probably twice that amount somewhere that I still didn’t know about, I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you confide in me? Wasn’t I good enough? By isolating yourself, you isolated me. I have never felt so alone in my life, being your wife.” I started to cry, remembering my loneliness on nights when Greg would wander the house and snap at me if I dared to approach him.
Greg reached out and touched my knee. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why. I felt like I needed to be strong for you and the kids. I had all this anger and nowhere to put it. It makes no sense now.”
He put his arms around me, pulling me close. We stayed that way for a beat, but I pulled back, wiping my eyes.
He looked sad, defeated. “I ruined everything.” Then softly, he added, “It’s all my fault.”
I placed my hand over his, and my mind flashed back to our wedding day, our hands one on top of the other, in a simple, innocent promise. In sickness and in health. “It’s not all anyone’s fault. There were two of us not doing such a great job.”
“Could we ever go back? Try again? Make it work?” he asked.
I tried to read his face to see what he really wanted, but I couldn’t. For the first time since his accident, he seemed able to hide his emotions.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Greg. I’m sorry.”
He nodded as if he knew that would be my response. He stood up, not meeting my gaze.
I got to my feet. “Moving on was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But I did it, and it’s been over two years. I can’t make myself feel something. Do you see that?”
“I think I need to be alone. Will you come back tomorrow?”
“I’ll come back, Greg. We’re still a family, okay? I’ll always come back.” And I left.
Sometimes on my visits, Greg and I would eat dinner together. Other times, when Greg had an ill-timed therapy session, I’d find a restaurant and huddle in a back booth to read a book or the newspaper. I discovered a diner a few blocks away from the rehabilitation center that made the most delicious chicken salad I could imagine, and I found solace in the isolation. No one knew where I was or expected anything from me. And most importantly, I wasn’t letting anyone down. I was just… being.
On Saturday, after leaving Greg, I sought comfort in the familiarity of my diner. I sat at my booth, staring out the window at a flat gray parking lot, lost in thought. In one way, a weight had been lifted. I had finally told Greg about the divorce, about Drew. My future had some shape to it. Greg would surely be in it, but not as my husband. Alternatively, the finality made me sad. I wanted to rewind the past two years and start over, go back to a time when things were simple. But were they? Two years ago, we were barely speaking, and Greg was seeing another woman. So no, things weren’t simpler. They had just appeared that way. Was that better? Surely not.
I had the sensation of time closing in on me. In a few weeks, Greg would move back to New Jersey, and Toronto would become a distant memory. The pressure was pushing her name up into my throat. Karen Caughee. Who was she? What did she look like? What did she have that I didn’t? Those were the standard questions of a jilted wife, but my other questions were more complicated. Why hadn’t she looked for Greg? Did she know what happened to him? Who was she?
I pulled out my phone and opened the web browser. After a quick search, I found an entry for Caughee, K. with a Toronto phone number, but no address. I had asked Greg a few times since the day I learned her name: Where does she live? What does she do? How did you meet?
I don’t remember. His single, standard, infuriating answer. I assumed that was the truth, and that he hadn’t learned to lie again.
I had become a little obsessed with her, a fact I couldn’t reveal to Drew or anyone else. It made no sense, but the desire to answer every question was all-consuming. I’d spent two years trying to accept a life with loose ends, to move on despite uncertainty, and was almost there. A small part of me wanted to walk away. What does it matter now? Just move on. But the temptation for actual closure was too great.
I found a reverse look-up search engine and typed in the phone number. Bingo. 725 St. Clair Avenue West. St. Clair. I almost laughed. Had Greg noted the irony?
I had a thought and clicked the map application on my phone. I punched in Karen’s address and expanded the screen, searching for something I knew would answer at least one question definitely. The street where Greg had been hit was Arlington Avenue. I didn’t have to look very hard—it was two blocks from Karen’s apartment.
A million scenarios ran through my mind. Had he just gone out for coffee and not come back? Too many questions.