Wish You Were Gone(59)

“Oh, God, I really hope it’s not her,” Emma said.

And then she and her friends doubled over laughing.





GRAY


Dr. Patel was a small woman. In her sixties at least, she wore huge red-framed glasses and had her hair mid-parted and pulled back in a sleek bun, like an Indian Ruth Bader Ginsburg. But her handshake was admirably firm, and when she welcomed Gray into her office, she did not go over to her desk and sit, but stood dead center in the room and clasped her hands in front of her.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Gray said, tugging off her caramel-colored driving gloves. “I realize you have a packed schedule.” Considering the fact that she hadn’t been able to squeeze her in for five minutes all week long.

“Mrs. Garrison, as I’m sure you’re aware, I cannot speak to you about your husband’s condition without him present. Doctor–patient confidentiality.”

“No, no, of course,” Gray said. Oddly, a nervous laugh escaped her. It seemed there really was a first time for everything. She straightened her shoulders, her Birkin bag dangling from her forearm, and reminded herself of who she was. Gray Garrison. Best of New Jersey Attorneys list ten years running. Town Council president. Food Bank of New Jersey board member. Never intimidated. Never thrown off her game. “I was just in the city for meetings today, and I was hoping you could clarify something for me.”

“You’ve been using the internet,” Dr. Patel said with a kind smile.

Gray felt a flash of irritation. How dare this woman assume she was just like every idiot off the street? But yes, of course, she’d been using the internet. Who could resist the siren song of Google and WebMD when her husband had basically been issued a death sentence?

She cleared her throat, clinging to a vestige of control over the conversation. Part of her wanted to turn tail and run for the street, maybe pop over to Fifth Avenue and do some damage on her AMEX Black. But she reminded herself she wanted these answers. Ignorance was never bliss. She took a deep breath.

“You’ve obviously studied Darnell’s brain scans at length and you discussed the quote-unquote possible side effects of his condition.”

“Yes…”

“Knowing what you know about the current state of his brain,” Gray said, steeling herself, “could he be violent? Could he… actually hurt someone even though he’s normally a gentle person?”

“Yes,” Dr. Patel confirmed, completely placid.

“And could he black out? Could he… forget something he’d done?”

“Yes,” Dr. Patel repeated.

Gray swallowed and pressed her palms together, doing everything she could to keep herself steady. “Is it possible, in your opinion, that he could black out an entire night?”

“Yes,” Dr. Patel said. “At this stage, that is very possible.”





LIZZIE


It wasn’t that Lizzie hadn’t had a date since Willow was born. She had, in fact, had a couple of semi-serious relationships. But the last one of those had ended three years ago, and the dates since then had been spotty at best. There was something about going out with Ben—not just hanging out at the café or in her shop—that was making her almost sick with nerves. That was how she knew she really liked him.

When he came to pick her up, Willow answered the door before she could get there and gave him the third degree, as if Lizzie were her daughter and Ben, her prom date.

“Have you ever been married?”

“Once, for two years. Turned out she didn’t want to be married to a man.”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-three.”

“Any kids?”

“None.”

“You sure about that?”

That was when Lizzie had interrupted. She’d placed the lovely wildflowers Ben had brought her into her daughter’s hands, asked her to make sure to put them in water, and walked out to Ben’s car with him right in step with her, though her ankles were irritatingly wobbly.

Now they were sitting across the table from each other at Armando’s, her favorite Italian restaurant in Oakmont, and the conversation was flowing so well she wondered why she’d ever felt nervous. She knew how to talk to Ben. Of course she did. They’d been talking with each other almost nonstop since they’d met, and he’d yet to say anything that stumped her or made her feel uncomfortable or shocked her in the slightest.

“You know, you never did tell me what you did before opening the café,” Lizzie said, as the waiter cleared their dinner plates.

“No?” Ben averted his eyes. “I could have sworn I did.”

“Nope. When I asked you, you said it was too boring to talk about.” Lizzie drained the last of her wine. “Were you an accountant or something?” she joked.

He laughed. “Worse. A hedge fund manager.”

Lizzie stared. “No.”

“Yes. I worked up in Greenwich, Connecticut. Lived there, too. It was quite the scene.”

Lizzie couldn’t believe it. When she thought of hedge fund managers she thought of young men with slick hair and expensive suits, donning aviator sunglasses as they slipped behind the wheel of their Ferraris or Bentleys or whatever other cars were worth more than her house. Was Ben… rich? No. She could hardly picture him without jam on his sleeve or flour in his hair, let alone wearing Armani.