An Anonymous Girl(16)

But toward the end of the session, things got weird.

Right after I answered the question about a guy cheating on his fiancée, there was this long pause, and the tone of the queries changed. I can’t say exactly how, the next two just felt different. I’d come to ex-pect writing about things I could relate to or experiences I’d had. Those final questions seemed like the big, philosophical type you’d get on a civics exam. They required some thought to answer, but I didn’t have to dig deep into painful memories, like Dr. Shields often wants me to.

Should a punishment always fit the crime?

And then:

Do victims have the right to take retribution into their own hands?

Right before I left, I had to wrestle with the decision of whether to take the study to the next level. Significantly more would be asked of you, Dr. Shields wrote. It sounded kind of ominous.

What did Dr. Shields mean? I tried to ask him. His reply appeared on my computer screen, just like his questions always do. He simply wrote that he’d explain next Wednesday if I could meet him in person.

I finally decided the extra money was too tempting to turn down.

Still, as I head home, I can’t stop wondering what he has planned.

I’m not going to be stupid about all of this, I tell myself as I fasten Leo’s leash and head toward the 6BC Botanical Garden. It’s one of my favorite neighborhood walks in Alphabet City, and a good place to think.

Dr. Shields wants to meet me in person. He gave me a different ad-dress than the NYU classroom, though. He told me to come to a place on East Sixty-second Street.

I don’t know if it’s his office, or his apartment. Or something else entirely.

Leo pulls sharply on his leash, jerking me toward his favorite tree. I realize I’ve just been standing there.

I see a neighbor approach with her toy poodle. I quickly lift my phone to my ear and pretend to be involved in a conversation as she passes. I can’t engage in a casual conversation with her now.

There are always stories about young women in the city who get lured into dangerous situations. I pass their faces on the cover of the New York Post, and receive alerts on my phone when there’s a violent crime in my borough.

It’s not like I don’t take calculated risks; I walk into unfamiliar homes and locations every day for my job, and I’ve gone home with guys I’ve barely met.

But this feels different.

I haven’t told anyone about this study; Dr. Shields designed it that way. He knows an awful lot about me, yet I know virtually nothing about him.

Maybe, though, there’s a way I can find out.

We’ve just made it to the garden, but I give Leo a gentle tug and we head back to the apartment, my stride quicker than it was at the begin-ning of the walk.

It’s time to turn the tables. Now I’m going to do some probing of my own.


I pop the cap off a Sam Adams, reach for my MacBook, and sit down on my futon. Although I don’t know his first name, it should be easy enough to narrow down the various Dr. Shieldses in New York City by adding “research” and “psychiatry” as Google search terms.

Immediately, dozens of hits appear. The first one that comes up is a professional article about ethical ambiguity in familial relationships. So that part of his story fits.

I move my mouse toward the images link.

I need to see a picture of the man who knows everything from where I live to the details of my last sexual encounter.

I hesitate before clicking on it.

I’ve imagined Dr. shields as I want him to be, wise and grand-fatherly, with kind eyes. That image is so concrete it’s hard to envision him any other way.

But the truth is, I was projecting onto a blank canvas.

He could be anyone.

I click the mouse.

Then I recoil and suck in my breath.

My immediate thought is that I’ve made a mistake.

Images bloom across my screen, filling it like a mosaic.

My eyes barely alight on one before another photograph pulls my gaze away, then another.

I read the captions to double-check, then I gape at the biggest im-age on the screen.

Dr. Shields is nothing like the portly professor I’ve imagined.

Dr. Shields, Dr. Lydia Shields, is one of the most strikingly beautiful women I’ve ever seen.

I lean forward, drinking in her long, strawberry-blond hair and creamy skin. She’s maybe in her late thirties. There’s a cool elegance to her chiseled features.

It’s difficult to look away from her light blue eyes. They’re mesmerizing.

Even through a picture, it feels like they see me.

I don’t know why I assumed she was male. Thinking back, I realize Ben only called her “Dr. Shields. The way I incorrectly pictured her probably says something about me.

I finally click on an image, a full-length one. She stands on a stage, holding a microphone with her left hand. She appears to be wearing a diamond wedding band. Her silky blouse is paired with a fitted skirt and heels so high I can’t imagine standing in them even for the duration of a walk to the stage, let alone for a speech. Her neck is long and grace-ful, and no amount of contouring can create the kind of cheekbones she possesses.

She looks like the type of woman who lives in a very different world from the one I inhabit, scrambling for jobs and flattering customers to get a bigger tip.

I believed I knew the person I was writing to: a thoughtful, compas-sionate man. But learning Dr. Shields is a woman causes me to rethink all of the questions.