An Anonymous Girl(29)

Before I can make a decision, Mrs. Graham finally hangs up and returns to her stool.

“That was my daughter,” she says. “She lives in Ohio. Cleveland. It’s such a nice area; they moved two years ago because of her husband’s job. My son—he’s my firstborn—lives in New Jersey.”

“How nice,” I say, picking up a copper eyeliner.

Mrs. Graham reaches for her tea, blowing on it before she takes a sip, and I clench the eyeliner a little tighter in my hand.

“Try the cookies,” she says, hunching her shoulders conspiratorially. “The ones with jelly in the middle are the best.”

“I really need to finish your makeup,” I say, my tone sharper than I intended. “I have a meeting right after this, and I can’t be late.”

Mrs. Graham’s expression dims and she sets down her teacup. “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t want to hold you up.”

I wonder if Dr. Shields would know how I should have handled the quandary: Be late for an important appointment, or hurt the feelings of a sweet older woman?

I look at the butter cookies, the little pink-and-white china pitcher and matching sugar bowl, the quilted cozy over the freshly made tea. The most any other client has ever offered me before is a glass of water.

Kindness is the right answer; I chose wrong.

I try to regain our merry banter, asking about her grandchildren as I dab a rose-colored cream blush onto her cheeks, but she is subdued now. Despite my efforts, her eyes appear less bright than when I entered her apartment.

When I finish, I tell her she looks great.

“Go check yourself out in the mirror,” I say, and she heads to the bathroom.

I pull out my phone, planning to try to quickly call Dr. Shields, and see she has sent me another text: I hope you receive this before you come here. I need you to pick up a package on your way to my office. It’s under my name.

All she has provided is an address in Midtown. I have no idea if it’s a store, an office, or a bank. It’ll only add ten minutes to my journey, but I don’t have them to spare.

No problem, I text.

“You did such a nice job,” Mrs. Graham calls.

I begin to take our teacups to the sink, but she comes back into the room and waves her hand at me. “Oh, I’ll take care of all that. You have to get to your meeting.”

I still feel guilty that I was impatient with her, but she has a husband and a son and a daughter, I remind myself as I pack up my things, tossing my brushes and cases into my kit rather than taking the time to organize them.

Mrs. Graham’s phone rings again.

“Feel free to get that,” I say. “I’m all finished here.”

“Oh, no, I’ll see you out, dear.”

She opens the closet door and hands me my jacket.

“Have fun tonight!” I say as I slip it on. “Happy Anniversary.”

Before she can reply, a man’s voice fills the room, coming from the old-fashioned answering machine next to her phone.

“Hey, Mom. Where are you? I was just calling to say Fiona and I are heading out now. We should be there in about an hour . . .”

Something in his tone makes me take a closer look at Mrs. Graham. She is staring down, though, as if she is trying to evade my eyes.

Her son’s voice grows rougher. “I hope you’re doing okay.”

The closet door is still ajar. My gaze is pulled inside, even though I already know what will be missing. Her son’s tone told me what I’ve misjudged.

Mrs. Graham isn’t going to dinner with her husband tonight.

I visited earlier today, she’d told her daughter.

I suddenly know where she went. I can see her kneeling to set down a bouquet of flowers, lost in the memories of the almost forty-two years they had together.

On one side of the closet hang three coats—a raincoat, a light jacket, and a heavier wool one. They’re all women’s coats.

The other half of the closet is bare.





CHAPTER


EIGHTEEN


Thursday, December 6

You’re fighting the urge to peek inside, aren’t you?

You picked up the package a few minutes ago. The wrapping reveals no clues about its contents. The sturdy, generic-looking white bag with the reinforced handle and no logo, is stuffed with tissue paper to protect the object within.

You retrieved it from a young man who lives in a small apartment building. You probably barely got a look at him as he handed it over; he’s a taciturn individual. There was nothing for you to sign; the object had been paid for and the receipt e-mailed to the purchaser.

As you quickly stride down Sixth Avenue, you might be rationalizing that it really wouldn’t be snooping. There is no seal to break, or tape to remove. The next time you pause at a street corner waiting for the light to turn, you could simply peel back a few layers of tissue and catch a glimpse. No one will ever know, you might be telling yourself.

The bag is heavy in your hand, but not uncomfortably so.

Your mind is curious by nature, and you alternately shy away from and embrace risks. Which side of you will win dominance today?

You will need to see the contents of this bag, but you should only view it on the terms dictated in this office.

You’ve been told these are our foundational sessions, but there is more than a single foundation being laid.