An Anonymous Girl(31)

I can see him having grown up on the East Coast, then attending an elite boarding school. Exeter, maybe, followed by Yale. That could be where they met. He’s the type to know his way around a sailboat and a golf course, but he isn’t a snob.

She would choose someone more gregarious than she is. He’d offset her reserved, quiet nature, and she’d rein him in if he had a few too many beers and got rowdy during a poker game with the guys.

I wonder if it’s his birthday, or if they’re just one of those romantic couples who like to surprise each other with thoughtful presents.

Of course, I could have gotten it all wrong again.

That thought grips my mind as the subway car screeches to a stop.

What if I got something much more important wrong than the details about Dr. Shields’s husband?

In no universe does it make sense that Dr. Shields just paid me three hundred dollars to run a quick errand. Maybe it wasn’t a simple errand after all.

The project you have become engaged in is about to evolve from an academic exercise into a real-life exploration on morality and ethics, Dr. Shields told me the first time I met her.

What if the errand was my first test? Maybe I was supposed to protest when Dr. Shields assured me I’d be paid as usual.

The crowd around me surges into the subway car and I’m swept up in the collective motion. I’m one of the last ones to board. The doors lightly brush my back as they close.

Suddenly I feel a tightening around my throat.

An edge of the wrap Dr. Shields gave me is caught between the doors.

My hand flies to my neck and I pull at the fabric, gagging.

Then the doors jerk back open and I wrench the wrap free.

“Are you okay?” the woman standing across from me asks.

I nod and gasp, feeling my heart thud.

I reach up to unfurl the wrap from around my neck. That’s when I realize I forgot to return it.

The subway car gains speed and the faces on the platform blur as we hurtle into a dark tunnel.

Maybe the payment for today wasn’t a test, maybe it was the wrap. She might have wanted to see if I’d keep it.

Or maybe the real-life morality tests go back further, to the nail polish. Maybe all of these gifts are carefully designed experiments to see how I’ll react.

A realization hits me with a jolt: Dr. Shields didn’t set a time for our next appointment.

I’m suddenly panicked I failed her tests, and now she won’t want me back.

Dr. Shields seemed really interested in me; she even texted me on Thanksgiving Day. But maybe after today she thinks she’s made a mistake.

I pull out my phone and begin to thumb a text: Hi!

I immediately backspace; that sounds too informal.

Dear Dr. Shields.

That’s too formal.

I settle on a simple Dr. Shields.

I can’t sound desperate; I need to be professional.

I’m sorry I forgot to give you back your wrap. I’ll bring it next time. Also, don’t worry about paying me for today; you’ve been so generous.

I hesitate, then add: I just realized we don’t have a time for our next appointment. My schedule is flexible, just let me know when you need me. Thanks, Jess.

I hit Send before I lose my nerve. I stare at my phone, waiting to see if there’s a quick response.

But there isn’t.

I shouldn’t have expected one. After all, I work for her. She’s probably on her way to see her husband right now, preparing to present him with his gift.

Maybe Dr. Shields was expecting me to have a more sophisticated response to her sculpture. All I said was “Wow.” I should’ve come up with something more intelligent.

I’ve been staring down at my phone, waiting for a text from Dr. Shields, but somehow I didn’t immediately notice the phone icon signaling I have a new voice mail message. I snatch it up, certain Dr. Shields phoned when I didn’t have a signal.

I press Play but the train plunges deeper underground and I lose the connection again. I hold my phone tightly in my hand until I reach my stop. I sprint through the turnstile and up the stairs, my case swinging by my side. It bangs painfully against my knee, but I don’t even slow down.

I burst onto the sidewalk, then stop short and jab at the voice mail button again.

The bright young voice—so different from Dr. Shields’s cultured, carefully enunciated words—is jarring.

“Hey, it’s me, Amy. I thought of something on the plane. Meant to call you earlier but it’s been crazy. Anyway, one of my friends told me Dr. Shields just took a leave of absence from teaching. Anyway, I have no idea why. Maybe she has the flu or something. Okay, hope that helps. Bye!”

I slowly pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it, then I touch the button to make the message play again.





CHAPTER


TWENTY


Thursday, December 6

Adultery is commonplace; it does not discriminate among socioeconomic groups, race, or gender. Anecdotal evidence from counselors’ offices across the country supports this contention. After all, infidelity is one of the foremost reasons that compel couples to seek help from a professional.

Therapists are often the first responders when an affair shatters a relationship, leaving the betrayed to grapple with feelings of rage and pain. Forgiveness is not always possible; forgetting is unrealistic. However, infidelity need not be a marital execution. Clinicians also understand that work can be done to rebuild trust through difficult conversations, accountability, and a reestablishing of priorities so the relationship is paramount. Indeed, a betrayal can be surmounted. This requires time as well as the unwavering commitment of both parties.