An Anonymous Girl(33)
PART
TWO
We began as strangers, you and I.
By now, we have become acquaintances. We are beginning to feel as if we know each other.
Familiarity often ushers in an enhanced appreciation and understanding.
It also shepherds in a new level of evaluations.
Maybe you have judged the choices of people you know: The neighbor who screams so loudly at his spouse that the harsh words carry through their thin apartment walls. The colleague who opts out of caring for aging parents. The client who becomes overly dependent on a therapist.
Even with the realization that these acquaintances have pressures of their own—an impending divorce, depression, a family—your judgments still materialize with the surety and swiftness of a reflex.
These reactions might be immediate, but they are rarely simple or precise.
Pause for a moment and consider the subconscious factors that may be coloring your evaluations: Everything from whether you enjoyed eight hours of sleep, are experiencing an annoyance, such as a recently flooded bathroom, or are still absorbing the aftershocks of a domineering mother.
If there is a chemical formula that decrees whether a verbal or silent condemnation is made during the course of everyday, mundane interactions, it contains an ever-changing variable.
That unstable element is you.
We all have reasons for our judgments, even if those reasons are so deeply buried we don’t recognize them ourselves.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Friday, December 7
I was so worried I’d messed up the last time I saw Dr. Shields that when she finally phoned me back, I snatched up the phone before the first ring ended.
She asked if I’d be free tonight, like nothing was wrong. And maybe it wasn’t. She didn’t even mention my message about not expecting to be paid for bringing her the sculpture and forgetting to return her wrap.
The call lasted only a few minutes. Dr. Shields gave me a few instructions: Wear your hair down, polished makeup, and a black dress suitable for an evening out. Be ready by 8 P.M.
It’s twenty past seven right now. I stand in front of my closet, staring at the clothes crammed inside. I push aside the charcoal suede miniskirt that I usually pair with a blush-colored silky top, then I reach past my high-neck black dress that’s way too short.
Unlike Lizzie, who often texts me a series of selfies before we meet up, I’m as confident putting together outfits as I am blending a color palette for a client. I know what styles flatter me, but an evening out probably means something very different for Dr. Shields than it does for me.
I consider the most elegant dress I own, a black jersey with a low V-neck.
Too low? I wonder as I hold it up against my body and look in the mirror. My closet doesn’t contain a better option.
I wanted to ask Dr. Shields for more information—am I going?
What will I be doing? Is this one of those tests you mentioned?—but her voice sounded so focused and professional when she inquired if I’d be free that I didn’t have the nerve.
As I slip into the dress, I picture Dr. Shields in her refined skirts and sweaters, the lines so structured and classic that they could take her from her office to the ballet at Lincoln Center.
I tug up the neckline, yet I’m still showing too much cleavage. My hair is rogue, and the big hoop earrings I wore to work now look cheap.
I leave my hair down, as she instructed, and swap out the hoops for cubic zirconia studs. Then I find the double-sided fashion tape in my underwear drawer and seal up two inches from the bottom of the V.
Normally I go bare-legged or wear tights; tonight I pull out the pair of sheer black stockings that has been sitting in my dresser drawer for at least six months. They have a snag, but it’s on my upper thigh, so the dress hides it. I dab a bit of clear nail polish on the tear to keep it from running, then dig out the basic black pumps I’ve had forever.
I grab a zebra-print belt from my closet and fasten it around my waist. I can always slip it in my purse if it seems like a miscalculation when I show up wherever it is that I’m going.
I think of the question I always ask my clients: What kind of look are you going for? It’s difficult to answer when I have no idea who my audience will be. I follow Dr. Shields’s directive and add a neutral eyeshadow and tone down my liner.
It’s eight o’clock sharp, and still my phone is silent.
I check the signal, then walk around my apartment, mindlessly refolding sweaters and putting shoes back in my closet. At 8:17 I consider texting Dr. Shields, then decide against it. I don’t want to seem like a bother.
Finally, at 8:35, after I’ve reapplied my lip gloss twice, plus ordered some glittery paint and thick paper online for one of Becky’s Christmas presents, my phone chimes with a new text from Dr. Shields.
I look away from the T.J. Maxx website, where I’ve been checking out shirts for my mom:
An Uber will be outside your apartment in four minutes.
I take a final swig of the Sam Adams I’ve been sipping, then pop an Altoid into my mouth.
When I exit the building, I pull the door closed tightly until I hear the lock engage. A black Hyundai is idling by the curb. I locate the U sticker on the rear window before opening the back door.
“Hi, I’m Jess,” I say as I slide into the backseat.