An Anonymous Girl(47)

Before I make my way to the museum, I head to a diner to meet Lizzie for breakfast. I’d told her I had an important makeup appointment and needed to leave at ten o’clock sharp. I wanted to give myself an extra cushion, because even though midday in the city isn’t usually a busy travel time, you can never predict a subway delay or traffic jam or broken heel.

At breakfast, Lizzie talks about her adored youngest brother, Timmy, who is a sophomore in high school. I met him when I went home with her for a weekend last summer; he’s a sweet, good-looking kid. Apparently, he decided against trying out for the basketball team, something he has always loved. Now the whole family is in a tizzy; he is the first of the four brothers to not letter in the sport.

“So what does he want to do?” I ask.

“The robotics club,” Lizzie said.

“There’s probably more of a future for him in that than in basketball,” I say.

“Especially since he’s five five,” she agrees.

I tell her a little bit about Noah. I don’t get into the details of how we met, but I reveal we had a second date on Saturday night.

“A guy who offers to cook for you?” Lizzie asks. “Sounds sweet.”

“Yeah. I think he is.” I look down at my burgundy nails. It feels strange to be keeping so much from her. “I need to run. Talk soon?”


I reach the museum ten minutes early.

I’m walking toward the entrance when I hear tires screech and someone shouting, “Holy crap!”

I spin around. Just a dozen yards away, a white-haired woman is sprawled on the street in front of a taxi cab. The driver is getting out, and a few people are rushing toward the accident scene.

I hurry over in time to hear the driver say, “She walked right in front of me.”

By now there are five or six of us clustered around the woman, who is conscious but looks dazed.

A thirty-something couple standing next to me immediately takes charge; they have an air of calm competence around them.

“What’s your name?” the man asks, taking off his blue overcoat and laying it on top of the white-haired woman. She’s small and frail-looking underneath his large jacket.

“Marilyn.” Even that single word seems to rob her of her strength. She closes her eyes and grimaces.

“Someone call an ambulance,” the woman says, arranging the coat more securely around Marilyn.

“I’ve got it,” I say as I dial 911.

I give the dispatcher the address, then I sneak a quick glance at my watch. It’s 10:56.

A thought strikes me: Maybe this accident was staged. At the hotel bar, Dr. Shields used me to assess a stranger.

Today I could be the one being evaluated.

Perhaps this is the test.

The couple bent over Marilyn are both attractive and wear business clothes and glasses. Could they be a part of this?

I glance around, half expecting to glimpse Dr. Shields’s red hair and piercing blue eyes, as if she’s going to be standing just offstage in the wings, directing this scene.

I shake off the suspicion; it’s crazy to think she could have set this all up.

I bend down and say to Marilyn, “Is there anyone we can call for you?”

“My daughter,” she whispers.

She recites the phone number; it seems encouraging that she can remember it.

The man who gave her his coat quickly speaks into his cell.

“Your daughter is on her way,” he says as he hangs up. He looks at me. From behind his glasses, his eyes are concerned. “Good idea.”

I check my watch: 11:02 A.M.

If I head into the museum right now, I’ll only be a minute or two late for my assignment.

But what kind of person could walk away?

In the distance, I hear the wail of an ambulance. Help is coming.

Is it ethical for me to leave now?

If I wait any longer, I’ll have violated Dr. Shields’s explicit instructions. I feel perspiration prickle my back.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to the man who is shivering slightly now without his coat. “I have an assignment for work. I really need to go.”

“It’s okay, I’ve got this,” he says kindly, and the knot in my chest loosens a bit.

“You sure?”

He nods.

I look down at Marilyn. She’s wearing pink frosted lipstick that looks like the same CoverGirl brand my mom has worn for years, even though I used to give her expensive Bobbi Brown shades when I worked at that counter.

“Can you do me a favor?” I ask the man. I take out one of my BeautyBuzz business cards and scribble my cell number on it. I hand it to him. “Will you just let me know when you hear how she is?”

“Sure,” he says.

I really do want to make sure Marilyn is okay. Plus, now when I tell Dr. Shields about the accident, she won’t judge me for callously leaving the scene of the accident.

It’s six minutes after eleven by the time I rush through the doorway of the museum.

I take a final look back and see that the guy still holding my card isn’t looking toward the approaching ambulance. He’s watching me.

I give the woman at the ticket counter ten dollars, and she points me in the direction of the Dylan Alexander exhibit: up the narrow staircase to the second level, then left down the hallway.

As I hurry up the steps, I look at my phone to see if Dr. Shields has texted, like she did at the bar. A message has come in, but not from her: