An Anonymous Girl(54)

The second is from an unfamiliar number: Hey, just wanted you to know Marilyn is doing okay. Her daughter said she was released from the hospital a few hours ago. Hope you got to your work assignment on time. At the end, he added a smiling emoji.

Thanks for the update, that’s good news! I type back.

As I continue to walk, I reach my free hand around to rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the knots. Even the promise of a possible new job for my dad doesn’t offset the agitation I’m feeling.

I want to talk to someone about everything that is going on. But I can’t unburden myself to my father and mother, and not just because of Dr. Shields’s rule of secrecy.

I look at my phone again.

It’s not quite nine P.M.

Noah is out of town until Sunday. I could call Annabelle or Lizzie and try to meet up with them. Their happy banter would be a diversion, but right now it doesn’t feel like a welcome one.

I turn a corner and pass a restaurant with a string of white holiday lights dangling around windows. On the doorway of the shop next door is a wreath.

My stomach rumbles and I realize I haven’t eaten since lunch.

A group comes toward me, led by a guy in a floppy Santa hat. He’s walking backward, singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” loudly and mixing up the lyrics while his friends laugh.

I step to one side to let them pass, feeling as if I’m disappearing into the shadows in my all-black work outfit.

A year ago, I was also part of a happy, loud group. We sat around after rehearsals on Friday nights, and Gene ordered in Chinese food for everyone. Sometimes Gene’s wife would stop by with homemade brownies or cookies. In a way, it felt like a family.

I didn’t realize how much I miss it.

I’m alone tonight, but I’m used to that. It’s just that I don’t often feel lonely.

The last time I googled Gene, I saw his wife had just had a baby girl. My search turned up a picture of the three of them together at the opening of one of his shows, the wife smiling down at the infant in her arms. They looked happy.

I think about the two texts from Katrina, the ones I haven’t answered.

A question has been forming in my mind, despite my efforts to move on from that period in my life. As I think about Gene’s innocent wife, it’s like I can hear Dr. Shields asking it:

Is it ethical to destroy one blameless woman’s life if it means there’s a chance of protecting other women from future harm?

I need an escape from my thoughts. If I did drugs, now is when I’d be reaching for a joint. But I don’t lose control that way. There’s another outlet I crave when the pressure gets to be too much.

Noah thinks I’m the kind of girl you cook for and only kiss on the first date. But that’s not who I am anymore, ever since that evening with Gene French. Maybe because I trusted him so much, now it’s hard to be emotionally vulnerable with men. Even if Noah were in town, he’s not what I’m looking for tonight.

I think instead about the guy who just texted, and how he stared after me when I walked toward the museum. With him, I can just be an anonymous girl.

So I text him again: Any chance you’re free for a drink now?

I briefly think about Noah with the dishcloth tucked away in his jeans as he cooked for me.

He won’t ever know, I think.

All I’m going to do is see this guy for a few hours. I’ll never need to talk to him again.





CHAPTER


THIRTY-FOUR


Friday, December 14

After you file your report on your encounters with Reyna and Tiffani, the phone remains silent for an agonizingly long stretch of time. When Thomas finally calls at 9:04 P.M., the cup of peppermint tea has been freshened three times. Nearly two pages of the legal pad are filled.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t see your text earlier,” he begins. “I was running around Christmas shopping and I didn’t hear my ringer because the stores were so packed.”

Thomas typically does leave holiday shopping until the last minute. And the rush of city noises can be heard in the background.

Still, suspicion swells. Would he truly have not felt the vibration of his phone?

But his excuse is readily accepted, because it is even more vital that he enters the experiment blind.

A bit of light chatting ensues. Thomas says he is worn out, and is heading home for an early night.

Then he utters one final sentence before hanging up.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, gorgeous.”

The teacup clatters into the saucer, chipping the fine china. Fortunately, he terminated the call before the noise erupted.

During the course of our marriage, Thomas freely bestowed compliments: You’re beautiful. Stunning. Brilliant.

But never gorgeous.

In the errant text that he addressed to me, though, it was the term he’d used for the woman he confessed to having an affair with.


Experiencing emotional phases of dark and light is universal. A healthy and loving partnership can provide a supportive infrastructure during a downward trajectory, but it can never erase the pain that infuses an individual during pivot points such as the death of a sister, or the infidelity of a husband.

Or the suicide of a young female subject.

This seismic tragedy occurred at the beginning of this past summer: June 8, to be exact. Our marriage suffered, Jessica. Whose wouldn’t? It was difficult to summon the energy to wholly engage. Visions of my subject’s earnest, brown eyes intruded at all hours. A retreat both emotionally and physically resulted, despite Thomas’s reassuring words: “Some people are beyond help, my love. There’s nothing you could have done.”