An Anonymous Girl(68)
“Jessica?” Dr. Shields pulls her hand out of her pocket. “Your check.”
Without thinking, I take it.
I pull my eyes away from her probing gaze. They land on the bowl of bright fruit.
Then I realize the oranges are the same kind I used to sell every December for our high school’s annual fund-raiser: Navel oranges. From Florida.
CHAPTER
FORTY-SIX
Wednesday, December 19
You reminded me of April again tonight.
On that June evening just six months ago, she perched on a stool, swinging the top leg that was crossed over her bottom one, sipping wine. She held a frenetic energy, as usual, but her initial affect was buoyant.
This in itself wasn’t cause for concern.
Her mood often shifted rapidly, like a sudden rainstorm interrupting a sunny day, like a cold morning swiftly yielding to afternoon heat.
It was as if her internal barometer reflected the month for which she was named.
But on that evening, her precipitous emotional turn was more abrupt than in the past.
Harsh words were spoken; she cried so hard she gulped for air.
Later that night, she took her own life.
Every lifetime is marked by transformative moments, as unique to each individual as strands of DNA.
Thomas’s materialization in the darkened hallway during the blackout was one of these seismic experiences.
April’s vanishing was another.
Her death, and the words we exchanged just prior to it, set into motion a downward trajectory, a descent into emotional quicksand. There was a second casualty: My marriage to Thomas.
Every lifetime contains these pivot points—sometimes flukes of destiny, sometimes seemingly preordained—that shape and eventually cement one’s path.
You are the most recent one, Jessica.
You cannot vanish now. You are needed more than ever before.
There are two likely possibilities the facts point to thus far. Either you are lying, and you and Thomas have met or intend to meet, or you told the truth, which means Thomas is vacillating. His hesitation in replying to your text, and his conflicting responses, all indicate he may be on the brink of temptation.
In either case, more evidence is required. The hypothesis—Thomas is an unrepentant adulterer—has not been adequately tested.
You will be granted one evening to revert back to the compliant, eager young woman who entered my study as subject 52.
You revealed that you had intended to leave town. This means you have cleared your work schedule.
Your friend Lizzie will be ensconced with her family, a thousand miles away for the holidays.
Your family will be blissfully eating from a seafood buffet and splashing in a warm saltwater pool.
You will be all mine.
CHAPTER
FORTY-SEVEN
Wednesday, December 19
“Your wife really is crazy!” I hiss into the phone.
I’m four blocks away from Dr. Shields’s town house, but this time I’ve made sure she isn’t following me. I’m huddled in the shelter of the entryway to a clothing store that has a going out of business sign plastered across the window. By now the clouds have cleared, but the winter sky is a shade between purple and black. The few people who hurry past are huddled in their coats, heads down and chins tucked into their collars.
“I know.” Thomas sighs. “What happened?”
I’m trembling, but not from the cold. Dr. Shields is tangling me up; it’s like a Chinese finger trap—the harder I struggle to escape, the more tightly I’m imprisoned.
“I just need to get away from her. You said you’d help me figure out a way. We need to meet again.”
He hesitates. “I can’t get away tonight.”
“I’ll come to you,” I say. “Where are you?”
“I’m— Actually, I’m on my way to meet her.”
My eyes widen. I feel my back stiffen.
“What? You were just at her place two nights ago. How am I supposed to believe you’re separated when you’re together all the time?”
“It’s not like that. We have an appointment with our divorce lawyer,” Thomas says. His voice is soothing now. “How about we talk tomorrow?”
I’m coiled so tight I can’t even continue the conversation. “Fine!” I say before I hang up.
I stand there for a moment.
Then I do the only thing I can think of to regain a bit of control over my splintered life.
I walk out of the store’s entryway and retrace my steps. When I am thirty yards away from Dr. Shields’s town house, I cross the street and conceal myself in the shadows.
She steps outside fifteen minutes later, just when I’d begun to worry I’d missed her.
I trail her, making sure I stay as far back as possible, as she strides down two blocks, turns a corner, and continues on for another three.
I never worry I’ll lose her, even as we approach a commercial area and the crowds grow thick. She wears a long, winter-white coat and her red-gold hair hangs loose around her shoulders.
She looks like the porcelain angel atop a Christmas tree.
In the distance, I can see Thomas waiting under an awning.
I’m confident he doesn’t spot me; my hood is up and I duck behind an MTA bus stop.