An Anonymous Girl(84)

Those are external actions; easily witnessed. But it is not until you have been with a man for many years that you can know him well enough to recognize his hidden, internal intricacies.

They emerge over the course of the evening meal, blotting out the newly established equanimity like a slow-moving eclipse.

When Thomas is distracted—when another gear of his mind is occupied—he overcompensates.

He laughs a bit too robustly. He asks many questions—about the other couple’s upcoming vacation plans, and the private school they’re considering for their twins—which gives the appearance of engagement, but actually frees him from having to fill conversational lapses. He works his way, methodically, through his meal: Tonight the order is his medium-rare steak first, then the potatoes, and finally the green beans.

When an individual is so deeply familiar, their habits and mannerisms become easy to decode.

Thomas’s thoughts are elsewhere tonight.

Midway through his black onyx chocolate cake, Thomas pulls out his vibrating phone. He glances at the screen and frowns.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “A patient of mine has just been admitted to Bellevue. I hate to cut this short, but I have to go consult with the attending doctors.”

Everyone at the table expresses understanding; this sort of interruption is a natural consequence of his line of work.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he says as he lays a credit card down on the table. “But you know how these things go, so please don’t wait up.”

The brush of his lips; the bittersweet taste of chocolate.

Then my husband is gone.

His absence feels like a theft.


The town house is dark and still. The bottom step groans softly under my step, as it has for years. In the past, that noise was comforting; it often signaled that Thomas had finished locking up and was coming to bed.

Upstairs, a light shines softly on the nightstand in the empty bedroom.

This moment was supposed to be very different. Candles would be lit; music would softly play. My dress would slowly slip down, revealing the hint of enticing pink silk.

Instead, my shoes are returned to the closet. Then my earrings and necklace are replaced in their velvet compartments in the top drawer of the bureau. Thomas’s note from this morning rests alongside the gems, like another precious item.

His words, so comfortingly ordinary, have been committed to memory.

Still, the note is opened and read again.

Three tiny beads of ink mar the sentences.

These smudges bring forth a sudden clarity.

They were made with a specific fountain pen that leaves blots on the page when the nub rests against the paper for too long.

This fountain pen is always kept in the same place: the desk in my study.

Twelve swift steps are taken across the bedroom and past the threshold into the study.

When Thomas reached for the pen before going out for bagels, he would have seen two files—yours and April’s, with the names clearly visible on the tabs—only inches away on the surface of the desk.

The instinct to grab the folders and check their contents is almost uncontrollable; however, it must be suppressed. Panic begets errors.

There are five items on the desk: the pen, a beverage coaster, a Tiffany clock, and the folders.

At first glance, everything appears intact.

But something almost imperceptible is amiss.

Each item is scrutinized in turn, as a rising wave of anxiety is battled.

The pen is exactly where it should be, on the top left-hand corner of the desk. The clock is opposite it, at the top right-hand corner. The coaster is beneath the clock, because beverages are always held in my right hand, which frees my left hand to write notes.

The alteration is spotted within a minute. It would be invisible to ninety percent of the population, however.

Individuals who fall into the vast majority, the right-handers, rarely recognize the inconveniences those of us in the minority are acutely attuned to. Simple household items—scissors, ice-cream scoops, can openers—are all designed for the right-handed. Water fountain buttons. Car cup holders. ATMs. The list continues.

People with right-hand dominance naturally orient the page to the right side of the body when they take notes. People who use their left hands to write orient the page to the left. The practice is automatic; it requires no conscious thought.

The folders have been moved several inches to the right of their usual resting spot on the desk. They are now in the space where the brain of a right-handed person would decree they belong.

The file folders briefly blur as my vision swims. Then reason reasserts itself.

Perhaps Thomas simply brushed the folders a few inches aside when he replaced the pen, and then attempted to recenter them.

Even if Thomas had picked them up out of curiosity, or in a search to find a sheet of paper for his note before he discovered a blank pad in the top desk drawer, he would have realized they were client folders. Therapists are bound by rules of confidentiality; Thomas abides by this professional mandate. Even in our private discussions about clients, they are never mentioned by name. Even special clients, like Subject 5.

Thomas was told about my first encounter with Subject 5, how she fled the NYU classroom in tears midway through her initial computerized survey session. When Subject 5 revealed to my assistant, Ben, that the questions had triggered an intense emotional reaction for her, Thomas agreed that the moral course of action was to provide her with some expert guidance. He listened supportively as our subsequent interactions were described—the conversations in my office, the gifts, and finally the invitation for cheese and wine at the town house on a night when Thomas was occupied at a business event.