Have You Seen Me?(14)

Of course, I think, after we’ve signed off, he didn’t call to inquire himself. Does the idea of us speaking to each other unsettle him as much as it does me?

When I open my laptop again, I see to my relief that Dr. Erling’s responded, asking if I’m free to talk and giving me her number. I call her New York office immediately.

“Ally, please tell me what’s happened.” The sound of her deep, steady voice provides instant comfort.

“Everything’s such a mess. I spent most of yesterday in a psych ward.”

“Yes, I spoke to Dr. Agarwal only a few moments ago,” she says.

I quickly recap from my perspective, offering details she wouldn’t have heard from Agarwal, like how long I was actually gone.

“I know I never made the appointment Wednesday,” I add. “We didn’t speak at all, did we?”

“We did, actually—but Tuesday morning. I called you around nine and asked if there was any chance you could switch this week’s appointment to my Larchmont office, and you said you could. But you never showed up the next day.”

“Did I sound okay when we talked?”

“Yes, but you mentioned you were upset about something to do with Hugh and eager to see me.”

It’s not much, but I have a couple more clues now: I had a conversation with Erling, which I can add to my timeline, and the fight with Hugh was clearly on my mind.

“I know how jammed your schedule is, but is there any way you can see me today?”

“Yes, of course. This is important. I had a cancellation at two thirty. Can you make that?”

I tell her that works perfectly and promise to see her in a few hours. As soon as we sign off, I schedule an Uber so I won’t have to be out on the street hunting down a cab.

I feel my shoulders relax a little. What I told Agarwal was true. I’ve valued my sessions with Erling, and though I don’t yet feel closer to understanding the origins of my ambivalence around having children, I’ve sensed I’ll get there with her guidance.

Now, I need her more than ever—to help me unlock the door to my memory and make sure I don’t unspool again.

I have zero appetite, but around noon I serve myself a few spoonfuls of Greek yogurt. Hugh calls—for the second time—to check on me and explains that he’s having my old iPhone messengered back to the apartment, complete with the SIM card.

Out of nowhere, fatigue ambushes me, and I lean back onto the couch, permitting my eyes to close. I can’t fall asleep, though. I need to leave soon for Dr. Erling’s.

The intercom buzzer jars me out of my stupor. The concierge announces I have a delivery from Greenbacks. Once again, the mere sound of the name kicks my pulse into higher gear.

The person who arrives at the door several minutes later isn’t a messenger but a bearded twentysomething guy who explains he’s a company intern—someone I’m sure who’s in awe of Damien and studying his every move. He hands me a large green shopping bag, his expression curious. The same stench that I noticed emanating from my clothes yesterday is now wafting from the bag, and the guy’s probably curious as to why.

After he’s gone, I dump the coat onto the foyer floor. There’s a chance, I suddenly realize, that the now fetid trench might hold clues to my whereabouts. I check the right pocket first. There’s nothing in there but a fistful of bills—three tens and seven ones. Okay, interesting: I’d managed to transfer cash from my wallet to my pocket before losing my purse. Maybe I’d used the cash to buy more food.

Before I can try the other pocket, I notice it’s bulging, as if something thick has been stuffed in there. I reach in and tug out a large wad of white tissues.

Not white anymore, though. They’re almost entirely covered with dried brown splotches, and crusty in places, as if they were used to help clean up a serious spill. I stare, summoning a memory that never comes. And then, finally, I decipher what I’m seeing.

The tissues are caked with dried blood.





8


SESSION WITH DR. ELAINE ERLING

I arrive at Dr. Erling’s building a full ten minutes ahead of schedule, feeling relieved to be there. I’m eager to pour everything out without the urge to edit myself the way I had with Dr. Agarwal.

But when the elevator reaches her floor, I’m surprised to find that my breathing is shallow, and there’s a hard pit in my stomach.

Am I scared? I wonder. Fearful of what I might learn if Dr. Erling helps me unravel the mystery of the missing days? Or am I still uneasy from my discovery of the bloody tissues, which I’ve stuffed in a Ziploc bag in my dresser drawer, in case . . . in case, I’m not sure what?

Outside Erling’s office, I press the bell, and hear the faint click of the door unlocking. I push it open and step into the foyer, a space featuring two straight-backed chairs, a small table with copies of Time and The Atlantic, and, on the floor, the de rigeur white noise machine. Despite its whir, I’m able to detect the low murmur of voices coming from the other side of the inside door. I’m early, and Erling must be finishing up with the patient ahead of me.

Though it’s going to be impossible to relax, I take a seat and grab a magazine. I flip aimlessly through the pages, my eyes never resting on a single word.

The inner door quietly swings open. Out of courtesy to the other patient, I keep my eyes lowered, though I can tell from the shoes that it’s a man. He departs, and I wait a few minutes more until Dr. Erling opens the door again. Finally, it’s my turn.