Have You Seen Me?(17)
“Altoids?”
“Yes, if you really concentrate on the flavor, it can help you be aware of your body and physical sensations. If you start to feel stressed or detached in any way, practice the breathing technique we talked about a few weeks ago, and of course, don’t hesitate to call me.”
“And I’ll see you next Wednesday—at our usual time?”
“In light of your situation, Ally, I’d like to see you twice a week for now. Does that work for you?” I nod, and she grabs her calendar. “I have an opening at three on Monday, here in the city.”
“That’s fine,” I say, relieved to think I’ll be coming more frequently. “Thank you.”
“And if it’s doable on your end, let’s move your regular appointment to Thursdays so the sessions are evenly spaced.”
“That works, too.”
As Erling accompanies me to the door, I steal a glance at my watch, part of me certain that fifty minutes couldn’t have passed. But they have. I’m on my own again.
Standing in the corridor, I order an Uber and then, while waiting for the elevator, mentally catalog the takeaways from the session, a little habit I initiated after my first visit with Erling:
Not pushing myself may make it easier for the memories to return.
The fugue state might not be related to the fight with Hugh.
It could, however, be related to what happened in Millerstown. To me. And to Jaycee Long—the little girl I found murdered in the woods so many years ago.
9
As the Uber driver zigzags west and north toward the Central Park–Seventy-Ninth Street transverse, I realize I feel even more wired than I did before the session. Jittery, unable to stop gnawing on my thumb. Or keep a zillion questions from ricocheting in my head.
My agitation, I realize, is due in part to my returning home empty-handed. On some level I’d allowed myself to believe that the session today would be a magic bullet, kick-starting my memory. But as Erling stressed, it might take time for memories to be recovered. Did she mean days? I wonder. Or weeks? I can’t stand the thought of being in the dark for so long.
There’s something else eating at me, too. The memory of Jaycee Long refuses to loosen its grip on me.
It’s not as if I didn’t obtain all the help I needed at the time. I had six months’ worth of weekly sessions with a child psychologist, an intent listener who for some reason always wore a shawl pinned around the shoulders of her blazer.
And it wasn’t as if the bad thing had really happened to me. I was simply a bystander, a nine-year-old who took a shortcut through the woods on her way home from school, kicking at leaves until her foot came into contact with something it shouldn’t have.
The body of a two-year-old toddler whose skull had been fractured.
I swear that for the past couple of decades, I haven’t really thought much about Jaycee. It was only recently that memories of finding her bubbled up in my mind, making me wonder if that early episode was somehow squelching my desire to be a mother.
Since Erling wants to circle back to the topic in our next session, it’s clear to me that she’s also wondering if the experience triggered my fugue state.
My pulse is racing, and I command my mind to go elsewhere. I have to follow Erling’s instructions, do my best to keep stress at bay. That also means giving my brain a chance to recuperate and arrive at the truth at its own pace.
Hugh calls when I’m ten minutes into the ride. “How did it go?”
“Okay, I guess. We weren’t able to trigger any memories, but she gave me a few exercises for stress.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing.”
“By the way, I ended up with a good recommendation for a neurologist at NewYork-Presbyterian. I made an appointment for midday next Wednesday. I wish it was sooner, but that’s the earliest they could squeeze you in.”
I know Hugh’s banking on this appointment, probably rooting for a physical origin, but as the hours pass, I’m growing more certain that a neurologist won’t turn up a thing.
“I appreciate you doing that,” I say. “What about tonight? Will you be home for dinner?”
“Definitely—and on the early side. And I’ll grab food on the way.”
“Great, thanks.” Navigating a crowded grocery store is exactly the kind of thing I should avoid.
Before dropping my phone into my purse, I do a fast scroll through my in-box. Needless to say, the pileup of emails is growing larger, but most of them can be ignored for the time being. There’s one I do need to deal with—from my podcast intern, Sasha. She says she hopes I’m feeling better, but mostly she’s pressing to meet with me before the next studio session in order to review her research. Will you be going to WorkSpace today? she asks, because if so, I’ll drop by there.
I email back to say I’m working from home, but we can review the research over the phone at around five, which seems easy enough. Her irritating reply, less than sixty seconds later: I have to be on the Upper West Side around that time. Why don’t I drop by your place?
Begrudgingly, I tell her that’s fine. She and Derek Kane seem to be really tight, and I don’t want her to tell her buddy that I’ve been hard to pin down. I wonder, not for the first time, if she and Kane are in a relationship—and that’s why he pushed so hard to have me take on someone with next to zero background in financial reporting.