Have You Seen Me?(59)

“No, that’s all right. Thank you for your help.”

They hurry off, but I remain there, still catching my breath, and trying to process what happened. Was I simply shoved aside by an asshole too impatient to wait for the light?

I glance down. My palms are raw, and even in the dark, I can see that one of my pants legs is shredded.

I sense someone else hovering near me and I turn to see an older woman with white hair tucked beneath a wide-brimmed vinyl rain hat. She seems to be standing preternaturally still, like an apparition only I can view.

We make eye contact, and she takes a step toward me.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“You were pushed,” she says.

“You saw? What did the person look like?”

“I didn’t see it, but I felt it. An arm shooting out. You should call the police.”

I survey the intersection. I can’t imagine anyone who would do that sticking around to face the consequences.

“I think it’s too late for them to do anything.” There are probably CCTV cameras trained onto the corner, like Mulroney indicated, but since people were so tightly bunched together, the video probably wouldn’t reveal much.

“Still, you should call them. They need to know what’s going on in this area. Good night.”

Her concern seems to be more for the neighborhood than for me. As she turns away, water flicks off her rain hat. Moments later she melds into the pedestrian traffic, as if she was never here.

I’m still breathing hard and my coat’s streaked with dirt, but I banish the urge to return to the apartment, wanting to get my bearings first. I hurry the remaining half block to the bistro, checking constantly over my shoulder. I collapse my umbrella and secure a table by the window so I can keep an eye on the street and whoever might be out there.

But for the moment, I glance down at the metal table and mentally play back the scene from five minutes ago. Reaching the corner, feeling the shove—almost more of a punch—and the fear grabbing hold of me as I was launched into traffic.

After the waiter takes my wine order, I inspect my palms. They’re red and raw, with a few crisscrossed, razor-thin lines where the skin’s been broken. And my forearms, which took the brunt of the fall, have started to throb like a headache. I gingerly peel off my coat and let it drape behind me.

Who would want to hurt me? New York has plenty of crazies, of course, people who think nothing of hurling total strangers onto subway tracks. Did I simply look the wrong way at someone who was unhinged?

Maybe that’s all this was, and I need to mentally move on. Though I try to sandbag my swelling panic, it sloshes over the walls, threatening to spill. I should call Hugh, I think, let him know what happened, but I don’t want to pull him away from a work event. I could try Gabby, I guess. But she’s in bed sick.

My phone rings, and to my shock, Damien’s name appears on the screen. My first instinct is to forward the call to voice mail, but I change my mind and answer.

“Hey,” he says, “I wanted to apologize for leaving on such a weird note the other day. It wasn’t fair of me.”

“That’s all right.” What does he want? I wonder. “I appreciated you checking on me.”

“Where are you, anyway?”

“At a bistro near Lincoln Center. Uh . . . I’m about to have a glass of wine.”

“What’s the matter?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t sound very good.”

It’s true, I realize. My voice is quivering.

“I fell—well, someone pushed me—into the street. A couple of minutes ago. I’m not hurt, but it freaked me out.”

“Where are you, exactly? I’m coming right now.”

“Damien, no, it’s not necessary.”

“I’m not that far. I just left a client at Eighty-Fifth and Columbus.”

The name and address spill from my lips. I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I could use the company for sure.

While I wait for him to arrive, the scene from the intersection plays on a loop in my brain. Closing my eyes, I try to recapture the exact sensation I felt in between my shoulder blades. Hard like a fist. Is someone possibly after me?

It’s only then that I recall the sense memory that was triggered seconds earlier, when I glanced at the sleeve of my coat in the rain: in my mind I could see myself dabbing at my blood-covered fingers. I can’t be sure, though, if it’s really a memory or simply an image I conjured up from thinking so much about those tissues. I glance back at my coat, bunched behind me on the banquette, but it stirs nothing now.

I’m halfway through my wine when I catch sight of Damien through the window, shaking out his small umbrella. A few seconds later he bursts through the door, and to my dismay, my heart skips at the sight of him.

He plops into a chair across from me, not bothering to take off his khaki raincoat. His face is dewy and his hair slightly darkened from rainwater.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, his voice soft.

“Just rattled. Thanks so much for coming.”

“Like I said, I wasn’t far away. How scary.”

I snicker. “This must seem like déjà vu to you. Me wet and disheveled again, looking like a total mess.”