Have You Seen Me?(7)

After he departs, I realize how bone-achingly tired I am, something I’ve been too wired and vigilant to notice until now. I finally allow myself to sink fully into the bed. Hugh is coming and he’ll take me home. I don’t have to fret anymore. Within seconds I’m drifting off to sleep.

When my eyes finally flutter open, I discover Evelyn standing along the side of my bed. Her fingers rest on my arm and she’s gently stirring me awake.

“Look who I’ve brought,” she says.

Hugh steps from behind her, his face pinched with worry.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says.

I project myself forward and we embrace, hugging tightly. His silky tie, the soft, rich cotton of his shirt, the feel of his fingers softly raking my hair—it all seems so real. My body pulses with relief. This whole horrible day—maybe it’s nothing more than a momentary blip in my life.

“I’m so glad you’re finally here,” I tell him.

“I’m sorry it took forever. Traffic from Connecticut was a mess, and there was one annoying delay after another.”

I glance at Evelyn. “I hope this means I can be released now.”

“Why don’t we have Dr. Agarwal weigh in on the timing?” she says. “He’ll be back shortly, I’m sure.”

“Oh god, Hugh. I’m so embarrassed about this,” I say as soon as she steps out of the room.

“Don’t be silly. But can you fill me in? They wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, only that you were being held in the ER for observation. I’ve been going out of my mind.”

You and me both, I almost say, but he’s probably not in the right mood for gallows humor. I explain about showing up at Greenbacks this morning, purseless and phoneless, passing out, remembering nothing, and then, almost all at once, everything flooding back. Despite how calmly he appears to take it, I can read the concern in his light brown eyes.

“Why Greenbacks?” he asks when I’m finished. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that’s his first question. He knows about my years there. And he knows, too, about my prior relationship with Damien.

“I have no idea. Maybe I was so disoriented, I lost track of where I actually work now.”

“Could you have had a concussion?”

“They don’t think so, but—”

I’m spared from recounting my psychiatric assessment by the return of Dr. Agarwal, who offers Hugh a recap of what he shared with me earlier. I have to hand it to my husband: as freaked out as he must be listening to Agarwal, especially when he brings up the fact that reoccurrences are common, Hugh appears to take it all in with perfect equanimity.

“How can I be of help to my wife?” he asks when Agarwal finishes.

“Just be as supportive as possible. Ally should do her absolute best to avoid stress. It’s possible her memory from this morning will return in time.”

Hugh is quiet for a moment. “Understood,” he says finally.

We soon discover that the only obstacle blocking my departure now is paperwork, and because several staffers don’t seem to know where the release forms are at the moment, it feels like I might never be discharged. Hugh springs into action, not in an aggressive, alpha-male way, but in that subtle lawyer style of his, sorting through the confusion, finding a person to take charge, and flashing me a conspiratorial grin when the designated hero finally appears, papers in hand.

I wonder again how distressed he really is. We’ve navigated our share of tough times in our four years together—his younger sister’s serious car accident, which thankfully she fully recovered from; my father’s heart attack this past summer; the stressful periods when Hugh’s smack in the middle of a big case and working nights and weekends with very little time for me. But this is a whole other ball of wax.

Once my clothes and watch have been returned to me and I’m dressed, Hugh squeezes my hand.

“You all set?” he asks.

“Yup.”

“You don’t have a coat?”

I glance down at my blouse and pants, wrinkled from being balled into a plastic bag, and my black kitten heels, still damp from the rain. I remember a coat—my black trench.

“Maybe it was left behind in the ambulance.”

“Why don’t I follow up on that later—let’s get you home now.”

Outside I see that the rain has stopped, though it’s left behind a bruised, swollen October sky. In the cab Hugh pulls me toward him and leaves his arm draped around me. My right cheek rests on the soft worsted wool of his suit. My friend Gabby once joked that Hugh probably showered in his suits, but I like them, especially seeing them lined up in his closet. To me they’re a reminder of how hard he’s worked, never taking anything for granted.

I’m sure he has a billion more questions but is saving them till we’re home and I’m feeling better. It’s a relief to not have to talk and yet at the same time I feel wired again, my limbs jittery.

Finally, we’re inside our building lobby, hurrying past the doorman and concierge—who probably note my disheveled appearance but would never betray their surprise—and riding the twenty-seven floors to our apartment.

“Would you like something to drink?” Hugh asks as we pass from the foyer into the great room, which serves as a combination living, dining, and kitchen area.