Have You Seen Me?(8)
“A glass of sparkling water, if you don’t mind,” I tell him, taking in the clean open space as if I’m seeing it for the first time: the white couch and armchairs, the glass-topped dining table, the floor-to-ceiling windows with the city views spilling out below and beyond.
“What about something more nourishing? Like some soup?”
“Honey,” I say smiling, hoping to lighten the mood a little. “I’m sure we don’t have any soup. Unless you count the three old cubes of chicken bouillon that I brought along as part of my wedding dowry.”
He chuckles. “Right. How about takeout then? We can order from Pavone’s.”
“Um, sure, sounds good.” I’m not hungry, but I need to be sitting across from Hugh at our dining table, a regular nightly ritual for us.
As Hugh pours me a glass of Pellegrino water, I wander the length of the room.
“What’s the matter, Ally?” he asks, furrowing his brow.
“My purse. I was praying it might be here—along with my keys and my phone. Can you call my number?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s here. I would have heard your phone ringing before.” After handing me the glass, he slides his phone from his pants pocket and taps the screen.
I hold my breath, but there’s only silence.
“I still have my old iPhone, so I can use it with a new SIM card—but darn, all our credit cards. They have to be canceled.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. And you can use our spare key. I’ll have another one made for us.”
“I hate to dump this all on you.”
“I don’t mind, truly. I just want you to relax, take it easy tonight.”
I realize how achy I still am. “I think what I want most of all before dinner is a shower.”
“Of course. Can you handle it alone?”
“I think so. I don’t feel faint anymore, really.”
“I might hang in the bedroom while you’re showering.”
“Hugh, I appreciate the thought, but it’s really not necessary.”
He steps forward and encircles me with his arms. “You’ll have to forgive me if I glom on to you over the next few days. I want to be sure you’re okay.”
“I like the idea of you glomming on to me, but I’ll be fine showering.”
“Okay, I’ll order dinner and cancel the cards. How about chicken piccata? And a salad?”
“Sounds good.”
Leaving Hugh behind, I traipse down the long corridor to the master bedroom. After draining the water glass, I peel off my blouse, bra, pants, and underwear and stuff them all into the hamper, though I’m tempted to chuck them in the waste basket. There’s a sour, sweaty smell emanating from them, and they have a clammy feel, too, as if I’ve been in them for days.
After grabbing my robe, I search all around the space, and also in the alcove off the bedroom, which I use as a home office when I don’t go to WorkSpace. There’s no sign of my purse anywhere, but my laptop is here, in the middle of my desk—exactly where I always keep it when I’m home. I breathe a sigh of relief that I hadn’t had it with me today, because surely it would be missing now, too.
I open the laptop and click on “find my phone,” hoping for a miracle. But a miracle doesn’t happen. The response is phone not found. It was either turned off or ran out of battery in the general vicinity of my apartment building.
Next, I check the day’s calendar to see what light it can shed. The hours from 8:30 to 11:00 are blocked off with the notation “work on book,” and at 11:30, there’s a note to myself to “call Jackie,” a reference to my book agent. Obviously, that call never happened.
I’m not usually an early morning person, and I can’t figure out why in the world I’d gotten up and left the house by 7:15, which is when I must have departed to have arrived at Greenbacks by 8:05. Had I planned something I hadn’t noted on the calendar?
I rest my hands on the desk, one on each side of the computer, and try to picture myself here. Hugh generally leaves in the morning before I do—he’s recently been made a junior partner at his law firm and likes to be in his office most days by 7:30—and after he’s gone I like to take my coffee into the alcove. I scan through the Wall Street Journal online and review my schedule. But my efforts to recall this morning are futile. It feels as if I’m trying to light a match that’s been soaked in water.
I trudge to the bathroom, start the shower, and close my eyes as the warm water gushes over me. I soap my hair twice with shampoo, kneading my scalp with my fingers.
Once I’m finished, I dry off and settle onto the stool in the bathroom, finally sensing my body relax a little. I’ve always loved this room. It’s entirely white and spalike, with shelves holding impossibly thick bath towels, one of which I’ve swaddled myself in. At the end of a tough day, I’ll often light the room with candles and soak in the tub, feeling my tension melt away. Letting go of the silly need to do everything perfectly. Yet somehow, for a few hours this morning, I managed to forget that this room, this entire apartment, even existed.
What if it happens again? Me not knowing where I live or who my husband is or who I really am? I grip the edges of the stool, terrified at the thought.
I rise quickly from the stool and return to the alcove, where I type out an email to Dr. Erling.