That’s one thing I do remember now that she mentions it.
“Did I give you any hint I was coming undone?”
“No, you sounded fine. The only thing that seems odd in hindsight is that you promised to call me before I left for London, but I never heard from you. I just figured you were busy and forgot.”
My pulse quickens. “Have I been forgetful lately?”
She sighs. “To be honest, a little.”
“About important stuff?”
“Nothing like that. Maybe distracted is a better word. Like last weekend, you said you were going to swing by my apartment at three but you showed at three thirty.”
I picture her sitting at her wooden table, her long red hair fanned out around her shoulders. We chatted about a thriller we’d both read, a new guy she’s seeing, her search for a better publicist for her rapidly expanding business.
“I’m sorry I screwed that up. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It wasn’t a big deal. I know the baby stuff has been eating at you. Do you think all the stress caused this?”
“I’m not sure, but now I’m even more stressed, and I will be until I figure out where I was.”
In my mind’s eye I can see the wheels turning in my friend’s mind. “You know what I would do if I were you?” she says. “Hire a private detective.”
Gabby’s an out-of-the-box thinker—it’s what makes her jewelry designs unique and riveting—so I’m not surprised she’s going there. But her suggestion feels like a move I’m not ready to make yet.
“Maybe.”
“Why maybe?”
“It would be an awfully big step. Besides, I’m hoping my therapist can help me regain my memory, and then I won’t need a detective on the case . . . but anyway, I should let you go.”
“Okay, but promise you’ll call me day or night if you need anything. And why don’t I plan to drop by right after I get back on Monday? My flight lands around four.”
“You’ll be exhausted.”
“Don’t worry about it. I need to be with you.”
As soon as we hang up, I check my email to see if Dr. Erling has responded, but there’s no word from her. Then I google “private detective agencies NYC,” simply to see what surfaces. The number of possibilities seems overwhelming and after perusing the first dozen or so, I shut my laptop with a sigh.
The house phone rings again, startling me. I assume it’s a robocall, but to my shock, I find myself staring at the main number for Greenbacks. Damien? When I answer, however, a woman’s voice asks for Ally Linden.
“This is she.”
“I’m Damien Howe’s assistant. I have your trench coat—you left it in the conference room—and I wanted to arrange to send it over to you. We’re lucky we still had an old home number for you.”
I’m grateful to hear it. The coat wasn’t pricey, but I liked it. Besides, I can take comfort in the fact that unlike my memory, it hasn’t been sucked into a black hole and lost forever. Maybe today won’t be as much of a hot mess as yesterday.
After I provide the address, she tells me the messenger should be there in a few hours. Something about her tone and uptalk suggests she’s young, and I wonder if she’s the woman I’d seen in the cubicle outside Damien’s office yesterday. Is he sitting in his office with the door open, eavesdropping on the call?
“Oh, and Damien wanted me to ask how you were feeling,” she adds. “He called the hospital, but they weren’t allowed to give out any information.”
I cringe as I flash back on the face-plant I did in his office and being hauled out on a stretcher, my hair slicked back with rainwater. I must have looked like a marooned seal.
“Please tell him I’m doing fine today, and that I appreciate his concern.”
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.