I give her a brief overview of Greenbacks: it’s a website offering a ton of posts on personal finance topics, but there are other services, too, like individual money management handled totally online. I explain I worked there for more than four years, first as an editor, then as chief content officer—and that overall, I really enjoyed it. My coworkers were smart and interesting, and I found the work exciting. But since I’d always had a desire to make a name as a personal finance expert, I started working on my own about five years ago.
“I really don’t have any idea why I went back there,” I add, knowing that’s what she’s really wondering. “The friends I made have moved on, too . . . but there’s one thing I should mention. When I worked at Greenbacks, I was involved romantically with the founder and CEO, Damien Howe.”
“This man was married?” she says. Her expression still gives nothing away, though I swear her eyes widen almost imperceptibly.
“Definitely not. We were both single at the time. But he was my boss—and we kept it a secret from the other employees.”
“How do you feel about the relationship in retrospect?”
“Well, I never felt taken advantage of, if that’s what you mean. I was in my late twenties, already in a big job there, and he wasn’t all that much older, so it wasn’t some kind of crazy power imbalance. I was in love with him. I was. And I think he was in love with me. But once it became clear that some of my colleagues were on to us, I decided we should cool it for a while . . . for both our sakes. And he agreed . . . but then we never got back together.”
She waits, and when I don’t fill the silence, she asks how I felt about it ending.
“There were no repercussions,” I say. “This was never a hashtagmetoo thing. But I was confused—and hurt, too. Like I said, I thought we were only on hiatus. I figured I’d find a job elsewhere or accelerate my plan to go freelance, and then we could start seeing each other again. But he seemed to, I don’t know, lose interest.”
The room suddenly seems so quiet. Her office is only on the seventh floor of the building, but there isn’t even a hint of the traffic below.
“Can you describe your feelings for Damien now?” she asks.
“I swear I don’t have any. I can’t even tell you the last time I thought about him.”
Her right eyebrow shoots up, fast as a knee tapped with a reflex hammer. She’s not hiding her reaction this time.
“You look surprised,” I say.
“I am. It’s common for a person to hold on to some feelings for someone he or she was in love with once. It’s perfectly normal, even if you’re happily married now. It’s even normal to check up on a former partner, particularly on the internet.”
I find myself shrugging. “Okay, I have thought about him at times, and I used to google him now and again. But it’s honestly been ages since I did that. I have no clue whatsoever why I would go to Greenbacks. And I definitely don’t think I’m holding any residual stress related to Damien or the company.”
Erling taps a finger to her lips. She’s wearing a rose-colored lipstick that I’ve been too preoccupied to notice until now.
“In our earlier sessions, we’d been discussing the experience you had when you were nine. How do you think that may be playing into what’s happened this week?”
“Oh god,” I say, pressing my hands to my face. I knew we would get here, too. What I failed to tell the doctor yesterday was that my decision to see Erling wasn’t based only on my family-planning discussions. I’ve been worried that my ambivalence is related to this—this thing that happened to me years ago, and I knew I needed to talk it through with a professional. From the moment Dr. Agarwal used the phrase “trauma from the past,” I’ve been nagged by the idea that something that happened twenty-five years ago might also play a role in my current nightmare.
I lower my hands. “Do you think talking about it with you churned everything up and made me detach from myself?”
“What do you think, Ally?” That’s something she often does, throw my question back at me.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Like I told you before, I certainly don’t feel haunted by it every day. My parents were so supportive—staying home from work in the days after, even sending me to a therapist. But parts of that day are still confusing to me. Everybody seemed to be talking in hushed tones, and I wasn’t always sure what was going on.”
“Have you been thinking a lot about that event?”
“Yes,” I say and realize that I’m wringing my hands. “You—you said during another session that it might help for me to see if my brother Roger remembers anything about the episode. In light of everything this week, I think I need to do that.”
“I’m not sure this is the right moment for that. But I think we need to return to the topic during the next session, when we have more time to focus on it.”
“Okay.” I glance at my watch and discover to my shock that the session is almost over. “But I still haven’t remembered anything.”
“It’s going to take time, Ally.” She crosses one leg over the other. “I’m curious. What were you doing when most of your memory returned at the hospital?”
“Filling out some forms. It sounds kind of crazy, but when I glanced down at the white sheet on the bed, I suddenly had an image of our living room—we have a white sofa and white walls. And then things all came back in a tumble.”
“That’s important to note. It often helps jog a memory when you stop pushing your brain so hard. Give it a chance to work on its own. Like I said, it can take time for these memories to surface.”
I nod, realizing she’s making perfect sense.
“And I think it’s best for you to take things very easy this weekend. With a dissociative state, the body has separated from the mind, so use your mind to stay as much in touch with your body as possible. Savor the food you eat. Do some yoga every day, really letting yourself engage with the positions. And I often recommend that patients keep cinnamon Altoids with them.”
“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: