“What’s going on?”
“Something weird. But I don’t want Dad to know.”
“Talk to me.”
I blurt it all out, except for the part about the fight with Hugh. As close as I am to Roger, I like keeping my marriage private.
“Ally, how awful for you. Do you feel you’re getting the best medical care?”
“I have a good therapist, and I’m going to see a neurologist for a second opinion. But I didn’t call you this week, did I?”
“No, we haven’t talked since last weekend. Gosh, I feel terrible. Tell me what I can do.”
“I mostly wanted to fill you in, but maybe we could get together soon, too.”
“Absolutely. You could come out for the day, have lunch here.”
Of course, any social engagement would surely have to be run by Roger’s wife, Marion, who seems to prefer having Roger all for herself.
“That’s sweet, but you don’t have to go to any trouble. I just want to see you—and also, to ask you some questions.”
I blurt out the last part without even seeing it coming—and against Erling’s advice.
“Are you wondering if there’s any family history with this sort of thing?”
“No one’s mentioned that as a factor. But lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened when I was nine, finding Jaycee Long. Dissociative states are sometimes caused by past trauma, and I’m wondering if that experience could have been a trigger.”
There’s a long pause, and I can picture him doing his usual little scratch on the side of his head.
“I’m not sure how much I can help, but I’ll try,” he finally says. “Though wouldn’t Dad be a better person to ask?”
“Probably, but if I start asking questions, I’m sure he’ll get suspicious, and I don’t want to upset him.”
“Good point. Well, I’m happy to talk, and actually, you may not need to drive all the way out. Marion surprised me with tickets for the New York Philharmonic Sunday afternoon and then we’re going to some friends’ apartment for dinner. We could grab a drink after the concert—maybe around five? Marion can shop or head to our friends’ place early.”
That is more convenient for me, but I can’t help but be bugged by the mention of the concert. Regardless of how many times I’ve invited him and Marion here for a Sunday brunch or suggested we grab a play and dinner in the city, he usually passes, bemoaning the fact that he’s become a bit of a homebody since his early retirement from a hedge fund. And now Marion’s organized a day in Manhattan without even factoring in me and Hugh. But really, I shouldn’t be taken aback. From the moment Roger married her a few years ago, she’s been boxing me out in lots of little ways that my brother doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to throw off your plans.”
“No, I’m dying to see you, Button. I want to be there for you.”
“Thanks, Rog. That means a lot.”
After agreeing to firm up our plans in the next day or so, we sign off. I get up to boil water for tea. Daylight has faded, and lights are blinking on in the endless high-rises visible from the apartment. Living here, with this breathtaking view of Manhattan at night, I’m always struck by how the building lights always seem dabbed on here and there at random, like the backdrop of a Broadway show.
I sip my tea and reflect on the conversation with Roger. I’m glad I asked for his help, and I’m grateful for the chance to see him even sooner than I’d hoped. But something makes my stomach knot, something beyond the fact that he’d planned to be in Manhattan and hadn’t told me. That Marion had surprised him with tickets? And then I realize I’ve completely forgotten Roger’s birthday. It was ten, no eleven, days ago.
Shit. It’s like Gabby said—I’ve been distracted, forgetful. Was it because of having so much on my mind lately, or a precursor to my memory loss?
I shoot him a quick email apologizing and order him a cookbook that I’d eyed for him months ago. Roger’s always been a bit of a bon vivant, someone who loves fine decor, the best wines he can get his hands on, and gourmet cooking.
Absentmindedly I glance at my phone and to my shock, notice it’s almost five. Sasha is due momentarily. I set my laptop on the dining table and open it to the research notes she’d emailed for the podcast. Two minutes later the concierge rings to say my guest has arrived, and I use the time Sasha’s on the elevator to swap my boots for ballet flats.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” she says as soon as I swing open the front door of the apartment. “I more or less invited myself.”
“No, it’s fine. Come in.” She’s carrying a wrapped bouquet of flowers and a tiny shopping bag. “Let me take your coat.”
“First, these are for you.” She hands me both packages. “I thought the flowers could cheer you up. And I’ve brought chicken soup, too. I know this deli makes the absolute best in the city.”
“Sasha, you shouldn’t have.” On the surface it seems like a lovely gesture, but to me it’s excessive. And from what I’ve learned about Sasha so far, she often has a secret agenda. I know to keep my guard up with her.
“Oh please, my pleasure,” she gushes. “It’s so hard to be sick, especially when your plate is as full as yours is.”
For a second, I wonder if she’s gotten wind of what happened to me. People I know in the field might have heard via the rumor mill of my bizarre visit at Greenbacks, learned it was me who was rolled out on a stretcher. But her expression doesn’t seem to be alluding to it.
She shrugs off the strap of a quilted tote bag and slips out of her coat, revealing a striking drop-waist dress, black on top, with a row of black and white knife pleats on the lower half. It looks great with her blond bob. And it’s sleeveless, emphasizing her perfectly buffed arms.
An awkward moment follows in which I can’t take her coat because I’m holding her offerings. She ends up hanging up the coat herself and then follows me into the great room, where I set the soup on the counter and tear the paper off the bouquet. The flowers are a stunning orange, a type of rose I’ve never seen.
“These are amazing,” I tell her as I pull a glass vase from one of the cabinets.
“I remember you saying your apartment was all white, so I thought you’d enjoy a pop of color on a gloomy day.”
After I fill a vase with water and arrange the flowers, I carry it to the dining table, where I’ve gestured for Sasha to take a seat.
“Your place is absolutely gorgeous,” she declares, scanning the room. “How long have you lived here?”
“About three years. We bought it right after Hugh and I were married.”
“How did you two meet, anyway?”
“At a dinner party thrown by a mutual friend. Can I get you an espresso? Or a glass of chardonnay?”
There’s a beat before she answers, and I sense she’s considering saying wine, a chance to make the meeting more social, but fortunately she opts for the espresso instead. I’m not in the mood for chitchat. While I’m preparing our drinks, I talk over my shoulder, switching topics to the podcast.
By the time I set the two cups on the table, she’s spread out a sheaf of papers and begins to brief me. As planned, Sasha’s preinterviewed the main guest, Jamie Parkin, a female Wall Street veteran who’s written a book on developing everyday fearlessness, and drafted questions for me to ask. She’s also included a boatload of backup research on subjects such as grit and confidence in the workplace.