“God, I’m sure that was simply a manner of speaking,” I say, taken aback. “I love Hugh. I do. I want things to return to normal.”
“I’m interested in hearing how things went with him this past weekend.”
A sigh escapes my lips involuntarily. I dread articulating what I’m feeling and possibly validating what she seems to be hinting at.
“Things are awkward between us at moments. Hugh’s been attentive, but sometimes I sense we’re like two strangers walking toward each other on the street and trying to anticipate which way the other is going to move so we don’t collide, but we keep getting it wrong.”
I elaborate: the weird silences at times during meals; the almost total lack of physical contact; Hugh’s preoccupation with his case; the fact that last night he wolfed down Chinese takeout for dinner and immediately resumed working again.
“Can you set aside time tonight to sit together and talk for a while?” she asks. “Hugh might be even more concerned about you than he’s expressing and needs help opening up.”
“Yes, I can probably make that happen. And you’re right, I know he’s been concerned. It turns out he was really freaked out believing that our fight triggered my fugue state, though I told him I have doubts about that.”
She cocks her head.
“Because?”
“The little information I do have suggests it began later the next day. For one thing, I sent out these totally coherent emails Tuesday morning.”
“Disconnecting from reality can sometimes be a gradual process. You might have felt like yourself Tuesday morning, but as the day wore on, you became more distressed about the fight.”
“But what about the tissues, then?”
“Tissues?” She glances down at her notes.
“The ones I found in my coat pocket—with dried blood?”
“Right, yes, we talked about that.”
“What I’m thinking,” I say, “is that the tissues are related to whatever incident caused me to dissociate. Something really stressful might have happened to me on Tuesday, and the stress ended up causing a nosebleed.”
Her lips part ever so slightly, and I wait for a comment. But instead she sits quietly, studying me with her deep brown eyes.
“I get your desire for immediate answers, Ally,” she says finally. “I also see why you wanted to speak to your brother. But it’s really essential for you to keep your stress level down and allow your brain to recover at its own pace. Let the detective work take place here in our sessions. That’s the best way to regain your footing completely and avoid triggering a relapse.”
“Okay, I understand,” I say, slightly chastened. “And do you think if I stop trying so hard, I will remember one day?”
“That’s definitely possible, yes. But not always the case. It’s important to recognize that memories can become so seriously fractured that they’re not retrievable. We’re out of time, but we can discuss this more when I see you Thursday.”
I glance quickly at my watch, thinking she must be mistaken. But we are out of time.
And I feel almost worse than when I arrived.
13
As soon as I return to the apartment, I head to the fridge, hesitate, and then finally pour myself a glass of pinot grigio from a bottle that Hugh’s already opened. I feel edgy as hell, and I know a few little yoga poses aren’t going to make a difference.
I was really counting on today’s session with Erling to move me forward, but it seems to have left me in even greater turmoil. I notice that the back of my top is drenched in sweat.
It’s going to take a while to feel grounded again, I remind myself. Memories will take time to surface, too. And covering certain topics—my relationship with Hugh, my lie years ago—is bound to churn me up. I have to be patient with the process.
Maybe coming clean with the police this week will ease this new wave of anxiety. When I called Roger last night, the dinner party with friends was clearly still going on—I could hear wine-buzzy, winding-down chatter in the background—but he said of course he could talk. I expected him to be surprised by my admission, but he sounded more than that. His words caught a couple of times in his throat.
“I see,” he’d said. “Well, you must have been very frightened back then. Would you like me to share this information when I speak to the chief?”
“Yes, please.”
“Will do. I probably should get back to the table, but I’ll give him a call tomorrow—and let you know as soon as I have any news.”
I guess I’d been hoping for him to say my actions back then were completely understandable, and he did urge me not to worry before he hung up, but I sensed that the revelation troubled him. Does he think less of me, that I’m a little liar? Does he suspect there’s more to the story than I’ve let on?
My brother’s reaction made me reluctant to update Hugh last night. I will tell him, but not immediately, not when he has so much on his mind.
Which means two sins of omission, of course. This and the coffee with Damien tomorrow. Thank god Gabby’s on her way over now—I need the comfort of her presence.
Wineglass in hand, I head back to the bedroom, kick off my shoes, and change into lounge-y pants and a sweater. Then, for a while, I wander aimlessly around the apartment, like someone who can’t recall where she left her keys or set down a glass. I realize that on some level, I am searching, looking for the missing days. I know Erling keeps urging me to relax, but if I knew where I’d been and what I’d been doing, maybe I could make better sense of everything else.
Her last comment from the session echoes in my head: that I might never remember. No, I can’t accept that yet.
Finally, Gabby texts me to say she’s five minutes away, and then only seconds later, it seems, the buzzer to the apartment door is sounding and she’s striding in, all five feet eleven inches of her. She’s swaddled in a beige, drape-y shawl-collared coat, and her long red hair is tied in a high ponytail.
“Wait,” I exclaim, spotting the aluminum roller bag she’s hauling behind her. “Did you come straight from the airport?”
“Yup,” she says, embracing me. “I couldn’t wait. Omigod, I’m so relieved to see you.”
“Same here.” The mere sight of her has already begun to soothe my ragged nerves.
Leaving her bag behind in the foyer, she trails me into the great room.
“Are you up for wine?” I ask. “I’ve got a bottle already open.”
“Just a splash. I don’t want to crash too early or I’ll wake up at two A.M. and never get back to sleep. Tell me what I’ve missed.”
I’ve been keeping Gabby up to date by email, though I haven’t told her yet about my recovered memory. I’m nearly certain she won’t judge me harshly when I do, but I feel like I need to share it with Hugh first.
“Not much. I managed to do a little work today. Saw my therapist. Baby steps, really.”
As Gabby settles onto the couch, I grab the wine bottle and an extra glass and plop down next to her. She shrugs off her coat and unwinds the scarf that’s been wrapped around her neck. She’s wearing jeans and a tight black jersey top, along with some of her jewelry—an amulet around her neck and eight or nine bangles and ribbon bracelets, each one unique but fabulous in combination. Gabby has an enviably stylish but nonchalant way of dressing that I’ve never been able to master. I’m useless at nonchalant.