We rise and I thank Gabby profusely for coming by. After seeing her to the door and hugging her good-bye, I retreat back to the couch and further contemplate her theory: that I might have observed a traumatic event. That I was a witness rather than a victim.
I should have come up with that myself. I’ve always been intrigued with behavioral finance, the study of the influence of psychology on investors, including selective inattention, how we don’t always notice what’s going on around us and instead see only what we expect or want to see. I’ve been so focused on myself, on trying to figure out what happened to me, that I’ve failed to imagine a different scenario.
I quickly grab the pad on the coffee table and add a note about Gabby’s theory to the timeline I’ve drafted.
After traipsing down to the bedroom alcove, I open my laptop and do another online search for detective agencies, narrowing it to smaller operations, most of which promise a range of services—like determining the whereabouts of a loved one, digging for possible dirt on a new boyfriend met via the internet, verifying a potential employee’s references, or proving whether or not your spouse is shagging someone else. All the agencies promise discretion, a guarantee that no one will have to know you’ve hired an investigator.
There’s one agency I keep coming back to: Mulroney and Williams Private Investigations. Two mid-fortysomething-looking partners, one a former New York City police detective, the other a former Navy SEAL. Ha, surf and turf, I think. Their bios highlight their long records and commendations, which I have absolutely no way of completely verifying—unless, of course, I hire them to do it.
A tab on their website says Missing Persons and I click there next—because that’s what this is really about, right? I’m looking for a missing person: me during those two days.
The resulting page spells out their approach: they interview, gather physical evidence, do surveillance, in certain instances using wiretaps and global positioning devices. I love the final line: “Sometimes just having a professional outsider ask questions and look in different places is the key.” God, that’s what I need. Not the wiretaps or a GPD (too late for that!), but rather someone asking questions and looking in different places. And coming up with the truth.
Returning to the home page, I find a contact form, requesting a few personal details as well as information about the case. I type in a brief summary of the situation, bite my lip, and then hit send. It’s not as if I’ve actually hired them. I’m simply making inquiries.
I return to the living area and clear the coffee table. The sun has set, and the city is beginning to sparkle. My mind circles back to another theory of Gabby’s, about the way back into my usual groove with Hugh. Dr. Erling seemed to be encouraging that as well.
After setting the wineglasses in the dishwasher, I swing open the door to the pantry cupboard and scan its contents. Hugh is due home at seven—I told him there was no rush since Gabby was stopping by—and it would be really nice, I realize, to have dinner waiting, a homemade dish since we’ve been subsisting on takeout. The larder’s close to bare, but I spot two cans of green olives and a box of penne.
What I’ll make, I decide, is a simple meal my mother discovered on a trip with my dad to France a couple of years before she died. Pasta with a sauce made of mashed olives, extra virgin olive oil, a dash of cream, and grated parmesan. I check the fridge and see we have a small carton of cream that, miraculously, has not yet expired. And there’s even a baguette in the freezer.
The plan energizes me, makes me feel a little giddy. I run the olives through the blender and set a large pot of water to boil on the stove top. I pull cloth napkins from the drawer along with matching place mats. And, yup, candles.
I switch on the pin lights in the ceiling above the dining area. As I set the first place mat, my gaze registers on the center of the table and I jerk in surprise. The orange roses that Sasha brought are no longer sitting in their vase here.
Hugh was working at the table much of yesterday, and perhaps he moved the vase out of his way. We ate takeout on the couch last night, which means I wouldn’t have necessarily noticed they’d been displaced.
I swirl around, letting my gaze sweep across the great room, from the kitchen island, to the small chest near one of the armchairs, to a console table against the wall.
But the flowers aren’t anywhere. I’ve clearly done something with them—and don’t remember it at all.
14
With my breath caught in my throat, I tear down the hallway to the back of the apartment, checking the den, the bedroom, my work alcove, even the bathroom. No sign of the roses anywhere.
Returning to the living area, I search once more with just my eyes. It’s as if they were never here, that I’ve simply conjured them up in my imagination. I circle to the far side of the island and pop the lid off the trash bin. And there they are, shoved deep inside, their thorny stems snapped in half so they’ll fit in the bin.
My heart’s hammering. I must have tossed them out last night, after dinner, because there are a few pieces of uneaten spring rolls scattered beneath. Pivoting, I fling open the door to the pantry closet, and sure enough, there’s the vase. Washed. Sitting in its usual spot.
I plop onto one of the barstools, pressing a hand to my forehead. Think, I command myself. Maybe I threw the flowers away with my brain on autopilot, planning for the next day, thinking ahead to the podcast on Tuesday. But I don’t have even the faintest memory of removing them from the vase, or trying to avoid the thorns, or rinsing out the vase afterward.
I snatch a fresh pad of paper from a drawer and scribble down every activity I can recall from last night and today: Chinese takeout with Hugh after my meeting with Roger; a bath, bed, breakfast this morning; working at Le Pain; the appointment with Dr. Erling; Gabby. What am I missing?
I breathe in for a count of four, hold it, release. And then repeat. The breathing technique ends up helping a tiny bit. So does resuming my focus on dinner. I turn the boiling water down to a simmer, scrape the olive paste from the blender into a ceramic bowl, heat a half cup of cream, then pop the baguette into the oven to warm. Creating this respectable meal from the little I had on hand is as close to a loaves-and-fishes-style miracle as I’ve ever pulled off in the kitchen, but I’m still too unsettled to truly relish the moment.
Should I call Erling and tell her about the flowers? I wonder.
I’m lighting the candles on the table when I hear Hugh’s key in the lock a little after seven.
“What’s this?” he asks, eyeing the table.
“I thought you could use a home-cooked meal for a change.”
“That’s sweet, but you shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble.”
“Honey, trust me. It’s that olive pasta dish my mother learned to make in France. Easy-peasy.”
“Uh, okay. Give me ten or so, will you?”
He heads to the bedroom, and by the time he returns, changed out of his suit, I’ve drained the penne and stirred it with the sauce. I’m still rattled but determined to make the evening with Hugh as pleasant as possible. After setting the serving bowl on the table, I pluck the bread from the oven and finally take my seat.
“I was craving pasta without even knowing it,” Hugh says, heaping penne into my bowl and then his.