“Hey, I’ve got a surprise,” I say, switching gears. “I picked up a delicious cheese when I was out. I figured we could both do with something decadent.”
He leans back in his chair, twisting his mouth a little in protest. “That was nice, but I don’t think I could enjoy it tonight, considering how much work I’m facing. Can you save some for me for tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I say, but I feel vaguely defeated. I rise from the table, collecting both plates. “Why don’t you pull out your work and I’ll make you an espresso?”
“Thanks. This way I’ll be ahead of the curve and I can take all the time I need tomorrow to go with you to the neurologist.”
I’d almost forgotten.
“Hugh, there’s absolutely no reason at all for you to go. I was out and about today and I’m sure I can handle it alone.”
“But I’ve already—”
“Say no more. I’ll call you as soon as I’m through and fill you in.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, just let me know.”
Despite my insistence on handling cleanup, Hugh helps load the dishwasher. I make an espresso for him and carry it to the table as he’s laying out his work.
“Oh, by the way. Sasha said to tell you she remembers where she met you. At the Yale Club a couple of weeks ago.”
He sips the espresso, his back to me.
“That lecture I went to?” he says after a moment. “If she says so.”
“She apparently went with a friend of hers. Ashley Budd.”
He half turns, his face in profile, and wrinkles his smooth, high brow in thought.
“Yeah, I bumped into Ashley that night. She’s someone I knew back in law school. Well, please offer Sasha my profuse apologies for not remembering her.”
He grabs a stack of papers and begins thumbing through it.
Quietly, I make a cup of herbal tea and take it to the alcove off the master bedroom, where I answer current emails, including one from Casey. She’s in the process of editing and rendering the podcast, which will be posted tomorrow.
“Want me to shorten the chat segment in editing?” she asks. “The author interview was so strong, we could even let it run a little long.”
“No, better not,” I reply. “I’m sure Sasha will count her on-air minutes and complain if we’re ten seconds shy of what it should be.”
I also email Nicole, asking her to call me tomorrow so we can touch base about my book. In addition, I mention that I’m curious why she wanted to speak to someone at Greenbacks.
As I’m about to snap the laptop closed, I feel my phone vibrate on the desk. A text from Roger.
Hope u r good. Too late to talk tonight? If not, pls call me.
There’s an urgency to the last line that makes me nervous, and I phone him back immediately.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“First, tell me how you are.”
“Okay, I guess. No reoccurrences at least.”
“That’s great, Button. So glad to hear it.”
“Were you able to talk to your police chief friend?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. I let him know first thing Monday and he dropped by the house a little while ago to discuss the matter. His name’s Ted Nowak, and you should definitely start with him.”
“Okay, if you give me his number, I’ll call and fill him in.”
“I’ve already provided the broad strokes, and he says the next step is actually for you to come in. Says he’d like to meet with you tomorrow if possible.”
My stomach drops.
“Tomorrow? Why such a rush?”
“Nothing to worry about. It turns out that, coincidentally, they recently decided to do one of those cold case investigations of the girl’s murder. I’m sure Nowak is simply eager for whatever he can get his hands on to finally nail the mother or boyfriend—or both.”
This full-court press is not what I’d anticipated for a case that’s twenty-five years old. I thought it might take days or weeks for the police to even call me back, and that I’d eventually be interviewed, and a few notes would be added to the file.
“Okay, but I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to get out there tomorrow,” I say. “I don’t feel comfortable driving yet, or even taking a bus by myself.”
“Would Hugh be able to leave work a little early and drive you? I could see if the chief could meet late in the day.”
“No, he’s in the middle of a case. . . . I suppose I could take an Uber out there after my appointment with the neurologist. It shouldn’t be too expensive.”
“Sounds like a plan. Oh, and just so you’re aware, Marion was here when the chief came by, and I had to fill her in, though only in the vaguest way.”
“What does she know?” I can’t blame Roger, but I hate the idea she’s in the loop.
“Nothing about what you’ve been going through, or what you remembered. I simply told her that the case might be reopened and you were going to do a follow-up interview with the authorities.”
“Okay, thanks. I think I can probably make it out there by one or two and could meet with the chief after that.”
“I’ll let him know and get back to you with details. And Button, like I said, there’s nothing to worry about.”
We say our good-byes, and a long sigh escapes from my lips as I disconnect. Though I tell myself that Roger’s right, there’s no reason for concern, my heart’s racing. At least it will be better to have the interview behind me instead of hanging over my head. And maybe the reopening of the case means that the killer will finally be caught.
I wander into the bathroom, set my cup of lukewarm tea on the stool, and fill the tub with water. I sink in and relish the slight shock of the heat on my skin. The room is dark now, except for the candles I’ve lit, their flames dancing while their woodsy scent seeps through the air.
I do my best to hold all my troubled thoughts at bay, to make my mind a total blank, but it doesn’t work. My fears spill over, as insistently as water gushing from a tear in a hose.
I was missing for two days and still have no clue where I was.
I came home with tissues coated with someone else’s blood.
I lied to the police as a child and now they want to meet with me pronto.
My husband seems awkward around me and I can’t manage to connect with him in our usual way, no matter how hard I try.
My husband wants a baby and I don’t.
I met with my old lover today and my insides are still roiling.
And there’s no guarantee that what happened to me last week won’t happen again.
18
The appointment with the neurologist, at a medical office building in the East Sixties, turns out to be as anticlimactic as I anticipated. He’s in his fifties, I guess, and while not a gold medal winner in the bedside manner category, he’s cordial. He examines me, asks a slew of questions—when I tell him what I do professionally, he chuckles softly and says, “Where were you when I needed you?”—and finally says he doesn’t suspect a physical cause of what he calls my “TGA,” aka “transient global amnesia.”
He does, however, prescribe an MRI to rule out any tissue abnormality or a vascular, strokelike event as the cause.