And we’re not.
“Where do things stand at the moment?” Agarwal asks.
“We agreed a few weeks ago to table the discussion for a while. With the pressure off, I feel it’ll be easier for me to make a rational decision. And I’ve started seeing a therapist, someone to talk it over with.
“So it’s stressful but hardly traumatic,” I add, shrugging. “It hardly seems like something that could make me disconnect from my identity.”
Agarwal nods, as if weighing my comment.
“The traumatic event doesn’t have to have happened recently,” he says. “It could be an episode from your past that’s rising to the surface again for some reason.”
I look off again, thinking. Suddenly my lips part as my brain pries something away, like I’m opening an orange or tangerine and the thin white membrane is tearing apart. No, this can’t really be what it’s all about, can it?
I glance back at Agarwal, and the alertness in his eyes intensifies. He knows he’s touched a nerve.
“Is there something that’s been troubling you lately, Ally?” he continues. “Something from your past?”
“Nothing I can think of,” I lie. “At least not off the top of my head.”
5
Agarwal’s expression gives nothing away this time, but I can sense anticipation morphing quickly into resignation below the surface. Though he seems caring and competent, this isn’t something I intend to discuss with him.
He studies me for another minute before speaking. “The therapist you’re seeing. How many sessions have you had so far?”
“Uh, I’ve seen her five or six times.”
“Do you know if your therapist does cognitive behavioral therapy? That’s what is most often recommended in these cases.”
“Um, yes, I remember seeing that in her bio.”
“If I have your permission, I’d like to speak with her in the next day or so and review what’s happened.”
“Sure.” That seemed to make sense. “Her name is Elaine Erling. I don’t have her number with me, obviously, but my husband can provide it or you can find it online. She’s got an office in the city and also one in Westchester County—in Larchmont.”
“When is your next appointment?”
“Wednesday. But I’ll try to get in to see her before then. Tomorrow if possible.”
Hopefully Erling can squeeze me in, and with luck she’ll be working out of her Manhattan office. I’ve been to the Larchmont office just once—when I had a scheduling conflict—and a trip there is not something I could pull off under these circumstances.
“Yes, it’s important to see her as soon as possible. Now, why don’t you try to rest a little before your husband arrives.”
After he departs, I realize how bone-achingly tired I am, something I’ve been too wired and vigilant to notice until now. I finally allow myself to sink fully into the bed. Hugh is coming and he’ll take me home. I don’t have to fret anymore. Within seconds I’m drifting off to sleep.
When my eyes finally flutter open, I discover Evelyn standing along the side of my bed. Her fingers rest on my arm and she’s gently stirring me awake.
“Look who I’ve brought,” she says.
Hugh steps from behind her, his face pinched with worry.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says.
I project myself forward and we embrace, hugging tightly. His silky tie, the soft, rich cotton of his shirt, the feel of his fingers softly raking my hair—it all seems so real. My body pulses with relief. This whole horrible day—maybe it’s nothing more than a momentary blip in my life.
“I’m so glad you’re finally here,” I tell him.
“I’m sorry it took forever. Traffic from Connecticut was a mess, and there was one annoying delay after another.”
I glance at Evelyn. “I hope this means I can be released now.”
“Why don’t we have Dr. Agarwal weigh in on the timing?” she says. “He’ll be back shortly, I’m sure.”
“Oh god, Hugh. I’m so embarrassed about this,” I say as soon as she steps out of the room.
“Don’t be silly. But can you fill me in? They wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, only that you were being held in the ER for observation. I’ve been going out of my mind.”
You and me both, I almost say, but he’s probably not in the right mood for gallows humor. I explain about showing up at Greenbacks this morning, purseless and phoneless, passing out, remembering nothing, and then, almost all at once, everything flooding back. Despite how calmly he appears to take it, I can read the concern in his light brown eyes.
“Why Greenbacks?” he asks when I’m finished. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that’s his first question. He knows about my years there. And he knows, too, about my prior relationship with Damien.
“I have no idea. Maybe I was so disoriented, I lost track of where I actually work now.”
“Could you have had a concussion?”
“They don’t think so, but—”
I’m spared from recounting my psychiatric assessment by the return of Dr. Agarwal, who offers Hugh a recap of what he shared with me earlier. I have to hand it to my husband: as freaked out as he must be listening to Agarwal, especially when he brings up the fact that reoccurrences are common, Hugh appears to take it all in with perfect equanimity.
“How can I be of help to my wife?” he asks when Agarwal finishes.
“Just be as supportive as possible. Ally should do her absolute best to avoid stress. It’s possible her memory from this morning will return in time.”
Hugh is quiet for a moment. “Understood,” he says finally.
We soon discover that the only obstacle blocking my departure now is paperwork, and because several staffers don’t seem to know where the release forms are at the moment, it feels like I might never be discharged. Hugh springs into action, not in an aggressive, alpha-male way, but in that subtle lawyer style of his, sorting through the confusion, finding a person to take charge, and flashing me a conspiratorial grin when the designated hero finally appears, papers in hand.
I wonder again how distressed he really is. We’ve navigated our share of tough times in our four years together—his younger sister’s serious car accident, which thankfully she fully recovered from; my father’s heart attack this past summer; the stressful periods when Hugh’s smack in the middle of a big case and working nights and weekends with very little time for me. But this is a whole other ball of wax.
Once my clothes and watch have been returned to me and I’m dressed, Hugh squeezes my hand.
“You all set?” he asks.
“Yup.”
“You don’t have a coat?”
I glance down at my blouse and pants, wrinkled from being balled into a plastic bag, and my black kitten heels, still damp from the rain. I remember a coat—my black trench.
“Maybe it was left behind in the ambulance.”
“Why don’t I follow up on that later—let’s get you home now.”
Outside I see that the rain has stopped, though it’s left behind a bruised, swollen October sky. In the cab Hugh pulls me toward him and leaves his arm draped around me. My right cheek rests on the soft worsted wool of his suit. My friend Gabby once joked that Hugh probably showered in his suits, but I like them, especially seeing them lined up in his closet. To me they’re a reminder of how hard he’s worked, never taking anything for granted.