Interestingly, this batch of emails was sent from my phone rather than my laptop, which suggests I might have been on the move during that period.
From 9:17 A.M. onward, there were no outgoing emails, and every one to me since then—and there are plenty—has gone unanswered. To my chagrin, I see a message from Glenda Payne asking if we ended up with our wires crossed about the time. Lovely. And also one Wednesday evening from Dr. Erling, wondering why I didn’t make the appointment and asking if everything is okay.
So I was a no-show, which means Erling won’t be able to offer any clues.
I see there’s also a “just checking in” email from my father, who’s been spending the fall in San Diego with my half brother Quinn and his family, gaining his strength back after his heart attack in July. God, it’s been three days since I had any contact with my dad, when we usually talk every day or every other. I quickly reply saying hi, love you, sorry I’ve been so busy but will write more later.
Finally, I glance through emails from the week before, wondering if anything I see will shed light on why I showed up at Greenbacks, but there’s nothing. Just for the hell of it, I search for my last email exchange with Damien. It turns out it was roughly five years ago, the week I left the company.
I chew on my thumb for a minute and then jump up. I grab a pad and pencil from the island counter, and return to the couch, where I begin scribbling down a timeline. I know I can be really anal, but it helps me to put things in writing.
MONDAY
evening: dinner, TV, argument
TUESDAY
7:00: still in bed
9:00–9:17: sent emails
WEDNESDAY
Possibly lunchtime: bought food at Eastside Eats
THURSDAY
8:05: arrived at Greenbacks
This offers next to nothing about where I was those days, especially after dark. What did I do for food? And where did I sleep? Somehow, no matter what it takes, I’m going to have to fill in the blanks.
But ultimately, I need answers to more than the “where?” and “when?” questions. I need to know why I lost my sense of self. Was it really because of a fight with Hugh regarding kids?
Or was it instead—as Agarwal prompted me to wonder—because of a trauma from the past? The only thing that fits the bill is something that happened to me when I was nine years old. But that can’t be it, can it? Would a dreadful afternoon from so long ago really have made the wheels come off for me?
7
When I wake the next morning, I still feel exhausted and frayed at the edges. Hugh’s side of the bed is empty, though I detect the aroma of sautéing onions drifting from the living area. He’s making breakfast. Perched on the edge of the mattress, I quickly comb through my memory, praying that somehow the missing days have emerged as I slept, but they haven’t.
At least I’ve woken up in my own bed.
After dressing, I find Hugh at the stovetop, standing over a sizzling skillet with a Williams Sonoma dish towel tucked into his khakis. He smiles but I detect a wariness in his eyes.
“Hey, how you feeling?” he asks.
“Okay, I guess. Rested.” Though that’s a stretch. I didn’t crawl into bed again until after midnight.
“I thought you could use one of my pepper and onion omelets.”
“Fantastic . . . Why aren’t you dressed for work?”
“I figured I’d hang around here for the day. There’s nothing on my schedule that can’t be rearranged.”
I’d love his company, but he’s in the middle of a big case at work, and I hate to take him from it. “Hugh, I promise I’ll be fine, and if you’re here, it’ll only make me feel more like a patient.”
He looks relieved. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay, but I’d really appreciate it if you stayed in today and just tried to relax.”
I nod, knowing I shouldn’t push myself.
“By the way,” he adds. “I’ve emailed a few people for neurologist recommendations, without saying what the issue is. I hope to have a name by later today. Any word from Dr. Erling?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure I’ll hear from her as soon she checks her email.”
“Let me know when you do. By the way, do you plan to tell your family what happened?”
“Roger, yes, but definitely not my dad. It would be too stressful for him.”
“How about my parents? Should I say anything to them?”
“Let’s not for now, Hugh. I’m counting on this sorting itself out, and I don’t want to worry them unnecessarily.”
There’s a bit more to it than that. I like Hugh’s parents, who have been generally lovely to me. But they’re fairly high on the uptight scale, and I’m sure this news would wig them out.
Hugh and I eat breakfast at the table, watching the nearly cloudless sky brighten. At several junctures we seem oddly at a loss for words. Is he on pins and needles, I wonder, terrified I’ll unravel again?
After changing into a suit, Hugh tells me good-bye, promising to stop by an AT&T store this morning and outfit my old phone with a new SIM card so I can start making calls.
I pour myself another cup of coffee and, using my laptop, respond to the most urgent emails in my in-box, including the one from Glenda Payne, the interview subject I dropped the ball on. I apologize profusely and ask her if we can reschedule. I also shoot a response to Sasha Hyatt, a former beauty editor who’s convinced she can transform herself into a personal finance guru and has been foisted on me as an intern by an executive with the company that’s sponsoring my podcast. She’s written me three times since Tuesday, wondering if I received the research she’d emailed me for the next show. I tell her yes, I have it, but I’ve been under the weather and will need to follow up later.
Just as I’m finishing my coffee, the portable phone by the couch rings. When I lift the receiver, I see Gabby’s name on the screen and the sight of it triggers a rush of relief.
“Hot date?” I answer. “Or did you go to bed ridiculously early?”
“What? Wait, did you forget?”
My blood seems to freeze. “Forget what?”
“That I’m in London?”
“Oh gosh, sorry,” I say, suddenly recalling that she’d planned to leave this week on a trip for the jewelry business she runs. And it means that she probably won’t be able to offer me any clues.
“Is everything okay?”
“Uh—not exactly. But it can wait until you return.”
“No way. I’m just hanging out in the hotel until my next appointment. What’s going on?”
I spill it all then—about the fight with Hugh, how he assumed that I was at her place, my amnesia, my long, distressing day in the ER.
“Ally, this is so scary,” she exclaims. “Hugh did call me, right before I left on Wednesday, but I never sensed anything was wrong. I’m supposed to fly back Monday, but let me call my assistant and see if she can get me out of here earlier.”
“No, please, don’t even think about it. You can answer a few questions for me, though.”
“Of course, fire away.”
“When was the last time we spoke?”
“Let’s see—it must have been Monday, late in the afternoon.”