“And I have a little something extra for you,” Dr. Shields says. She reaches for her leather Prada purse and extracts a tiny package wrapped in silver paper.
“Why don’t you open it?”
Usually I tear into gifts. But today I pull an edge of the little ribbon to unravel the bow, then slip my index finger under the tape, trying to be as neat as possible.
The Chanel box looks sleek and glossy.
Inside is a bottle of burgundy nail polish.
My head jerks up and I look into Dr. Shields’s eyes. Then I glance at her fingertips.
“Try it, Jessica,” she says. “I think it will look nice on you.”
The second I’m in the elevator, I reach for the check. Six dollars, she has written in graceful cursive.
She’s paying me two hundred dollars an hour, even more than she did for the computer surveys.
I wonder if Dr. Shields will need me enough in the next month that I’ll be able to surprise my family with a trip to Florida. Or maybe it’ll be better to save the money in case my father can’t land a decent job before they use up the buyout fund.
I tuck the check into my wallet and see the Chanel box in my bag. I know from my stint at the Bloomingdale’s makeup counter that the nail polish costs close to thirty bucks.
I was planning to just take Lizzie out for drinks for her birthday, but she’d probably love this polish.
Try it, Dr. Shields had said.
I run my fingers over the elegant letters on the ebony box.
My best friend’s parents are well-off enough to send her a monthly stipend. Lizzie is so unassuming I didn’t realize until I went home with her for a weekend that her family’s little farm” is composed of a couple hundred acres. She can afford her own nail polish, even the fancy brands, I think to myself. I deserve this.
I walk into the Lounge a few hours later to meet Lizzie. Sanjay looks up from slicing lemons and beckons me over.
“That guy you left with the other night came in looking for you,” he says. “Well, he actually was looking for a girl named Taylor, but I knew he meant you.”
He rummages through a big beer mug next to the cash register that’s stuffed with pens and business cards and a pack of Camel Lights. He pulls out a business card.
BREAKFAST ALL DAY it says across the top. Underneath is an illustration of a smiley face: Two sunny-side-up eggs serve as the eyes and a strip of bacon as the mouth. At the bottom is Noah’s name and number.
I frown. “Is he a cook?”
Sanjay gives me a mock-stern look. “Did you talk at all?”
“Not about his profession,” I shoot back.
“He seemed cool,” Sanjay says. “He’s opening a little restaurant a few blocks away.”
I flip over the card and see the message: Taylor, Good For One Free French Toast. Call To Redeem.
Lizzie comes through the door just then. I jump off my stool and give her a hug.
“Happy Birthday,” I say, palming the card so she doesn’t see it.
She pulls off her jacket and I catch a whiff of the new leather smell. It looks a lot like the one I wear, which Lizzie has always admired, but I got mine at a thrift store. When I go to touch the fur collar, I see the label: BARNEYS NEW YORK.
“It’s faux fur,” Lizzie assures me, and I wonder what she read in my expression. “My parents gave it to me for my birthday.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I say.
Lizzie lays it across her lap as she settles onto the stool next to me. I order us vodka-cran-sodas and she asks, “How was your Thanksgiving?”
The holiday seems like a lifetime ago.
“Oh, the usual. Too much pie and football. Tell me about yours.”
“It was awesome,” she says. “Everyone flew in and we played a giant game of charades. The little kids were hilarious. Can you believe I’ve got five nieces and nephews now? My dad—”
Lizzie cuts herself off as Sanjay slides the drinks over and I reach for mine.
“You never wear nail polish!” Lizzie exclaims. “Pretty color!”
I look down at my fingers. My skin is darker than Dr. Shields’s, and my fingers are shorter. Instead of elegant, the color looks edgy on me. But she is right; it is flattering.
“Thanks. I wasn’t sure if I could pull it off”
We chat through another two drinks, then Lizzie touches my arm. “Hey, can I borrow you Tuesday afternoon to do my makeup? I need an updated headshot.”
“Ooh, I’ve got a sess—” I cut myself off. “A job way uptown.”
During our first in-person meeting, Dr. Shields had me sign another, more detailed confidentiality agreement. I can’t even mention her name to Lizzie.
“No prob, I’ll figure it out,” Lizzie says cheerfully. “Hey, should we get nachos?”
I nod and give the order to Sanjay. I feel bad that I can’t help Lizzie.
And it feels strange to hide things from her, because she’s the person who knows me best.
But maybe she doesn’t any longer.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Tuesday, December 4
You were unsure of the burgundy nail polish, but you wear it today.
This is evidence of your growing trust.
You also select the love seat again.
At first you lean back and fold your arms behind your head; your body language signals your increasing openness.
You don’t believe you are ready for what will happen next. But you are.
You have been groomed for this; your emotional stamina stretched, similar to how a methodically planned increase in endurance prepares a runner for a marathon.
A few perfunctory warm-up questions about your weekend are asked.
And then: In order for us to move forward, we need to go back.
When those words are spoken, you abruptly adjust your position, pulling your arms down and crossing them over your body. Classic protective posturing.
You must already sense what lies ahead.
It is time for this final barrier to come down.
The question you shied away from during your very first computer session in Room 214 is presented once more, this time verbally, with a gentle but firm inflection:
Jessica, have you ever deeply hurt someone you care about?
You curl into yourself and look down at your feet, shielding your face.
The silence is permitted to linger.
Then:
Tell me.
Your head jerks up. Your eyes are wide. You suddenly look much younger than twenty-eight; it is as if a glimpse of your thirteen-year-old self briefly emerges.
That is the age when everything changed for you.
Every lifetime contains pivot points—sometimes flukes of destiny, sometimes seemingly preordained—that shape and eventually cement one’s path.
These moments, as unique to each individual as strands of DNA, can at their best cause the sensation of a catapult into the shimmer of stars. At the opposite extreme, they can feel like a descent into quicksand.
The day you were watching your younger sister, the day she fell from a second-story window, was perhaps the most elemental demarcation for you thus far.
As you describe running toward her limp figure on the asphalt driveway, tears stream down your face. You begin to hyperventilate, gulping air between your words. Your body is retreating with your mind into this emotional chasm. You release one more anguished sentence, It was all my fault, before you succumb to violent trembling.