“I get what you mean,” I say. I still can’t figure out what this exhibit has to do with morality and ethics, though.
I move to the next photograph. This motorcycle isn’t in motion. It is shining and new and stands atop a mountain. Then, the man in the bomber jacket walks over to it, too.
“See the person reflected in the side mirror?” he asks. I hadn’t, but I nod anyway as I peer closer at the image.
The buzzer on my phone sounds, startling me. I give the man an apologetic smile in case the noise has broken his concentration, then I reach into my pocket to silence it.
I’d set the alarm on my way to the museum, wanting to make sure I followed Dr. Shields’s directions to leave at eleven-thirty sharp. I need to go.
“Thanks,” I tell the man, then I take the stairs down to the main level. Rather than waste more time getting change, I tuck the twenty into the donation box and hurry out the door.
As I exit the door, I see that Marilyn, the cabdriver, and the guy with the tortoiseshell glasses are all gone.
Cars are driving over the spot where she had lain; people are milling around the sidewalk, talking on their cell phones and eating hot dogs from a nearby vendor.
It’s like the accident never happened.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Thursday, December 13
To you, this is simply a thirty-minute assignment.
You have no idea that it may spark the unraveling of my entire life.
Since this plan was set into motion, measures were required to counterbalance my resulting physical reactions: sleeplessness, lack of appetite, a plummeting core temperature. It is essential that these base distractions be offset to avoid wreaking havoc with the clarity of the thought process.
A warm bath infused with lavender oil coaxes sleep. In the morning, two hard-boiled eggs are consumed. An increase in the thermostat from seventy-two degrees to seventy-four degrees compensates for my physiological alteration.
It begins with a call to Thomas’s cell phone right before we are supposed to meet.
“Lydia,” he says, pleasure lacing his voice. What would it be like to live the rest of my life without hearing it in all of its incarnations, slightly scratchy when he wakes up in the morning, soft and tender during intimate moments, and masculine and passionate when he cheers for the Giants?
Thomas confirms that he is at the Met Breuer, waiting for my arrival.
However, the pleasure in his tone disappears when he learns a work emergency will require cancelation of our plans to view one of his favorite photographer’s exhibits.
But he can hardly complain. He called off a date just over a week ago.
The exhibit will only be there through the weekend; Thomas won’t want to miss it.
“You can tell me about it at dinner on Saturday,” Thomas is told.
Now you are both in place, set on a collision course.
All that remains is the waiting.
The condition of waiting is universal: We wait for traffic lights to change from red to green, for the grocery store line to advance, for the results of a medical test.
But the wait for you to arrive and relay what happened at the museum, Jessica, isn’t measurable by any standard unit of time.
Often the most effective psychological studies are rooted in deception. For example, a subject can be led to believe he or she is being evaluated for one behavior when, in fact, the psychologist has engineered this decoy to measure something else entirely.
Take the Asch Conformity Study: College students thought they were participating in a simple perceptual task with other students when, in actuality, they were placed one at a time in a group along with actors. The students were shown a card with a vertical line on it, then another card with three more lines. When asked to say out loud which lines matched in length, the students consistently provided the same answer as the actors, even when the actors picked one of the clearly incorrect lines. The student subjects believed they were being tested on perception, but what was actually being assessed was adherence to conformity.
You assume you are visiting the Met Breuer to look at photographs. But your opinion of the exhibit is of no concern.
It is 11:17 A.M.
That particular exhibit will be uncrowded at this time of day; only a few people should be viewing the artwork.
You will have seen Thomas by now. And he, you.
Sitting down is an impossibility.
A hand is run along the row of books filling the white wood built-in shelf, even though the spines are already perfectly aligned.
The single legal-size folder on the desk is moved slightly to the right, centering it more precisely.
The tissues on the table beside the couch are replenished.
The clock is checked again and again.
Finally, 11:30. It is over.
The length of the office is sixteen steps, back and forth.
11:39.
The far window affords a view over the entranceway; it is checked with every pass by that corner.
11:43.
You should be here by now.
A check in the mirror, a reapplication of lipstick. The edges of the sink are cold and hard. The reflection in the mirror confirms the facade is in place. You will suspect nothing.
11:47.
The buzzer sounds.
You are finally here.
A slow, measured breath. Then another.
You smile as the inner door to the office is opened. Your cheeks are flushed from the cold, and your hair is windblown. You radiate the full bloom of youth. Your presence serves as a reminder of time’s inexorable cruelty. Someday you, too, will be pulled toward its cusp.
What did he think when he encountered you instead of me?
“It’s like we’re twins,” you say.
You touch your cashmere wrap by way of explanation.
My laugh is forced. “I see . . . it’s perfect for such a blustery day.”
You settle into the love seat, now your preferred spot.
“Jessica, tell me about your experience at the museum.”
The prompt is delivered matter-of-factly. There can be no research bias. Your report needs to be unpolluted.
You begin: “Well, I have to tell you I was a few minutes late.”
You glance down, avoiding my eyes. “There was a woman who was hit by a cab and I stopped to help her. But I called an ambulance and these other people took over and I rushed to the exhibit. For a second I wondered if she was part of the test.” You give an awkward little laugh, then blunder on: “It was hard to tell where I was supposed to start, so I just went to the first picture that caught my eye.”
You are speaking too quickly; you are summarizing.
“Take it more slowly, Jessica.”
Your posture slumps.
“I’m sorry, it just threw me. I didn’t see the accident, but I saw her lying on the street right after . . .”
Your anxiety must be indulged. “How upsetting,” you are told. “It was good of you to help.”
You nod; some of the tension eases from your rigid posture.
“Why don’t you just take a deep breath, then we can proceed.”
You unwind the wrap and place it on the seat next to you.
“I’m okay,” you say. Your tone is tempered now.
“Describe what happened in chronological order after you entered the exhibit. Don’t leave out any detail, no matter how inconsequential it may seem,” you are told.
You speak of the French couple, the docent and her tourists, and your impression of Alexander’s decision to photograph in black-and-white to emphasize the form of the vehicles.