When he pulls up in front of the town house, my awakening is simulated; a blinking of the eyes, a quiet yawn.
There is no discussion about the sleeping arrangements for tonight. By mutual, unspoken agreement, Thomas will stay at his rental apartment.
Brief good-byes are exchanged, along with a perfunctory kiss.
The hum of his engine fades as his car moves farther and farther away.
Then there is only a deep, desolate silence in the town house.
The new deadbolt requires a key to unlock the door from the outside.
But from the inside, a turn of the oval knob is all that is required to engage the lock.
One year ago, Christmas Eve unfolded so differently: After our return from Litchfield, Thomas built a fire in the hearth and insisted that we each open a gift. He was like a young boy, his eyes shining, as he selected the perfect package to place in my hands.
His wrapping was elaborate but messy, with too much Scotch tape and ribbons.
His presents were always heartfelt.
This one was a first edition of my favorite Edith Wharton book.
Three nights ago, after you reported that Thomas had rebuffed your advances at Deco Bar, hope swelled; it seemed this sweet ritual could continue. An original photograph of the Beatles by Ron Galella had been purchased, framed, and carefully encased in layers of tissues and bright paper for Thomas.
Now it sits by the white poinsettia in the living room.
The holidays are the most wrenching time to be alone.
A wife regards the flat, rectangular present that will not be unwrapped tonight after all.
A mother stares at the stocking bearing the name Danielle that will never be opened by her daughter.
And a different mother experiences her first Christmas without her only child, the daughter who took her life six months ago.
Regret feels more pronounced in the stillness.
All it takes is a few taps of my fingertips against the computer’s keyboard. Then, a text is sent to Mrs. Voss:
In honor of April’s memory, a holiday donation has been made to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Thinking of you. Sincerely, Dr. Shields.
The gift isn’t meant to appease Mrs. Voss, who is desperate to see the file labeled KATHERINE APRIL VOSS. The contribution is merely a spontaneous gesture.
April’s mother is not alone in craving the story of what happened in April’s final hours: An investigator has formally requested my records, and threatened the possibility of a subpoena. Thomas, too, exhibited excessive curiosity about April’s file after he was informed that the Voss family had hired a private detective.
Because the absence of notes from our last encounter would be suspicious, a truncated version of them was created. They held the truth; this was critical, given the slim possibility that April might have called or texted a friend just before her death, but the accounting of our interaction was much softer, and less detailed:
You disappointed me deeply, Katherine April Voss. You were invited in . . . Then you made the revelation that shattered everything, that put you in a completely different light: I made a mistake. I slept with a married man . . . You were told you would never be welcomed into the town house again . . . The conversation continued. At the conclusion of it, you were given a farewell hug . . .
The substitute notes were created immediately after Subject 5’s funeral service.
It is understandable that her mother covets them.
But no one will ever be able to view the true recording of what happened that evening.
Just like April, those notes no longer exist.
A single, lit match devoured those pages from my yellow legal pad. Flames greedily consumed my words, lapping at the blue-inked cursive.
Before those notes turned to ash, here is what they contained:
SUBJECT 5/ June 8, 7:36 P.M.
April knocks on the door of the town house six minutes after the appointed time.
This is not uncharacteristic; she has a relaxed approach to punctuality.
Chablis, a cluster of purple grapes, and a wedge of Brie are offered in the kitchen.
April perches on a stool, eager to discuss her upcoming interview at a small public relations firm. She gives me a printout of her résumé and requests advice about how to explain her somewhat checkered job history.
After a few minutes of encouraging conversation, my slim gold bangle, the one April has repeatedly admired, is slid onto her wrist. “For confidence,” she is told. “Keep it.
The tenor of the evening abruptly changes.
April breaks eye contact. She stares down at her lap.
At first it seems she is overcome with positive emotion.
But her voice wobbles: “I feel like this job will give me a fresh start.”
“You deserve one,” she is told. Her wineglass is topped off.
She slides the bangle up and down on her forearm. “You’re so good to me.” But her tone doesn’t contain gratitude; instead something more nuanced infuses it.
Something not immediately identifiable.
Before it can be discerned, April drops her face into her hands and begins to sob.
“I’m sorry,” she says through her tears. “It’s that guy I told you about . . .”
She is obviously referring to the older man she brought home from a bar weeks ago, and grew obsessed with. April’s unhealthy fixation has already been managed through hours of informal counseling; her regression is disappointing.
My impatience has to be hidden: “I thought you were through with all of that.”
“I was,” April says, her tear-streaked face still lowered.
There must be some unresolved detail that is keeping her from moving on; it is time to unearth it. “Let’s go back to the beginning and get you over this man once and for all. You walked into a bar and saw him sitting there, right?” she is prompted. “What happened next?”
April’s foot begins to twirl like a propeller. “The thing is . . . I didn’t tell you everything,” she begins haltingly. She takes a long sip of wine. “I actually met him for the first time when I went to his office for a consult. He’s a therapist. I didn’t end up seeing him again for counseling, though, it was just that one session.”
This is utterly shocking.
A therapist who sleeps with a client, however briefly April was under his care, should lose his license. Clearly, this morally bereft man took advantage of an emotionally fragile young woman who came to him for help.
April looks at my hands, which are clenched into fists. “It was partly my fault,” she says quickly. “I pursued him.”
April’s arm is touched. “No, it was not your fault,” she is emphatically told.
She will need more help to recover from her belief that she is to blame. There was an imbalance of power; she was sexually exploited. But for now she is allowed to continue with the story that weighs so heavily on her.
“And I didn’t just bump into him at a bar like I said,” she admits. “I had a big crush on him after that initial session. So I . . . I followed him one night after he left his office.”
The rest of her description of her encounter with the therapist matches her original telling: She saw him sitting alone at a table for two in a hotel bar; she approached. They ended the evening in bed at her apartment. She phoned and texted him the next day, but he didn’t reply for twenty- four hours. When he finally did, it was clear he was no longer interested. She persisted with more phone calls, texts, and invitations to meet. He was polite but never wavered.