by Adam Aust
VII
Sarah left NYU Langone and walked north up First Avenue. Cars slipped noisily past, though traffic was light relative to what she would see when she turned west toward Park Avenue and her Midtown office. Not that she’d noticed. Slogging forward, head down, she was mesmerized by her boots clacking one past the other on the grimy urban sidewalk as she tried to process the news she’d just received. With each step, she could feel her skirt rub her disfigured backside and her leggings abrade her scarred inner thighs. I wonder if I’ll get a rash now that I can feel it. She resisted the urge to scratch herself and adjust her clothing. Some illusions have their uses, I suppose.
She still felt some residual dizziness, but Dr. Margolis assured her she’d be OK to walk back to the office.
At 55th Street she paused for an instant, then turned east instead of west and walked one block over to the city’s edge, where she ascended a staircase and crossed a small courtyard wedged between two residential buildings. She sat at a bench overlooking the East River, staring past the metal railing that separated her from the water. A barge with a rusty hull made its way upriver against the current, blasting its foghorn.
Sitting by the waterway, at once noticing everything and nothing around her, Sarah erupted into tears. Multiple personality disorder? That’s what bona fide lunatics have. People who are actually fucking crazy! Not eccentric, not unique, but lock-‘em-up-and-throw-away-the-key batshit crazy! If this guy’s right . . .
She inhaled deeply and exhaled noisily. She looked over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone. Get your shit together, she thought. You don’t know anything yet. No reason to panic yet. . . . Can’t wait to see how Dad and Moll react to this, though.
She opened her cell phone’s call log and clicked on the missed call from her dad from several days earlier. Nose running, lips trembling, her thumb hovered over the green “call” icon next to her father’s number. But she couldn’t speak to him yet. Not until she had more information. Instead, she stowed her phone and retrieved her work device, which showed that she’d already missed seventeen emails, some from David Marshall. Get your shit together and get back to work. Standing, she wiped her cheeks dry, straightened her skirt, checked her mascara in the screen of her work phone, and turned west to make the 20-minute walk to the office, pulling out her cell phone again.
I have to see what Maury says about this. I’ll talk to him first, then I’ll tell my family.
