So I keep walking.
I don’t want to disappoint her.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Wednesday, December 5
It’s easy to judge other people’s choices. The mother with a grocery cart full of Froot Loops and Double Stuf Oreos who yells at her child. The driver of an expensive convertible who cuts off a slower vehicle. The husband who cheats on his wife . . . and the wife who is considering taking him back.
But what if you knew the husband was making every effort to reconcile? What if he swore it was a onetime lapse and that he would never be unfaithful again?
And what if you were the wife, and could not imagine a life without him?
The intellect does not reign supreme in matters of the heart.
Thomas captured mine in a hundred different ways. The inscription we chose for our wedding bands, the one that referenced our first meeting during the blackout, came close to describing a feeling that is impossible to put into words: You are my true light.
Since he moved out, his absence is everywhere in the town house: In the living room, where he splayed across the couch with the sports section scattered on the floor beside him. In the kitchen, where he always programmed the coffeemaker the night before so it would be ready in the morning. In the bedroom, where his warm body took away the chill at night.
When a marriage is shattered by the ultimate betrayal, physical reactions result: Insomnia. Loss of appetite. The constant worry, as relentless as a pulsing heartbeat: What drew him to her?
If the man you loved gave you reason to doubt him, could you ever trust him again?
This evening, Thomas blamed a work emergency for the cancellation of dinner plans.
He is also a therapist, so it’s entirely possible a client could be suffering an acute panic attack or a recovering alcoholic could be having an uncontrollable urge to indulge in self-destructive behavior.
He cares deeply about his patients. Most even have access to his cell phone number.
But was his voice excessively flustered?
Doubt surrounds even the most banal of explanations.
This is the legacy of infidelity.
Many women might choose to take their worry to a friend for discussion. Others might accuse; provoke a confrontation. Neither of those courses is inappropriate.
But they may not unearth the truth.
Judgments might also be made about a wife who remained suspicious enough to spy on her husband despite his assurances.
But only clinical evidence can determine if insecurity or instinct is driving the suspicion.
In this case, facts can be easily enough obtained. All that is required is a twenty-five-minute taxi ride uptown, to the office space he shares with three other clinicians on Riverside Drive.
It is now 6:07 P.M.
If his Ducati is not parked out front, the facts will not support the excuse.
The symptoms of anxiety typically include perspiration, a spike in blood pressure, and physical restlessness.
But not for everyone. A rare few present the opposite symptoms: There is a physical quieting, an enhanced mental focus, and a chilling of the extremities.
The cabdriver is asked to increase the temperature by a few degrees.
From a block away, it is impossible to determine if the motorcycle is present. A FreshDirect truck clogs the narrow street, impeding the taxi’s progress.
It is swifter to exit the taxi and proceed on foot.
A flood of relief accompanies the realization that the office is occupied: Light blazes through the slats of the blinds on the ground floor. His motorcycle is parked outside in its usual spot.
Thomas is exactly where he said he would be.
Doubt is banished, for now.
It is unnecessary to proceed any further. He is busy. And it is better if he doesn’t know about this visit.
From a block away in the other direction, a woman approaches. She wears a long, swinging camel-colored coat and jeans.
She stops in front of Thomas’s building. During business hours, a security guard requires guests to sign in. But the guard leaves at six P.M. At this time of night, visitors must press a buzzer to be admitted.
The woman is perhaps in her early thirties. Objectively attractive, even from a distance. She does not display any outward symptoms of a crisis; to the contrary, her affect is carefree.
She is not the same woman who tempted Thomas to stray from our marriage; that woman will never be a threat again.
The woman in the swinging coat disappears inside Thomas’s building. A few moments later the blinds that were slightly ajar snap shut.
Perhaps the glare of the street lamp was in her eyes.
Or perhaps there is another reason.
If a guy cheats once, he’s probably going to do it again.
You were the one who issued that warning, Jessica.
Some wives would push through the door to get a closer look. Others might choose to wait to see how long the woman remained inside, and if the parties in question emerged from the building together. A few might assume defeat and walk away.
Those are typical responses.
There are other, far more subtle courses of action.
Watching and waiting for the right moment is an essential component of a long-term strategy. It would be impulsive to swoop in and engage in a conflict before certainty is obtained.
And sometimes a warning shot, a decisive show of strength, can circumvent the need for a battle at all.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Thursday, December 6
My clients’ skin often reveals something about their lives.
When the sixty-something woman opens her door, I notice the clues: Many smile lines; far fewer from frowning. Her pale complexion is dotted with freckles and sunspots, and her blue eyes are bright.
She introduces herself as Shirley Graham, then takes my coat and wrap, which I’ve brought so I can return it to Dr. Shields, and hangs them in her tiny hall closet.
I follow her into her galley kitchen, set down my makeup case, and gently flex and straighten my hand to ease the tightness. It’s 3:55 P.M., and Mrs. Graham is my last appointment of the day. Right after I finish here, I’m going to see Dr. Shields.
I’ve vowed to finally ask her why she needs information about my personal life. It’s such a reasonable question. I don’t know why I haven’t felt able to bring it up before.
Before we start, would you mind if I asked a question? That’s how I’m going to phrase it, I’ve decided.
“Would you like some tea?” Mrs. Graham offers.
“Oh, no, I’m fine, but thanks,” I say.
Mrs. Graham looks disappointed. “It’s no trouble. I always have tea at four.”
Dr. Shields’s office is a half hour away, assuming there’s no subway delay, and I’m due there at five-thirty. I hesitate. “You know what? Tea sounds great.”
While Mrs. Graham pries the lid off a blue tin of Royal Dansk butter cookies and arranges them on a little china plate, I scout out the best lighting in the apartment.
“What’s the big event tonight?” I ask as I step onto the living room’s frayed rug and move aside a gauzy, lace-topped curtain covering the sole window. But the brick wall of a neighboring apartment blots out the sun.
“I’m going to dinner,” she says. “It’s my wedding anniversary—forty-two years.”
“Forty-two years,” I say. “That’s wonderful.”
I walk back to the small counter that separates the kitchen from the living area.
“I’ve never had my makeup done by a professional before, but I have this coupon, so I thought, Why not?” Mrs. Graham pulls the slip of paper off the refrigerator, where it was secured with a magnet shaped like a daisy, and hands it to me.
The coupon expired two months ago, but I pretend not to notice. Hopefully my boss will honor it; if not, I’ll have to eat the cost.
The kettle shrieks and Mrs. Graham pours
the steaming water into a china pot, then dips in two bags of Lipton tea.
“How about we work right here while we have tea,” I suggest, gesturing to two high-back stools pulled up to the counter. The space is barely adequate for my supplies, but the overhead light is strong.
“Oh, are you in a rush?” Mrs. Graham asks as she covers the pot with a quilted cozy and sets it down on the counter.
“No, no, we’ve got plenty of time,” I say reflexively.
I regret it when she goes to the refrigerator and takes out a pint of half-and-half, then retrieves a little china pitcher and transfers the cream into it. As she arranges the cups and teapot and cream and sugar on a tray, I steal a glance at the clock on the microwave: 4:12.
“Shall we get started?” I pull back Mrs. Graham’s stool and pat the seat. Then I reach into my case and select a few bottles of oil-based foundation, which will be kinder to Mrs. Graham’s skin. I begin to mix two together on the back of my hand, noticing my burgundy polish has a tiny chip.
Before I can begin to apply it, Mrs. Graham bends over and peers into my case. “Oh, look at all your little pots and potions!” She points to an egg-shaped sponge. “What’s this for?”
“Blending foundation,” I say. My fingers feel itchy with the need to continue. I fight the urge to turn around and glance at the kitchen clock. “Here, let me show you.”
If I select a single shadow for her eyes rather than a trio—maybe an oatmeal hue to bring out the blue—I can finish on time. Her makeup will still look good; it won’t betray the shortcut.
I’m smoothing the last bit of concealer under her eyes when a telephone rings a few inches away from my elbow.
Mrs. Graham eases off her stool. “Excuse me, dear. Let me tell them I’ll call back.”
What can I do but smile and nod?
Maybe I should grab a cab instead of taking the subway. But it’s rush hour; a taxi could actually take longer.
I steal a glance at my phone: It’s 4:28, and I’ve missed a couple of texts. One is from Noah: Sorry I couldn’t meet you last night. How about Saturday?
“Oh, I’m doing just fine. I’ve got this nice young lady here and we’re having tea,” Mrs. Graham is saying into the receiver.
I quickly type a reply: Sounds great.
The second text is from Dr. Shields.
Could you please phone me before our appointment? Dr. Shields has written.
“Okay, sweetheart, I promise I’ll call you back as soon as we’re done,” Mrs. Graham says. But her tone contains no indication that she’s trying to wrap up the conversation.
The room is overly warm, and I can feel perspiration dampen my armpits. I fan myself with my open hand, thinking, Wrap it up!
“Yes, I visited earlier today,” Mrs. Graham says. I wonder if I should just call Dr. Shields now. Or at least send her a quick text explaining I’m with a client.
Before I can make a decision, Mrs. Graham finally hangs up and returns to her stool.
“That was my daughter,” she says. “She lives in Ohio. Cleveland. It’s such a nice area; they moved two years ago because of her husband’s job. My son—he’s my firstborn—lives in New Jersey.”
“How nice,” I say, picking up a copper eyeliner.
Mrs. Graham reaches for her tea, blowing on it before she takes a sip, and I clench the eyeliner a little tighter in my hand.
“Try the cookies,” she says, hunching her shoulders conspiratorially. “The ones with jelly in the middle are the best.”
“I really need to finish your makeup,” I say, my tone sharper than I intended. “I have a meeting right after this, and I can’t be late.”
Mrs. Graham’s expression dims and she sets down her teacup. “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t want to hold you up.”
I wonder if Dr. Shields would know how I should have handled the quandary: Be late for an important appointment, or hurt the feelings of a sweet older woman?
I look at the butter cookies, the little pink-and-white china pitcher and matching sugar bowl, the quilted cozy over the freshly made tea. The most any other client has ever offered me before is a glass of water.
Kindness is the right answer; I chose wrong.
I try to regain our merry banter, asking about her grandchildren as I dab a rose-colored cream blush onto her cheeks, but she is subdued now. Despite my efforts, her eyes appear less bright than when I entered her apartment.
When I finish, I tell her she looks great.
“Go check yourself out in the mirror,” I say, and she heads to the bathroom.
I pull out my phone, planning to try to quickly call Dr. Shields, and see she has sent me another text: I hope you receive this before you come here. I need you to pick up a package on your way to my office. It’s under my name.
All she has provided is an address in Midtown. I have no idea if it’s a store, an office, or a bank. It’ll only add ten minutes to my journey, but I don’t have them to spare.
No problem, I text.
“You did such a nice job,” Mrs. Graham calls.
I begin to take our teacups to the sink, but she comes back into the room and waves her hand at me. “Oh, I’ll take care of all that. You have to get to your meeting.”
I still feel guilty that I was impatient with her, but she has a husband and a son and a daughter, I remind myself as I pack up my things, tossing my brushes and cases into my kit rather than taking the time to organize them.
Mrs. Graham’s phone rings again.
“Feel free to get that,” I say. “I’m all finished here.”
“Oh, no, I’ll see you out, dear.”
She opens the closet door and hands me my jacket.
“Have fun tonight!” I say as I slip it on. “Happy Anniversary.”
Before she can reply, a man’s voice fills the room, coming from the old-fashioned answering machine next to her phone.
“Hey, Mom. Where are you? I was just calling to say Fiona and I are heading out now. We should be there in about an hour . . .”
Something in his tone makes me take a closer look at Mrs. Graham. She is staring down, though, as if she is trying to evade my eyes.
Her son’s voice grows rougher. “I hope you’re doing okay.”
The closet door is still ajar. My gaze is pulled inside, even though I already know what will be missing. Her son’s tone told me what I’ve misjudged.
Mrs. Graham isn’t going to dinner with her husband tonight.
I visited earlier today, she’d told her daughter.
I suddenly know where she went. I can see her kneeling to set down a bouquet of flowers, lost in the memories of the almost forty-two years they had together.
On one side of the closet hang three coats—a raincoat, a light jacket, and a heavier wool one. They’re all women’s coats.
The other half of the closet is bare.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Thursday, December 6
You’re fighting the urge to peek inside, aren’t you?
You picked up the package a few minutes ago. The wrapping reveals no clues about its contents. The sturdy, generic-looking white bag with the reinforced handle and no logo, is stuffed with tissue paper to protect the object within.
You retrieved it from a young man who lives in a small apartment building. You probably barely got a look at him as he handed it over; he’s a taciturn individual. There was nothing for you to sign; the object had been paid for and the receipt e-mailed to the purchaser.
As you quickly stride down Sixth Avenue, you might be rationalizing that it really wouldn’t be snooping. There is no seal to break, or tape to remove. The next time you pause at a street corner waiting for the light to turn, you could simply peel back a few layers of tissue and catch a glimpse. No one will ever know, you might be telling yourself.
The bag is heavy in your hand, but not uncomfortably so.
Your mind is curious by nature, and you alternately shy away from and embrace risks. Which side of you w
ill win dominance today?
You will need to see the contents of this bag, but you should only view it on the terms dictated in this office.
You’ve been told these are our foundational sessions, but there is more than a single foundation being laid.
Sometimes a test is so small and quiet you don’t even notice it’s a test.
Sometimes a relationship that appears caring and supportive carries hidden danger.
Sometimes a therapist who coaxes out all of your secrets is holding the biggest one in the room.
You arrive at the office at four minutes past the appointed time. You are out of breath, though you try to conceal this by taking quick, shallow inhalations. A lock of hair has worked itself loose from your topknot, and you are wearing a simple black top and black jeans. It’s surprisingly disappointing that your ensemble is uninspired today.
“Hi, Dr. Shields,” you say. “Sorry I’m a little late. I was at work when you texted.”
You set down your large makeup case and offer up the bag. Your expression does not convey guilt or evasiveness.
Your response to the unorthodox request thus far has been flawless.
You agreed immediately. You did not ask a single question. You were not given much advance notice, yet you rushed to complete the task.
Now for the final piece.
“Are you curious about what is inside?”
The question is asked lightly, without the slightest hint of accusation.
You give a little laugh and say, “Yeah, I was guessing maybe a couple of books?”
Your response is natural, unfiltered. You maintain eye contact. You don’t fiddle with your silver rings. You don’t exhibit a tell.
You suppressed your curiosity. You continue to prove your loyalty.
Now the question you’ve carried for the past twelve blocks can be satisfied.
A sculpture of a falcon—Murano glass containing gold leaf flecks—is carefully eased out of the bag. The crest of the falcon is cold and smooth.
“Wow,” you say.
“It’s a gift for my husband. Go ahead, you can touch it.”
An Anonymous Girl Page 9
