An Anonymous Girl

by Greer Hendricks

“Your phone.” He nearly left it on the counter.

  As it is picked up, a quick glance at the screen confirms it has automatically re-locked.

  He tucks it into the pocket of his coat.

  “I’m so sorry I had to cut this night short,” he says.

  “I’ll make a call to the bakery first thing in the morning.” A pause. “The woman who waited on me needs to know her mistake.”

  Phone calls concerning a mistake will be made tomorrow. That much is true.

  But not to anyone Thomas expects.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Monday, December 10

  Nothing about Dr. Shields’s home comes as a surprise to me.

  I get invited into many people’s residences on Monday mornings to do makeup, and evidence of their weekend’s activities is usually on display: the Sunday New York Times splayed out on a coffee table, wineglasses from a party drying upside down on a dish rack, kids’ soccer cleats and shin guards scattered by the entryway.

  But when I arrived at Dr. Shields’s town house in the West Village, I figured it would look like a spread in Architectural Digest—all muted colors and elegant pieces of furniture, chosen for aesthetics rather than comfort or function. And I’m right, it’s like an extension of her meticulous office.

  After Dr. Shields greets me at the door and takes my coat, she leads me into the open, sunny kitchen. She’s wearing a creamy turtleneck sweater and dark-rinse fitted jeans, and her hair is in a low ponytail.

  “You just missed my husband,” she says, clearing away two matching coffee mugs from the counter and depositing them in the sink. “I was hoping to introduce you, but unfortunately he had to head into his office.”

  Before I can ask more—I’m so curious about the man—Dr. Shields gestures to a small platter of fresh berries and scones.

  “I didn’t know if you’d had the chance to eat breakfast,” she says. “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee would be great,” I say. “Thanks.”

  When I finally texted Dr. Shields back on Sunday afternoon, she again asked how I was feeling before she invited me here. I truthfully replied that I was a lot better than when I left the hotel bar on Friday night. I slept in until Leo licked my face demanding a walk, worked a few jobs, and went out with Noah. I did one other thing, too. As soon as the bank opened on Saturday morning, I deposited the check for seven hundred fifty dollars. I still feel like the money could float away; until I see the balance on my statement, it doesn’t seem real that I could be earning so much.

  Dr. Shields pours the coffee from a waiting carafe into two china cups with matching saucers. The curve of the handle is so delicate I’m a little worried I might break it.

  “I thought we could work in the dining room,” Dr. Shields says.

  She places the coffee and the platter on a tray, along with two small china plates in the same pattern as the cups. I follow her into the adjoining room, passing by a small table that holds a single silver-framed photograph. It’s of Dr. Shields with a man. His arm is around her shoulders and she is gazing at him.

  Dr. Shields looks back at me.

  “Your husband?” I ask, gesturing to the picture.

  She smiles as she arranges the teacups in front of two adjacent chairs. I take a closer look at the man, because this is the first thing about Dr. Shield’s house that doesn’t fit.

  He’s maybe ten years older than she, with slightly bushy dark hair and a beard. They appear to be almost the same height, about five foot seven.

  They don’t seem like a match. But they both look very happy in the photo, and she always lights up when she mentions him.

  I move away from the picture and Dr. Shields motions to a chair at the head of the glossy oak table, beneath a crystal chandelier. The table is bare save for a yellow legal pad and, beside it, a pen and a black phone. It isn’t the silver iPhone I’ve noticed on Dr. Shields’s desk before.

  “You said I’d just be making some calls today?” I ask. I don’t know how this fits into a morality test. Is she going to ask me to set someone up again?

  Dr. Shields places the tray on the table, and I can’t help noticing that every single blueberry and raspberry is perfect, like the same designer who chose the graceful pieces of furniture for this room also selected the fruit.

  “I know Friday evening was unsettling for you,” she says. “Today will be more straightforward. Plus I’ll be right here in the room with you.”

  “Okay,” I say, sitting down.

  I center the legal pad in front of me and that’s when I see the first page isn’t blank. Listed in what I now recognize as Dr. Shields’s handwriting are the names of five women and, beside the names, phone numbers. All have New York City area codes: 212, 646, or 917.

  “I need some data concerning how money and morality intersect,” Dr. Shields says. She places my cup and saucer in front of me, then reaches for her own. I notice she takes her coffee black. “It occurred to me that I can use your profession to help with this fieldwork.”

  “My profession?” I echo. I pick up the pen and press the bottom with my thumb. It makes a loud clicking noise. I put it back down and take a sip of coffee.

  “When given a hypothetical scenario, say, winning the lottery, most subjects claim they would donate a portion of the money to charity,” Dr. Shields says. “But in reality studies show winners are often less giving than their own predictions would indicate. I would like to delve into a variation of this.”

  Dr. Shields freshens my coffee from the carafe she has brought to the table, then takes the seat next to me.

  “I want the people who answer your call to believe someone has gifted them a free makeup session with BeautyBuzz,” Dr. Shields says.

  Something about her energy seems especially intense today, even though she is practically motionless. But her expression is serene; her ice-blue eyes are clear. So maybe I’m just projecting my own feelings. Because while I know this all makes perfect sense to her, I’m having trouble understanding why it would be important to her research.

  “So I just call and say they’ve been given a free makeup session?”

  “Yes. And it’s the truth,” Dr. Shields says. “I will pay you for the sessions—”

  “Wait,” I interrupt. “I’ll really be doing these women’s makeup?”

  “Well, yes, Jessica. Like you do every day. That shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

  She makes everything sound so logical; she sweeps away my question like it’s a tiny crumb on the table.

  But the reprieve I found when I was with Noah is already vanishing. Every time I’m with Dr. Shields I feel like I understand what she’s doing less and less.

  She continues, “What I’m curious about is whether the recipients will tip you more generously since they received the service for free.”

  I nod, even though I still don’t get it.

  “Why these numbers, though?” I ask. “Who am I calling?”

  Dr. Shields takes an unhurried sip of coffee. “They were all original subjects in an earlier morality survey I conducted. They signed a waiver agreeing to a broad range of possible follow-up trials.”

  So they know something might be coming, but they don’t know what it is. I can relate.

  Intellectually, I can’t see how this could hurt anyone. Who wouldn’t want a free makeup session? Still, my stomach tightens.

  Dr. Shields slides a piece of paper over to me. On it appears to be a typewritten script. I stare down at it.

  If BeautyBuzz finds out I’m doing this, I could be in trouble. I signed a noncompete clause when they hired me. And even though, technically, I’m not freelancing off their name, I doubt they’d see it that way.

  I kind of hope none of these five women accept the free gift.

  I wonder if there’s another way I could help with this experiment without using the name of my company.

  I’m about to voice my concerns when Dr. Shields puts her hand over mine.
<
br />   Her voice is low and soft. “Jessica, I’m so sorry. I got so wrapped up with my research and I didn’t even think to ask about your family. Has your father begun a new job search?”

  I exhale. My family’s impending crisis is like a dull, chronic pain; it’s always lurking in the back of my mind. “Not yet. He’s waiting for the new year. Nobody hires in December.”

  Her hand is still over mine. It’s so light. The slim white gold-and-diamond band looks to be the tiniest bit too big for her finger, as if she’s lost some weight since it was first placed there.

  “I wonder if I could be of help . . .” Her voice trails off, as if she is in the throes of an idea.

  My head jerks up. I stare at her.

  “I mean, that would be amazing. But how? He’s in Pennsylvania, and the only job he’s ever had is selling term life insurance.”

  She withdraws her hand. Even though hers was cold, its removal feels like a loss. Suddenly I’m aware that my own fingers are icy, almost as if she has transferred a bit of herself to me.

  She plucks a single raspberry from the platter and lifts it to her mouth. Her expression is thoughtful.

  “I don’t usually share personal details with subjects,” she finally says. “But I feel as though you are becoming more than that.”

  Her words send a thrill through me. I haven’t been imagining it; we really do have a connection.

  “My father is an investor,” Dr. Shields continues. “He has a stake in a number of companies on the East Coast. He’s an influential man. Perhaps I could put in a call to him. I don’t want to overstep, though . . .”

  “No! I mean, you wouldn’t be overstepping, not at all.” But I know my father would feel like a charity case; his pride would be destroyed if he found out about this.

  As usual, Dr. Shields seems to sense what I’m thinking. “Don’t worry, Jessica. We’ll keep this just between us.”

  This is so much more than just a generous check. This could save my family. If my father got a job, my parents could stay in their house; Becky would be okay.

  Dr. Shields doesn’t seem like someone who makes promises lightly. Her life is so together; she’s totally different from anyone I know. I have the feeling she could truly make this happen.

  I’m almost dizzy with relief.

  She smiles at me.

  She reaches for the phone and places it in front of me.

  “Shall we do a run-through first?”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday, December 11

  Every family generates its own particular dysfunction.

  Many people believe that once they cross the threshold into adulthood, this legacy can be shed. But the maladjusted dynamics that have been imprinted upon us, often since childhood, are tenacious.

  You have provided me with crucial information that engenders an understanding of the tangled interactions resulting from your familial patterns, Jessica.

  Have you wondered about mine? Clients do typically speculate about their therapist’s lives, superimposing images onto a blank canvas.

  You have experience in theater. How close have you come to accurately envisioning the cast? Paul, the powerful father. Cynthia, the former beauty-queen mother. And Lydia, the high-achieving older daughter.

  These character sketches will provide context for the following scene.

  It is lunch time on a Tuesday, the day after you visited my home. The occasion is festive: the mother’s sixty-first birthday, although she proclaims it to be her fifty-sixth.

  Here is what can be observed:

  The mother, father, and daughter are led to a corner table for four at the Princeton Club on West Forty-third Street.

  For many years, the fourth chair was occupied by the younger sister in the family. It has remained empty since the terrible accident during that daughter’s junior year in high school.

  Her name was Danielle.

  The surviving daughter settles into her brown quilted leather chair and shifts ever so subtly so that she is equidistant between her mother and her father. The waiter does not need to take an order to know their preferred drinks; he quickly brings a tumbler of Scotch and two glasses of crisp white wine to the table and greets each member of the trio by name. The father shakes his hand and inquires how the waiter’s son performed in his last high-school wrestling match. The mother immediately takes a long drink of wine, then pulls a gold compact from her purse and examines her reflection. Her coloring and features are similar to the daughter’s, but the passage of time has robbed them of their luster. The mother frowns slightly and touches a fingertip to the edge of her lipstick. Orders are placed, and the waiter withdraws.

  Here is what can be overheard:

  “It’s a pity Thomas couldn’t join us,” the mother says as she closes her compact with a snap and replaces it in her quilted purse with a clasp composed of gold interlocking C’s.

  “Haven’t seen much of him lately,” the father states.

  “He has been so overworked,” the daughter responds. “The holidays are always the busiest time for therapists.”

  The statement is elastic, allowing its recipients to infuse it with a meaning of their own choosing: It could be the stress of shopping and travel and elaborate meal preparations that prompts patients to seek extra help; or shorter, darker days could serve as the culprit, causing a worsening in depression or the onset of seasonal affective disorder. But as any therapist can tell you, the driving force behind an increase in both scheduled and emergency appointments during December is the very familial relationships that are supposed to conjure peace and joy.

  “Lydia?”

  The daughter lifts her head and casts an apologetic smile at her father; she has been lost in contemplation.

  Here is what remains invisible:

  The daughter has been reflecting on the information gleaned from yesterday’s round of phone calls. It is impossible to dislodge this train of thought from her mind.

  Based on the demographics you obtained, Jessica, two of the women appear to be improbabilities for Thomas. One volunteered that she would be taking care of her grandchildren this week but could schedule an appointment on Saturday; the other turned out to belong to a housekeeping service, which sparked a remembrance that Thomas had recently mentioned needing to switch his current service.

  Three prospects, however, remain question marks.

  Two accepted the offer of the free makeup session, and their appointments have been scheduled for this Friday evening.

  The third number had been disconnected. This is not yet a cause for concern.

  Thomas’s single betrayal might be surmountable. But confirmation of even one more act of infidelity would do more than establish a pattern of cheating. It would reveal systemic fraud, a doubling down of deception.

  Still, results are not guaranteed in this line of inquiry; too many variables remain in play. Therefore, a parallel avenue of research must be simultaneously set in place.

  It is time for you to meet my husband, Jessica.

  The luncheon progresses.

  “You’ve barely touched your sole,” the father says. “Is it overdone?”

  The daughter shakes her head and takes a bite. “It’s perfect. I’m just not very hungry.”

  The mother puts down her fork. It clinks gently against the plate containing a half-finished grilled chicken paillard and vegetables. “I don’t have much of an appetite, either.”

  The father keeps his gaze on his daughter. “Are you sure there isn’t something you’d rather order?”

  The mother drains her wine. The waiter approaches and discreetly refills it. It is the second time he has done so. The daughter has abstained save for a single sip; the father has waved away an offer of a second Scotch.

  “Perhaps I am a bit preoccupied,” the daughter confesses. She hesitates. “There’s a young research assistant I’ve been working with. Her father’s job is being phased out, and there is a disabled sister. I’m wo
ndering if there is any way we can help the family.”

  “What did you have in mind?” The father leans back in his seat.

  The mother has taken a breadstick from the basket on the table and snapped off the end.

  “He lives in Allentown. Do you know any companies there?”

  The father frowns. “Line of work?”

  “He sells life insurance. They’re not fancy. I’m sure he’d be open to doing something else.”

  “You never cease to amaze me,” the father says. “You’re so busy doing such important work, but you still take the time to get involved.”

  The mother has finished consuming the breadstick. She says, “You’re not still feeling badly about that other girl.” It is more a statement than a question.

  The daughter does not outwardly exhibit any signs of distress or agitation.

  “There is no connection between the two,” she says. Her tone remains even.

  An observer would have no indication of the effort this requires.

  The father pats the daughter on the hand. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

  The waiter delivers a birthday cake to the table. The mother blows out the single candle.

  “Take a big piece home for Thomas,” the mother says.

  Her eyes linger on the daughter.

  Then they sharpen. “We look forward to seeing both of you on Christmas Eve.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  Thursday, December 13

  There is no car service or wardrobe directions or written script for today’s assignment.

  All I have is a destination and a time: the Dylan Alexander photography exhibit at the Met Breuer. I’m supposed to be there from eleven to eleven-thirty, then head directly to Dr. Shields’s office.

  When Dr. Shields called me on Tuesday afternoon with the instructions, I asked: “What exactly do you need me to do?”

  “I realize these assignments are a bit disconcerting,” she’d replied. “But it’s essential that you go into the scenarios blind so that your knowledge doesn’t affect the outcomes.”

  She’d said only one more thing: