An Anonymous Girl

by Greer Hendricks

  “Watch yourself,” a man’s deep voice says in my ear.

  I grab for the side rail and my fingers close around it just in time to break my fall.

  I’m breathing hard when Noah swoops in a second later.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I nod, but I don’t look at him. I’m trying to pick the man who bumped me out of the crowd, but it’s impossible to find him in the swirl of swinging scarves and heavy coats and feet kicking up silver blades.

  “Yeah,” I finally say to Noah, but I’m still breathing hard.

  “Want to take a break?” he suggests. He reaches for my hand and leads me off the ice. My legs shake and my ankles feel like they might give way.

  We find a bench away from the throngs of people and Noah offers to get us hot chocolate.

  Although my phone is in my pocket and set to vibrate, I’m worried I’ve missed a message from Ben. So I nod and thank him. The minute he’s out of sight, I check it. But the screen is blank.

  It had to have been an accident when the man knocked into me. It’s just that he used the exact same words as Thomas: Watch yourself.

  The happiness I experienced when I was on the ice, feeling Noah’s hands close over mine, is gone.

  I smile at Noah when he returns to the bench with two foam cups, but it’s almost like he can feel the shift in my energy.

  “That guy came out of nowhere, he says. “You didn’t get hurt, right?”

  I look into his warm brown eyes. His presence feels like the only solid thing around me right now. I wonder again how I could have slept with Thomas on Friday night.

  I didn’t realize then how much that impulsive dalliance could have cost me, and how much it could still.

  It suddenly occurs to me that Noah is the only one in my universe that Dr. Shields doesn’t know about. I described my first night with Noah during one of those early computer sessions, but I never mentioned his name. And I haven’t revealed that we were still in touch.

  Some part of me must have wanted to hold that back, to have one piece of my life be mine alone.

  Dr. Shields has heard all about Becky, and my parents, and Lizzie. I’ve provided her with the name of my employer, home address, and birthday. She is privy to my deepest insecurities and my most intimate thoughts.

  Whatever she is doing with all of this information, I know Noah isn’t involved in it.

  I make a split-second decision.

  “I didn’t get hurt, but I guess there’s something on my mind,” I begin. I take a sip of hot chocolate before I continue. “There’s the situation at work, and it’s complicated, but . . .”

  I fumble for how to put it in words, but Noah sits there, not rushing me.

  “How do you know if you can really trust someone?” I finally ask.

  Noah raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of his drink.

  Then he looks into my eyes again and the expression in his is so earnest I feel like he’s answering from a deeply personal place.

  “If you need to ask that question, then you probably already know the answer,” he says.

  Two hours later, after Noah and I grabbed slices of hot gooey pizza and he walked me back to my apartment, I’m curled up in bed. Just as I’m about to drift off to sleep, my phone buzzes.

  My bedroom is dark and the thin blue light on my nightstand is all I can see.

  I’m wide awake.

  I reach for it.

  Why haven’t you replied? Thomas has written. We need to meet.

  Beneath his text is a wedding photo. In it, Dr. Shields wears a lacy ivory gown and beams at the camera. I’ve never seen her look happy before now, I realize as I stare at the slightly grainy image. She appears to be about five or ten years younger than she is today, but I don’t need that detail to confirm what Thomas has told me about them being wed seven years ago.

  The groom beside her, his arm wrapped protectively around her, isn’t the dark-haired man in the photograph in her dining room.

  It’s Thomas.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY

  Monday, December 17

  Are you being honest, Jessica?

  You keep assuring me that Thomas has not responded to your invitation.

  This strains credulity. Thomas has an almost Pavlovian response to the ding of an incoming message. He might have rebuffed your invitation. Or he might have accepted it. But it seems highly unlikely that he would simply ignore it.

  It is now three P.M. on Monday. More than twenty-four hours have elapsed since you departed my town house. Three have elapsed since you last communicated.

  Another phone call is required.

  You do not answer.

  “Jessica, is everything all right? I am . . . disappointed I haven’t heard back from you.”

  You do not return the phone call. Instead, you send a text: No word yet. I’m not feeling well, so I’m going to try to rest.

  It’s impossible to accurately ascertain tone from a text message, yet yours carries the feel of impetuousness.

  You are trying to slow down the rhythm of communication with your thinly veiled excuse. It’s as though you think you are the one in control.

  Why do you need to hit the pause button, Jessica? You’ve been so eager and accommodating until now.

  You were carefully selected because of your anticipated appeal to Thomas.

  Did he exert a similar pull on you?

  Since his unexpected visit yesterday, Thomas has not followed up on his promise to review his forthcoming week’s schedule.

  Aside from a brief call to say good night, he has not been in touch at all.

  It takes a deliberate, sustained effort to slow the raggedy inhalations of breath. Swallowing food is impossible.

  There is a slightly loose floorboard in the area just outside the kitchen; it gently creaks with every step. The sound forms a mesmerizing rhythm, like the chirping of a cricket.

  A hundred creaks.

  Then two hundred.

  Thomas’s schedule remains murky, but he knows mine.

  On Mondays from five to seven P.M., my presence has been reliably required in a classroom at NYU, just down from Room 214.

  However, since a leave of absence was granted a few weeks ago, a substitute will conduct my seminar.

  Doubting Thomas is an unfortunate but necessary side effect resulting from his actions.

  But doubting you, Jessica . . . now, that is intolerable.

  Impulsivity, or acting without forethought or reflection, can lead to disastrous consequences.

  And yet at 3:54 P.M. a somewhat rash decision is made.

  It is time to remind you who is in charge, Jessica.

  You didn’t say what ails you, but chicken soup is considered to be a universal remedy.

  Nearly every deli in New York sells it, including one just down the block from your studio apartment.

  A large container is selected, and several packets of saltine crackers are added to the plain brown paper bag. A plastic spoon and napkins are included.

  Your apartment building, with its peeling yellow plaster facade and the metal fire escape snaking up the side, comes as a bit of a surprise. You always appear so chic and alluring, and it is difficult to imagine you emerging from such a discordant environment.

  The buzzer is pressed for Apartment 4C.

  You do not answer.

  Judgment is suspended; perhaps you are resting, just as you indicated.

  The buzzer is held for a longer stretch of time.

  In your small studio, the noise must be reverberating loudly.

  No response.

  Even if you had fallen asleep, it seems extremely unlikely you would not have awakened by now.

  Remaining on your stoop provides no answers, yet it proves difficult to depart.

  Then, by chance, another glance at the main door to your building reveals it is ever so slightly ajar; the lock isn’t engaged.

  A push against it is all that is required to gain entry.


  There’s no elevator or doorman. The staircase is dim and bleak, with its steps covered in a frayed gray carpet. Still, residents of this building have brightened the hallways with amateur-looking pieces of art. Christmas wreaths adorn a few doors, and the aroma of something savory—a chili or stew, perhaps—fills the air.

  Your apartment is toward the end of the hall. There’s a welcome mat in front of the door.

  A firm knock causes your dog, Leo, the little mixed breed you adopted from a shelter, to erupt in sharp, almost staccato barking.

  But that is the only indication of sound or movement within.

  Where are you, Jessica? Are you with my husband?

  A crackling noise erupts as the paper bag is crumpled.

  The parcel is left in front of your door, where you will see it the moment you arrive home.

  Sometimes a simple gift is actually a vessel utilized to issue a warning shot.

  But by the time you receive it, it may be too late.

  Your loyalty has been methodically cultivated. You have been paid thousands of dollars for your services. You have received carefully curated gifts. Your emotional state has been attended to; you have received the equivalent of intensive therapy sessions for free.

  You belong to me.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-ONE

  Monday, December 17

  I sit at a tiny wooden table wedged next to a holiday gift display, swirling the cardboard sleeve around my Starbucks cup and checking the door every time it swings open.

  Ben was supposed to meet me here at five-thirty—his only availability today, he claimed. But he’s already fifteen minutes late, and I’m worried he won’t show up at all, given how reluctant he sounded on the phone.

  I had to cancel my late-afternoon BeautyBuzz appointment to make it back to the Upper West Side. I didn’t lie to Dr. Shields about my job’s policy; the appointment coordinator let me know that if I missed another booking this month without the requisite notice, I’d be fired.

  I glance at my phone in case Ben has tried to contact me, but all I see is another missed call from Thomas. It’s his fifth attempt to reach me today, but I’m not going to talk to him until I hear what Ben has to say.

  A blast of freezing air hits me as the door is pushed open again.

  This time it’s Ben.

  His eyes find me immediately, even though the coffee shop is crowded.

  He walks over, unwinding the tartan scarf from around his neck. He leaves his overcoat on. Instead of saying hello, he slides into the chair across from me and looks around the room, his gaze skimming over the other customers.

  “I’ve only got ten minutes,” he says.

  He looks the same as I remember: thin and preppy, with an air of fastidiousness. This comes as a relief; at least one thing in this whole study is consistent.

  I pull out the list of questions I wrote down last night, after I saw the wedding photo Thomas sent and couldn’t fall asleep.

  “Okay,” I begin. “Um, you know I am one of Dr. Shields’s subjects. And I guess things are getting a little weird.”

  He just looks at me. He’s not making this any easier.

  “You’re her research assistant, right?”

  He folds his arms. “Not anymore. My position was eliminated when the study was terminated.”

  I jerk back in my chair, feeling the unyielding wood hit the middle of my spine.

  “What do you mean, ‘terminated’?” I cry. “I’m part of the study. It’s still going on.”

  Ben frowns. “That’s not the information I was given.”

  “But just the other night you looked up the phone numbers for some of Dr. Shields’s former subjects. I had to do their makeup,” I splutter.

  He stares at me, confused: “What are you talking about?”

  I try to collect myself, but my mind is swimming. A baby a few tables over begins to cry, a high, piercing sound. The barista flips on a giant electric grinder and it loudly chews through beans. I need to get Ben to help me, but I can’t focus.

  “Dr. Shields told me you transposed the numbers for one of the women who was involved in a past study, and then when I went to see her I wound up in the wrong place. I ended up in some drug addicts’ apartment.” My voice sounds high and rushed. The woman next to us turns to stare.

  Ben leans in closer. “I haven’t spoken to Dr. Shields in weeks,” he says, his voice low. The way he’s looking at me, I can’t tell if he believes a word I’ve said.

  I think back to the yellow legal pad with the five telephone numbers. They were all in Dr. Shields’s neat cursive.

  She did say Ben transposed the numbers, didn’t she? Maybe she meant he made the error when he originally took down the information for the study.

  But why would she let him go if she were still conducting her research with other young women?

  Ben pointedly glances at his watch.

  I scan my questions, but if Ben isn’t aware of the ethical tests Dr. Shields is conducting on me, none of them can help.

  “You don’t know anything about what she’s doing now?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  I suddenly feel chilled to the bone.

  “I signed a nondisclosure agreement,” he says. “I’m finishing up my master’s and she could make trouble for me at the school. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

  “So why are you?” I whisper.

  He picks a piece of lint off his coat sleeve. His eyes survey the occupants of the coffee shop once more. Then he pushes back his chair.

  “Please!” The word comes out sounding like a strangled cry.

  Ben lowers his voice when he speaks again, and I can barely make out his words over the hum of conversation and the baby’s crying.

  “Find the file with your name on it,” he says.

  I gape at him. “What’s in it?”

  “She had me gather background information on all of her subjects. But she wanted more about you. Then she removed it from the cabinet that held all the other subjects’ folders.”

  He turns to go.

  “Wait!” I call. “You can’t just leave.”

  He takes a step toward the door.

  “Am I in danger?”

  He hesitates, his body twisted away from me. Then he briefly turns back.

  “I can’t answer that, Jess,” he says, just before he walks away.

  The manilla folder sat on Dr. Shields’s desk during our early sessions. What could be in it?

  After Ben leaves, I sit there for a while, staring into space. Then I finally call Thomas.

  He answers on the first ring: “Why haven’t you been responding to my calls or texts? Did you see the picture I sent?”

  “I saw it, I say.

  I hear running water in the background, then a metallic clanking sound.

  “I can’t talk now,” he says, sounding almost frantic. “I’ve got dinner plans. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow. Don’t tell her anything,” he warns me again, just before he hangs up.

  It’s dark by the time I leave the coffee shop.

  As I walk home, huddled against the cold bite of the wind, I try to imagine the contents of the folder Dr. Shields keeps on me. Don’t most therapists take notes during their sessions? It probably contains a transcript of every conversation we’ve had, but why would Ben urge me to find that?

  Then I realize I haven’t seen that file in weeks.

  I remember it in the center of Dr. Shields’s meticulous desk, and attempt to visualize the typewritten letters on the tab. I never saw them clearly, but I’m now certain they spelled my name: Farris, Jessica.

  Dr. Shields only ever called me Subject 52 and then, later, Jessica.

  But the last thing Ben did in the coffee shop was call me “Jess.”

  When I finally reach my apartment building, I see the front door is ajar. I feel a flare of annoyance at the careless neighbor who failed to pull it closed tightly, and for the super who can’t seem to perman
ently fix it.

  I climb the frayed gray carpet on the stairs, passing Mrs. Klein’s apartment one floor below mine and inhaling the aroma of curry.

  I stop at the end of my hallway. There’s something in front of my door.

  When I draw closer, I see it’s a plain brown paper bag.

  I hesitate, then pick it up.

  The smell is rich and familiar, but I can’t identify it.

  Inside is a container of chicken noodle soup. It’s still warm.

  There’s no note in the bag.

  But there’s only one person who thinks I’m not feeling well.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-TWO

  Monday, December 17

  A sharp, sudden noise alerts me to the presence of someone in the town house.

  The cleaning lady does not come on Mondays.

  The rooms are still, and bathed in shadows. The noise originated from the left.

  A town house in New York City affords certain advantages: More space. Privacy. A backyard garden.

  Of course, there is one significant disadvantage.

  There is no doorman standing guard.

  Another loud, clanking noise.

  This one is recognizable: A pot has been placed on the six-burner Viking stove.

  Thomas always has a heavy hand while cooking.

  He is following our Monday-night routine, the one that was suspended when he moved out.

  He does not immediately notice my appearance in the doorway to the kitchen; perhaps the sound of a Vivaldi concerto on the Sonos system covered the sound of my movements.

  He is chopping zucchini for the whole-wheat pasta primavera; it is one of the few dishes in his repertoire. He knows it is my favorite.

  Two white Citarella grocery bags rest on the counter, and a bottle of wine sits on ice in a silver bucket.

  Calculations are swiftly performed: Thomas’s last client of the day departs at 4:50 P.M. It is a twenty-five-minute journey from his office to the town house. An additional twenty minutes for grocery shopping. The preparation for this meal is well under way.

  He could not have been with you earlier tonight, Jessica. Wherever you went when you pretended to be home sleeping, it was not to meet my husband.

  The immediate, overwhelming rush of relief conjures the sensation of a physical weakening.