An Anonymous Girl

by Greer Hendricks

  Dr. Shields finally opens her mouth to speak. “And those simple things led you to this conclusion?”

  I shake my head. The next part sounded good when I rehearsed it earlier today. But now I have no idea if it will convince her. “The jackets in your coat closet . . . . They’re all so big. They clearly belong to a man who’s tall and broad, not like the guy in the photo in your dining room. I noticed them last time I was here and I double-checked again tonight.”

  “You are quite the detective, aren’t you, Jessica?” Her fingers caress the stem of her wineglass. She raises it to her lips and takes a sip. Then: “Did you figure this all out on your own?”

  “Sort of,” I say. I can’t tell if she believes me, so I continue with the story I’d planned: “Lizzie was just talking about how she had to order an extra costume for an understudy in a play who was much bigger than the original actor. That’s what made me think of it.”

  Dr. Shields abruptly leans forward and I flinch. I make sure I hold her gaze.

  After a moment, she gets up off her stool without a word. She reaches for the wine bottle on the counter and walks back to the refrigerator. When she opens the door, I glimpse only a row of Perrier water and a carton of eggs. I’ve never seen a fridge so bare.

  “Speaking of Lizzie, I’m going to meet her right after this for a drink,” I continue. “Do you know any place nearby that’s good? I told her I’d text her when we finish.”

  That’s another of my safeguards, along with the Mace I’ve put in my purse and my clear view of my surroundings.

  Dr. Shields closes the refrigerator door. But she doesn’t come back around the counter to sit with me.

  “Oh, is Lizzie still in town?” Dr. Shields asks.

  I almost gasp. Lizzie left yesterday, but how can Dr. Shields know that? If she got to my parents, maybe she got to Lizzie, too.

  I can’t even remember if I’ve told her anything about Lizzie’s holiday plans. Dr. Shields took notes of all of our conversations. I never did.

  I start to babble: “Yeah, she was thinking about going earlier but some stuff came up, so she’s here for another couple days.”

  I force myself to stop speaking. Dr. Shields remains across the counter from me. She’s studying me. It’s like she’s pinning me down with her gaze.

  There are four other rooms behind me, including the powder room. Because Dr. Shields has repositioned herself across the kitchen, I can no longer look at her and keep watch on the doorways.

  Instead, all I can see are the hard, gleaming surfaces of her kitchen: gray marble counters, stainless-steel appliances, and the metal spiral of the corkscrew she has left by the sink.

  “I am glad you were honest with me, Jessica,” Dr. Shields says. “And now I am going to do the same. You are right: Thomas is my husband. The man in the photograph was my mentor when I was in graduate school.”

  I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. At last there’s one piece of information that aligns with what Thomas and Dr. Shields have both told me, and with my instincts.

  “We’ve been married for seven years,” she continues. “We used to work in the same building. That’s how we met. He’s also a psychiatrist.”

  “Oh,” I say, hoping that one word will encourage Dr. Shields.

  “You must be wondering why I’ve been pushing you toward him,” she says.

  Now I’m the one to remain silent. I don’t want to say anything that could set her off.

  “He cheated on me,” Dr. Shields says. I think I catch the sheen of tears in her eyes, but then the glimmer is gone, and I don’t know if it was just a trick of the light. “Only once. But the details of that betrayal made it particularly painful. And he promised he would never do it again. I want to believe him.”

  Dr. Shields is so precise and careful with her words; it feels like she’s finally telling me the truth.

  I wonder if she saw that intimate photo of Thomas in April’s bed, with the floral comforter exposing his bare shoulders. How painful that must have been.

  How much worse things would be for her if she knew what I’d done.

  I’m desperate to hear more. Still, I know I can’t let down my guard around her even for a second.

  “Of all the questions I’ve asked you, we never covered this one,” Dr. Shields continues. “Have you ever truly been in love, Jessica?”

  I don’t know if there’s a right answer. “I don’t think so,” I finally say.

  “You would know,” she responds. “The joy—the sense of completeness it can offer a person—is directly proportional to the amount of anguish one experiences when that love is withdrawn.”

  It’s the first time she has ever appeared soft and swept up in emotion.

  I need to make her believe I’m on her side. I had no idea Thomas was her husband when I took him back to my apartment. Still, if she learns about it, well, I have no idea what she’d do to me.

  My mind flashes back again to Subject 5, splayed out on a bench in the gardens on the last night of her life. Surely the police investigated her death before it was ruled a suicide. But was she truly alone when she died?

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. My voice trembles a little, but I hope she thinks it’s from compassion instead of fear. “What can I do to help?”

  Dr. Shields’s lips curve up in an empty smile. “That is why I picked you,” she says. “You remind me a bit of . . . well, of her.”

  I can’t help it; I whip my head around to check behind me. The front door is maybe twenty yards away, but the lock appears complicated.

  “What is wrong, Jessica?”

  I reluctantly twist my body back around. “Nothing, I just thought I heard a noise.” I pick up my wineglass. Instead of taking a drink, I simply hold it. It may be heavy enough to use as a weapon.

  “We are completely alone,” she says. “Do not worry.”

  She finally comes back from behind the counter and reclaims her seat next to me. Her knee brushes mine as she arranges herself on the stool. I suppress a flinch.

  “The young woman Thomas cheated with . . .” The words want to remain locked away, but I have to ask. “You said she reminded you of me?”

  Dr. Shields reaches out and touches my arm with her thin fingers. The blue veins on the tops of her hands stand out sharply against her skin.

  “There was a similar essence,” she says. When she smiles, I see it: A few more tiny, sharp lines around her eyes appear, like the cracks in the glass are spreading. “She had dark hair, and she was full of life.”

  Her hand is still holding my forearm. Her grip feels imperceptibly tighter. Full of life, I think. What a strange way to describe a young woman who took her own.

  I wait for her next words and wonder if she’s going to say April’s name, or if she’ll refer to her as a study subject.

  She looks at me. Her eyes sharpen again. And it’s as if the woman I saw just moments ago—the softer one, who was clearly yearning for her husband—has slipped behind a mask. Her words are devoid of emotion again now. She sounds like a professor, lecturing on an abstract subject.

  “Although the woman Thomas betrayed me with wasn’t as young as you, she was about ten years older. Closer to my age.”

  Ten years older.

  I know Dr. Shields sees the shock in my face, because her own expression tightens.

  There is no way April, the young woman in all of those Instagram photos, was in her thirties; besides, the obituary reported that she was twenty-three. Dr. Shields isn’t talking about April.

  If Dr. Shields is telling me the truth, there’s a second woman Thomas was with during his marriage. There are three, counting me. How many were there, in total?

  “I just can’t imagine anyone would do that to you,” I say, taking another tiny sip of wine to cover my surprise.

  Her head dips in a nod. “The important thing is to ensure that he won’t do it again. You understand, right?”

  She pauses. “That is why I need you to reply
to him right now.”

  I go to put my wineglass on the counter, but misjudge the distance. It teeters on the edge of the marble, and I catch it just before it falls to the floor and shatters.

  I see Dr. Shields catalog the incident, but she doesn’t remark on it.

  My plan has gone drastically awry. The confession that I had thought would liberate me feels like a noose.

  I pull my phone out of my bag and type out the text as Dr. Shields dictates: Can we meet tomorrow night? Deco Bar at 8?

  She watches as I hit Send. Less than twenty seconds later, a reply arrives.

  Panic floods my body. What if he wrote something incriminating?

  I’m so dizzy I want to put my head between my knees. But I can’t.

  Dr. Shields is staring at me like she can read my thoughts.

  I swallow hard against the nausea rising in my throat as I look down at my phone.

  “Jessica?” she prompts.

  Her voice sounds tinny and distant, as if it is coming from far away.

  My hand is shaking as I turn my phone so Dr. Shields can see Thomas’s response: I’ll be there.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-ONE

  Friday, December 21

  Every therapist knows the truth shape-shifts; it is as elusive and wispy as a cloud. It morphs into different incarnations, resisting attempts to define it, molding itself to the viewpoint of whoever claims to possess it.

  At 7:36 P.M. you text: I’m leaving in a few minutes to meet T. Should I offer to buy him a drink, since I’m the one who asked him out?

  The response: No, he is traditional. Let him take the lead.

  At 8:02 P.M., Thomas approaches Deco Bar, where you await. He disappears from view as he enters through the doorway. He never looks around at the neighboring restaurants and cafés, including the one directly across the street.

  At 8:24 P.M., Thomas leaves the bar. Alone.

  When he reaches the curb, his hand dips into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone. He gestures with his other arm for a taxi.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything else, ma’am?”

  The waiter’s intrusion blocks the view out the large, plate-glass window. By the time the server leaves, Thomas is also gone. A yellow cab pulls away from the spot where he stood only a moment ago.

  A second later, my phone rings. But the person calling is not Thomas. It is you.

  “He just left,” you say breathlessly. “It wasn’t at all what I was expecting.”

  Before you can continue, the call-waiting signal beeps. Thomas is on the other line.

  After twenty-two glacial minutes—a stretch of time that housed emotions ranging from rage to despair to thin threads of hope—everything is converging too quickly now.

  “Hold for one moment, Jessica. Gather your thoughts.”

  All traces of authority are removed from the tone as Thomas is greeted: “Hello there!”

  “Where are you, sweetheart?” he asks.

  Ambient noises, such as the clatter of dishes or the conversation of nearby diners, may be available to him. It is vital that the response is consistent in both the manner and word of a woman who, while not entirely carefree, is enjoying a spontaneous outing after a long day.

  “Near the office. I just stopped for a bite since I haven’t had a chance to grocery shop this week.”

  Across the street, the door of Deco Bar opens and you emerge holding your cell phone to your ear. You stand on the sidewalk, looking around.

  “How long until you’ll be home?” Thomas asks. His voice is gentle, his words unhurried. “I miss you and I’d really love to see you tonight.”

  The amassed clues—the brevity of the meeting combined with Thomas’s unexpected request—allow hope to buoy to the surface.

  Deco Bar and the café across the street are less than twenty minutes from the town house. But a debriefing is required from you before Thomas can be faced.

  “I am just finishing up, Thomas is told. “I’ll phone you when I am in a taxi.

  Meanwhile, you remain on the sidewalk, hugging your arms around yourself against the cold. Your expression cannot be deciphered from so far away, but your body language conveys uncertainty.

  “Perfect,” Thomas replies, and the call is terminated.

  You are still holding on the other line.

  “Apologies for the delay,” you are told. “Please, continue.”

  “He didn’t come there for a date,” you say. Your cadence is slower now; you have had time to shape your response. This is unfortunate.

  “Thomas wanted to see me because he was suspicious. He caught sight of me at the museum after all. He knew it wasn’t an accident that I showed up at the diner. He asked me why I was following him.”

  “What did you say?” The question comes out sharply.

  “I flubbed it,” you say meekly. “I insisted it was just a coincidence. I don’t think he believes me. But Dr. Shields, he’s clearly a hundred percent devoted to you.”

  Your job is not to form conclusions, yet this is too compelling to ignore. “Why do you presume this?”

  “I know I told you I’d never been in love before, but I’ve seen it in other people. And Thomas said he was married to a wonderful woman, and that I should stop bothering him.”

  Is it possible? All the worrisome signs—the late-night phone calls, the unscheduled visit by the woman with the swinging coat to Thomas’s office, the suspicious lunch at the Cuban restaurant—were simply a mirage.

  My husband passed the test. He is true.

  Thomas is mine again.

  “Thank you, Jessica.”

  The view from the window displays a winter landscape: you walking down the sidewalk in your black leather coat, the tails of your red scarf a splash of color against the night.

  “And that is all you two talked about?”

  “Yeah, that was the essence of it,” you say.

  “Enjoy your evening,” you are told. “I will speak with you soon.”

  Three twenties are put on the table—an enormous tip, inspired by the happiness that feels too big to contain.

  As a cab is hailed outside the café, my cell phone rings.

  Thomas, again.

  “Have you left the restaurant?” he asks.

  Instinct shapes my response: “Not yet.”

  “I just wanted to let you know I’ve run into a little traffic,” he says. “So there’s no need to rush.”

  Something in his tone triggers an alarm, but he is told: “Thanks for letting me know.”

  Data is swiftly considered: Twenty-two minutes at Deco Bar. Too brief for a romantic interlude. Yet it seems unlikely that the contents of the conversation you reported with Thomas would require so much time.

  You are barely visible two blocks ahead. But you are traveling in the opposite direction of your apartment. Your stride grows swifter, as if you are eager for what awaits.

  You are in a rush, Jessica. Where are you going?

  Thomas’s delay affords the opportunity to gather more information. And a brisk walk in the cool air helps to clear the mind.

  You proceed another block. Then you rapidly spin around. Your head swivels from side to side as you survey your surroundings.

  Only the dark cloak of nightfall and the distance separating us, combined with the fortuitous location of a cordoned-off building, which provides a shield, prevents you from noticing your pursuer.

  You turn and continue.

  Several minutes later, you arrive at another small restaurant called Peachtree Grill.

  A man waits inside the glass doors to greet you. He is approximately your age, with dark hair, and he wears a navy puffy coat accented with red zippers. You lean into his open arms. He hugs you tightly for a moment.

  Then you both disappear deeper into the restaurant.

  You profess to be honest, yet you’ve never mentioned this man before.

  Who is he? How important is he to you? And what have you told him?

&
nbsp; How many other secrets are you holding, Jessica?

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-TWO

  Friday, December 21

  My conversation with Thomas at Deco Bar was exactly as I described it to Dr. Shields.

  He found me there at a few minutes past eight P.M. at a table in the back area. I was nursing a Sam Adams, but he didn’t even order a drink. The bar was crowded, but no one seemed to be paying much attention to us.

  Still, we stuck to the script.

  “Why have you been following me?” Thomas asked as my eyes widened in surprise.

  I protested that it was a coincidence. He looked skeptical and told me that he was married to a wonderful woman and that I should leave him alone.

  We repeated variations of this dialogue until the two women at the next table turned to stare. I didn’t have to pretend to be embarrassed.

  This was all good; we had witnesses. And although I hadn’t seen Dr. Shields when I’d surreptitiously looked around the bar, I wasn’t going to rule out the possibility that she had engineered a way to track our conversation, or at least watch our interaction.

  That meeting with Thomas didn’t last long. But it was actually our second encounter of the day.

  At four o’clock, several hours before we met at Deco Bar, Thomas and I had convened at O’Malley’s Pub, the same place where we’d met exactly one week ago before I brought him to my apartment. Back when I had no idea he was Dr. Shields’s husband.

  Thomas had to cancel a client appointment to create a gap for the late-afternoon meeting; our conversation was too important to have over the phone. And we needed to talk before the date Dr. Shields had orchestrated.

  I arrived first at O’Malley’s. Since it wasn’t even happy hour yet, only a couple other people were there. I made sure to take the table farthest from them. I positioned myself with my back to the wall so I could have a full view of the room.

  When Thomas walked in, he nodded at me, then ordered a Scotch from the bar. He took a big gulp even before he sat down and removed his coat.

  “I told you my wife was crazy,” he said. He ran a hand over his forehead. “Now, why did she have you ask me out on a date?”