An Anonymous Girl

by Greer Hendricks

  I’m not going to get anywhere by screaming at her. The only way she’ll give me answers is if she thinks it’s on her own terms, if she’s in control.

  So I shove back my anger and fear.

  “Can I please come inside so we can talk?” I ask.

  She opens the door wider and I follow her inside.

  There’s classical music playing, and her home is as immaculate as ever. Fresh petunias adorn the glossy wooden table in the entryway, beneath the panel for the alarm system.

  I avoid looking at it as I pass.

  Dr. Shields leads me to the kitchen and gestures to a stool.

  As I slide onto it, I see a platter on the granite counter holds a cluster of violet grapes and a wedge of creamy cheese, as if she has been expecting company. Beside it is a single crystal goblet filled with pale gold liquid.

  It’s all so proper and precise and insane.

  “Where is my family?” I ask, fighting to keep my tone level.

  Instead of answering immediately, Dr. Shields walks unhurriedly to a cabinet and withdraws a matching crystal glass. For the first time, she doesn’t ask if I want any. Instead, she goes to the refrigerator, takes out a bottle of Chardonnay, and fills the goblet.

  She sets it down in front of me as if we’re two friends about to share confidences.

  I want to scream but I know if I try to rush her, she’ll prove her dominance by making me wait even longer.

  “Your family is in Florida having a wonderful time, Jessica,” she finally says. “Why would you think anything else?”

  “Because you sent me that text!” I blurt.

  Dr. Shields arches an eyebrow. “All I did was inquire about their vacation,” she says. “There is nothing untoward about that, is there?”

  She sounds so sincere, but I can see through her act.

  “I want to call the resort,” I say. My voice is shaking.

  “Certainly,” Dr. Shields says. “Don’t you have the number?”

  “You never gave it to me,” I shoot back.

  She frowns. “The resort name has never been a secret, Jessica. Your family has been there for three days.”

  “Please,” I beg. “Just let me talk to them.”

  Without a word, Dr. Shields rises and retrieves her phone from the counter. “I have the resort confirmation information here,” she says as she scrolls through her e-mails. It seems to take an inordinately long time. Then she recites a number.

  I dial it immediately.

  “Happy holidays, Winstead Resort and Spa, this is Tina,” a woman answers in a singsong voice.

  “I need to reach the Farris family,” I say urgently.

  “Of course, I’ll be happy to connect you. May I have a room number?”

  “I don’t know it,” I whisper.

  “Just a moment, please.”

  I stare at Dr. Shields, who meets my gaze with her ice-blue eyes as, incredibly, cheerful Christmas music plays while I’m on hold: Claus is coming to town.

  Then Dr. Shields edges my glass of wine closer to me.

  I can’t bring myself to take a sip. I fight back an acute feeling of deja vu. I was just here a few days ago, confessing that I know Thomas is her husband, but that’s not what is prompting the unsettling sensation roiling through me right now.

  The music abruptly cuts off.

  “I have no record of any guests by that name,” the resort operator says.

  My body buckles.

  My vision swims and I dry heave.

  “They’re not there?” I cry.

  Dr. Shields picks up her glass and takes another delicate sip, and her unconcerned gesture is what unleashes my anger again.

  “Where is my family?” I demand again, locking eyes with her. I push back my stool, nearly knocking it over, as I stand up.

  She sets her glass down on the counter.

  “Oh,” Dr. Shields says. “Perhaps the reservation is under my name.”

  “Shields,” I say into the phone urgently. “Try that, please.”

  Silence stretches across the phone line.

  I can feel my pulse throbbing between my ears.

  “Ah,” says the clerk. “Here it is. I’ll connect you now.”

  My mother answers on the second ring, her voice so familiar and safe that I almost burst into tears again.

  “Mom! Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Oh my goodness, sweetheart, we are having the best time,” she says. “We just got in from the beach. Becky got to pet dolphins—they have a whole program here. Your dad took so many pictures!”

  They’re safe. She didn’t do anything to them. At least not yet.

  “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Of course! Why wouldn’t we be? We do miss you, though. But what a wonderful boss you have to do this for us! You must be very special to her.”

  I’m so disoriented by now that I can barely manage to end the call and hang up, promising to phone again tomorrow. I can’t reconcile my mother’s happy chatter with the terrible worry my mind had created.

  I put my phone down.

  Dr. Shields smiles.

  “See?” she says calmly. “They’re perfectly fine. Better than fine.”

  I splay my hands on the hard, cold granite countertop and lean forward, trying to concentrate.

  Dr. Shields wants me to think it’s all me, that I’m unstable. But I didn’t conjure losing my job or losing Noah. Those are absolute facts; I still have the voice mails from BeautyBuzz on my phone. And Noah hasn’t responded to me. I’m positive it isn’t a coincidence that both things happened while I was in Thomas’s office. I can’t prove it, but Dr. Shields knows I was with him. Maybe she could have even found out I slept with him; Thomas could have told her to save himself.

  She’s punishing me.

  I feel her hand gently pat my back and I whip around.

  “Don’t!” I say. “You got me fired. You told BeautyBuzz I was freelancing when I went to Reyna and Tiffani!”

  “Slow down, Jessica,” Dr. Shields instructs.

  She returns to her stool and crosses one long, slender leg over the other. I know what I’m supposed to do, the part she wants me to play, so I sit down on the stool next to her.

  “You didn’t tell me you lost your job,” she says. To an observer, it would look like she’s truly concerned: Her brow is furrowed, and her tone is gentle.

  “Yeah, someone turned me in for violating my noncompete clause,” I say accusingly.

  “Hmmm . . .” Dr. Shields taps an index finger against her lips, and then I see the lower one looks slightly swollen, as if it was recently injured. “Didn’t you tell me that the boyfriend who was on drugs was so suspicious of you? Is it possible he might have reported you?”

  She gives me a slight, Cheshire-cat smile. She has an answer for everything.

  But I know she did it. Maybe she didn’t give them Reyna and Tiffani’s names, but she could have made an anonymous call pretending she was a client I’d solicited. I can see her saying something in that fake-concerned voice, like, Oh, Jessica seemed like such a nice young woman, I hope I don’t get her into trouble.

  But then I remember Ricky’s insistent questions before I pushed those free cosmetics into Tiffani’s hand and fled. I’m certain the tubes had the BeautyBuzz logo on them; all my lip glosses and balms do. It would be easy to track down my employer.

  “Jessica, I’m very sorry you lost your job,” Dr. Shields says. However, I certainly did not cause it.

  I rub my temples; everything was so clear just a few minutes ago. But now I don’t know what to believe.

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look unwell,” Dr. Shields remarks. She nudges the platter closer to me. “Have you been eating?”

  I haven’t, I realize. When I saw Noah on Friday night at Peachtree Grill, he kept trying to tempt me with fried chicken and biscuits, but I only managed a few bites. I don’t think I’ve had anything but coffee and a LUNA bar or two since then.

/>   “But what about Noah?” I say, almost to myself. My voice breaks on his name.

  He was happy to hear from me this morning, though he might have thought my request was strange. I keep picturing his hand held up like a barrier, stopping me from getting close.

  “Who?”

  “The guy I was seeing,” I say. “How did you find him?”

  Dr. Shields cuts a piece of cheese and puts it on a thin round cracker before handing it to me. I stare down at it and shake my head.

  “You never even told me you were dating anyone,” Dr. Shields says. “How could I engage in a conversation with somebody I didn’t know existed?”

  She lets silence hang there for a moment, like she’s punctuating her point.

  “I have to tell you, Jessica, I am beginning to resent your accusations,” she says. “You completed your assignments, for which I paid you. You assured me that Thomas was faithful. So why would I be interfering in your life now?”

  Is it possible? I put my head in my hands and try to replay the past few days, but everything is jumbled. Maybe Thomas is the one who has been lying to me. Maybe my own instincts were wrong. They’ve been off before; I trusted Gene French when I shouldn’t have. Maybe I’ve done the opposite now.

  “Have you been sleeping, you poor thing?”

  I lift my head. My eyes feel gritty and heavy. She knows I haven’t been, like she knew I haven’t been eating; she didn’t even need to ask.

  “I’ll be right back,” Dr. Shields says. She slips oft the stool and disappears. Her footsteps are so light I can’t tell where she is in the house.

  I’m completely depleted, but it’s the kind of tired where I know I won’t be able to sleep well tonight. My brain feels thick and sludgy, but my body is jittery.

  When Dr. Shields returns she is holding something, but I can’t tell what it is. She walks into the kitchen again and pulls out a drawer. I hear a faint rattle, then I see she is transferring a small, oval white pill from a bottle into a Ziploc bag.

  She seals the bag, then walks over to me.

  “There is no doubt I’m to blame for your state,” she says softly. “Clearly, I’ve pushed you too hard with all of our intense conversations, and then the experiments. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in my personal life. That was unprofessional.”

  Her words wind around me like one of her cashmere wraps: soft, comforting, and warm.

  “You’re so strong, Jessica, but you’ve been under tremendous pressure. Your father’s layoff, the post-traumatic stress you’ve been feeling ever since that night with the theater director, all your financial worries . . . And of course, the guilt over your sister. It must be exhausting.”

  She presses the bag into my hand. “The holidays can be such a lonely time. This will help you sleep tonight. I shouldn’t give you a pill without a prescription, but consider it a last gift.”

  I look down at it and without even thinking, I say, “Thank you.”

  It’s like she is writing my script, and I’m just reciting the lines now.

  Dr. Shields reaches for my mostly full wineglass and dumps the contents in the sink. Then she scrapes the cheese and grapes into the trash can, even though the platter has barely been touched.

  The emptied glass. The rind of cheese.

  I stare at her as a bolt of energy races through my body.

  She isn’t looking at me. She’s totally absorbed in tidying up, but if she saw my face she’d know something was terribly wrong.

  The notes she wrote in April’s file swim through my mind: All traces of you were gone . . . Your wineglass was washed . . . Brie and grapes were tipped into the trash can . . .

  It was as if you’d never been here at all. As if you no longer existed.

  I look down at the clear Ziploc bag with the tiny pill in my hand.

  An icy fear suffuses my body.

  What did you do to her? I think.

  I need to get out, now, before she realizes what I know.

  “Jessica?”

  Dr. Shields is looking directly at me. I hope she mistakes the emotion in my face for despair.

  Her voice is low and soothing. “I just want you to know there is no shame in admitting when you can use a little help. Everyone needs an escape sometimes.”

  I nod. My voice wavers when I speak. “You know, it might be nice to finally get some rest.”

  I tuck the pill in my purse. Then I push my body off the stool and pick up my coat, forcing myself to move slowly so I don’t reveal my panic. Dr. Shields doesn’t seem to want to escort me out; she remains in the kitchen, running a sponge over the pristine granite. So I turn and walk toward the front hallway.

  With every step, I feel a pricking sensation between my shoulder blades. I finally reach the door and pull it open, then step through and close it gently behind me.

  The minute I get home, I pull out the plastic bag and look more closely at the small, oval pill. A number code is easily decipherable on the tablet, so I check it out on a pill identifier website. It’s Vicodin, the same prescription drug Mrs. Voss told me April overdosed on in the park.

  I now have a pretty clear idea of who gave them to April, and why.

  Dr. Shields must know that Thomas slept with April, otherwise she wouldn’t have put the pills in April’s hand. What I need to figure out is how Dr. Shields got April to swallow them.

  I have to go back to the West Village Conservatory Gardens and find the bench near the frozen fountain. The spot April chose for her death must have some significance.

  Does Dr. Shields also know that Thomas made up the affair with Lauren from the boutique? If I figured this out, then Dr. Shields, with her falconlike attention to detail, surely has.

  How much longer until she discovers my unauthorized encounter with Thomas and all the lies I’ve told her?

  And when she learns I’ve slept with her husband, what will she do to me?

  CHAPTER

  SIXTY-THREE

  Monday, December 24

  Are you getting the deep, dreamless rest you so desperately need, Jessica?

  There won’t be any interruptions. You are utterly alone.

  You no longer have work to distract you. And Lizzie is away. Perhaps you had intended to spend Christmas Eve with Noah, but he has retreated to Westchester to be with his family.

  As for your family, they are unreachable. This morning the hotel concierge phoned and surprised them with a day-long trip on a sailboat. It is so difficult to get cell phone reception out on the ocean.

  Even your new friend Thomas will be occupied.

  But those who are surrounded by family and festive activities can feel isolated, too.

  Cue the scene: Christmas Eve at the Shields family estate in Litchfield, Connecticut, ninety minutes outside of New York City.

  In the grand living room, a fire blazes in the hearth. The delicate Limoges nativity figurines are arranged on the mantel. This year the mother’s decorator has chosen white lights and perfect pinecones to accent the tree.

  It all looks so beautiful, doesn’t it?

  The father has uncorked a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Smoked salmon with caviar on crostini are passed.

  Stockings lay below the tree. Although there are only four people in the room, there are five stockings.

  The extra one has been filled for Danielle, as it has been every year. The custom is to donate to a meaningful charity in her name and place the envelope bearing the check in the stocking. Usually the recipient is Mothers Against Drunk Driving, although Safe Ride and Students Against Destructive Decisions have also been chosen in the past.

  Next week will mark the twentieth anniversary of Danielle’s death, so the check is a particularly large one.

  She would have been thirty-six years old.

  She died less than a mile away from this living room.

  As the level of champagne in the mother’s second glass grows lower, her stories about the younger daughter, her favorite, grow more hyperbolic.


  This is another holiday custom.

  She winds up a rambling tale about Danielle’s summer as a counselor at the country club’s day camp.

  “She was such a natural with children,” the mother ruminates pointlessly. “She would have been the most wonderful mother.”

  The mother has conveniently forgotten that Danielle reluctantly took the job at the father’s insistence and was only hired because the father played golf with the country club director.

  Typically, the mother is indulged.

  But today a rebuttal is impossible to withhold: “Oh, I’m not sure how much Danielle actually liked those kids. Didn’t she call in sick so often that she almost got fired?”

  Although an affectionate tone is sought, the words cause the mother to stiffen.

  “She loved those children,” the mother counters. Her cheeks redden.

  “More champagne, Cynthia?” Thomas offers. It’s an attempt to break the tension that has suddenly infused the room.

  The mother is allowed to win the point by having the last word, although she is wrong.

  Here is what the mother refuses to accept: Danielle was thoroughly selfish. She took things: A favorite cashmere sweater that was then stretched out, because Danielle wore a size larger. An A-plus paper for my junior-year English class that was stored on a shared home computer and resubmitted under her name the following fall.

  And a boyfriend who had pledged to be true to the older sister.

  Danielle never suffered consequences for those first two transgressions or so many before them; the father was preoccupied with work and the mother, predictably, excused her.

  Perhaps if she had been held responsible for her misdeeds all along, she would still be alive.

  Thomas has crossed the room to refill the mother’s glass.

  “How it is possible that you look younger every year, Cynthia?” he asks, patting her on the arm.

  Usually Thomas’s attempts at peacemaking feel loving.

  Tonight’s is perceived as another betrayal.

  “I need a glass of water.” What is actually needed is an excuse to leave the room. The kitchen feels like a place of refuge.

  Over the past twenty years, items in this kitchen have been altered: The new refrigerator contains a built-in dispenser for ice water. The hardwood floor has been replaced by an Italian tile. The dinner plates behind the glass-fronted cabinets are now white with blue trim.