An Anonymous Girl

by Greer Hendricks

  But the side door is exactly the same.

  The deadbolt still requires a key to unlock it from the outside. From inside the kitchen, a simple twist of the small oval knob disengages the lock or engages it, depending on which way the knob is turned.

  You have never heard this story, Jessica.

  No one has. Not even Thomas.

  But you must have known you were special to me. That we are inexorably linked. It is one of the reasons why your actions have cut so deeply.

  If only you had behaved, we might have had a very different relationship.

  Because despite all of our superficial differences—in age, socioeconomics, educational levels—the most important pivot points in our lifetimes eerily echo. It is as if we were destined to come together. As if our two stories are mirror images.

  You locked your younger sister Becky in on that tragic day in August.

  I locked my younger sister Danielle out on that tragic night in December.

  Danielle often snuck away to meet boys. Her favorite trick was to leave the kitchen door open by disengaging the deadbolt so that she could reenter the house undetected.

  Her subterfuge was no concern of mine. Until she went after my boyfriend.

  Danielle coveted my things. Ryan was no exception.

  Boys fell over Danielle all the time; she was pretty, she was lively, and her sexual boundaries were nearly nonexistent.

  But Ryan was different. He was tender and appreciated conversation and quieter nights. He was my first in so many ways.

  He broke my heart twice. Initially, when he left me. Then again, a week later, when he started dating my younger sister.

  It’s remarkable how the simplest of decisions can create a butterfly effect; how a seemingly inconsequential action can cause a tsunami.

  An ordinary glass of water, like the one being filled in this kitchen right now, is what began it all on that December night almost exactly twenty years ago.

  Danielle was out with Ryan, unbeknownst to our parents. She had disengaged the deadbolt to disguise her late return home.

  Danielle never suffered consequences. She was long overdue for one.

  A quick, spontaneous twist of the lock meant she would be forced to ring the bell and awaken my parents. My father would be apoplectic; his temper has always been short.

  It was impossible to fall asleep that night; the anticipation was too delicious.

  From an upstairs window at 1:15 A.M., the headlights of Ryan’s Jeep were observed being extinguished halfway up our long, winding driveway. Danielle was spotted slipping across the lawn, toward the direction of the kitchen door.

  A thrill suffused my body: How did she feel when the knob refused to yield?

  Surely the doorbell would soon sound.

  Instead, a minute later, Danielle scurried back to Ryan’s car.

  Then the Jeep reversed its path down the driveway, with Danielle in the passenger’s seat.

  How was Danielle going to get out of this? Maybe she’d appear in the morning with some ludicrous excuse, like she’d been sleepwalking. Even my mother wouldn’t be able to ignore Danielle’s deceit this time.

  Unaware that their youngest daughter had stuffed pillows beneath her comforter as a decoy, my parents slept on.

  Until a police officer appeared at the door a few hours 1ater.

  Ryan had been drinking, which he never did when we were together. His Jeep crashed into a tree at the bottom of our long windy road. They both died in the accident; her instantly, him at the hospital from massive internal trauma.

  Danielle had made so many wrong choices that created the circumstances of the accident: Stealing my boyfriend. Drinking vodka five years before she was legally allowed to do so. Sneaking out of the house. Not owning up to her transgression by ringing the doorbell and facing our parents.

  The final result of the kitchen door being locked was not anticipated.

  But it was merely one in a string of factors that led to her death. Had she altered any of her choices, she could be in the living room right now, perhaps with the grandchildren our mother so desperately wants.

  Like your parents, Jessica, mine are only privy to part of the story.

  If you knew how tightly we are bound by these dual tragedies, would you have lied to me about Thomas?

  There are still questions about your involvement with my husband. But they will be answered tomorrow.

  Your parents have been told that you will be spending the holiday with me, and that they should enjoy themselves and not worry if they don’t hear from you.

  After all, we will be very busy with plans of our own.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Monday, December 24

  I didn’t notice the narrow silver plaque affixed to the bench when I met Thomas here less than a week ago; it was too dark.

  But now, as the midafternoon sun hits it, I see the gleam of the reflective memorial.

  Her full name and dates of birth and death are engraved in a graceful font, followed by one line. Dr. Shields’s silvery voice reads the inscription in my mind: Katherine April Voss, Who surrendered too soon.

  Dr. Shields installed the plaque here. I know it.

  It bears her trademark: Understated. Elegant. Menacing.

  This quiet spot deep within the West Village Conservatory Gardens is composed of concentric circles: the frozen fountain is in the middle. Ringing it are a half dozen wooden benches. And surrounding the benches is a walking path.

  I stand with my arms encircling myself, too, as I stare at the bench where April died.

  Since I left Dr. Shields’s town house last night, I’ve pored over my file, and April’s, again and again. I remember the line Dr. Shields wrote about me, This process can set you free. Surrender to it, in a script that looks not unlike the message adorning the plaque.

  I shiver, even though in the daytime, these frozen gardens aren’t so spooky. I’ve passed several people out for strolls, and the laughter of children not too far away carries through the crisp air. In the distance, an elderly woman in a bright green knitted hat pushes a small shopping cart. She’s heading my way but moving slowly.

  Still, I feel unnerved, and utterly alone.

  I was so certain answers would be contained in Dr. Shields’s notes.

  But the missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle, the one I was sure I’d seen in April’s file but couldn’t pinpoint, remains elusive.

  The elderly woman is closer now, her slow, heavy footsteps bringing her to the edge of the sitting area.

  I rub my eyes, and yield to the temptation of a bench. I don’t choose April’s, though. I sit on the one next to it.

  I’m more tired than I’ve ever been.

  I slept for only a few hours last night, and my uneasy rest was jarred by nightmares: Ricky lunging at me. Becky falling into a swimming pool in Florida and drowning. Noah walking away.

  Taking Dr. Shields’s pill was never an option, though. I’m through accepting her gifts.

  I massage my temples, trying to ease the pounding in my head.

  The woman in the green hat takes a seat on the bench one over from mine. April’s bench. She digs into her cart and pulls out a loaf of Wonder bread with bright polka-dot packaging. She begins tearing a slice into little pieces and tossing them onto the ground. Instantly, as if they’ve been waiting for her, a dozen or so birds descend.

  I pull my eyes away from them as they flutter around the food.

  If the clue isn’t in the notes, maybe I can find it by retracing April’s footsteps. Immediately before she came to this Conservatory, April sat on a stool and conversed with Dr. Shields in her kitchen, just as I did last night.

  I visualize other locations where our paths have intersected: April and I both hovered over keyboards in the NYU classroom, letting Dr. Shields probe our innermost thoughts. We probably even sat at the same desk.

  The two of us were then invited into Dr. Shields’s office, where we perched on the love
seat, allowing our secrets to be teased out of us.

  And of course, April and I each met Thomas at a bar, and felt his heated gaze, before bringing him to our homes.

  The old lady continues tossing bread out for the birds.

  “Mourning doves,” she says. “They mate for life, you know.”

  She must be talking to me, because there’s nobody else around.

  I nod.

  “Want to feed them?” she offers, walking over and extending a fresh slice of bread toward me.

  “Sure,” I say absently, taking it and tearing off a few bits to scatter.

  Other places April and I have both been: Her bedroom at her parent’s apartment, the one with the ragged teddy bear still atop her comforter. And there was a photograph of the Insomnia Cookies storefront near Amsterdam Avenue that I recognized in her Instagram feed. I’ve stopped in there before, too, for snickerdoodle or double chocolate mint cookies.

  Obviously, we’ve also both visited this garden.

  I wouldn’t even have known of April’s existence if Thomas hadn’t invited me here to warn me about his wife.

  Thomas.

  I frown, thinking about how so much imploded—my job, my relationship with Noah—while I sat in a chair across from Thomas’s desk and he talked about the fake affair he concocted with the woman from the boutique.

  Thomas’s office is one place I’ve been that April never frequented; Thomas said he only met with April on that night that ended in her apartment. Although, if she was really obsessed with him, she may have looked up the location of his workplace.

  I toss out the last of my bread.

  There’s something tugging at the edges of my mind. Something that has to do with Thomas’s office.

  A mourning dove flutters past me, fracturing my thoughts. The small bird lands on April’s bench, by the old lady, and perches above the silver plaque.

  I stare.

  Adrenaline surges through my body, wiping away my exhaustion.

  April’s name in that flowing script. The dates of her birth and death. The dove. I’ve seen it all before.

  I lean forward, my breath quickening.

  I realize where it was: on her funeral program, the one Mrs. Voss gave me.

  I can almost feel my fingertips closing around the thing I’ve been hunting. My pulse hitches.

  I grow very still as I reconsider a fact that has always seemed strange: Thomas faked an affair with some inconsequential woman to cover up his encounter with April. He was also desperate to get April’s folder; desperate enough to find a way to sneak me into the town house while he distracted Dr. Shields.

  The clue that has been dancing around the edges of my consciousness was never in the folder, though.

  I reach into my purse and pull out the funeral program that Mrs. Voss gave me, the one bearing April’s name and the sketch of the dove.

  I slowly unfold it, smoothing out the paper.

  There’s one vital difference between it and the scene on the bench just a few feet away from me.

  It’s like when I was sent to the bar at the Sussex Hotel and I talked to two men: The detail that distinguished them, the wedding ring, was the one that really mattered.

  The quote on the bench is different from the quote on the funeral program.

  I read it on the program again, even though I know the line from the Beatles song by heart:

  And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.

  If Thomas had sung those words on the night he and April had met, she wouldn’t have asked her mother about the line’s origin. She would have known they were lyrics from a song.

  But if she had merely seen the quote on his coffee mug, as I had, her curiosity might have been piqued.

  I close my eyes and try to remember the exact layout of Thomas’s office. It contained a few chairs. But no matter which one a visitor claimed, they would have a clear view of his desk.

  April had been in Thomas’s office, the one just blocks away from Insomnia Cookies.

  But she didn’t go there to stalk him.

  There’s only one other reason that could explain it, and also answer the question of why Thomas went to such lengths to conceal their one-night stand. Why he’s still so terrified of anyone finding out.

  Mrs. Voss told me that April had been in and out of counseling.

  April didn’t meet Thomas for the first time at a bar.

  April met Thomas when she went to see him for therapy, as a client.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Monday, December 24

  On the ninety-minute car ride back to Manhattan, sleep is feigned to avoid conversation with Thomas.

  Perhaps he welcomes this: Instead of turning on the radio, he drives in silence, his stare fixed straight ahead. His hands grip the steering wheel. Thomas’s rigid posture is atypical, too. During long rides, he usually sings along to the music and taps out the beat on his thigh.

  When he pulls up in front of the town house, my awakening is simulated; a blinking of the eyes, a quiet yawn.

  There is no discussion about the sleeping arrangements for tonight. By mutual, unspoken agreement, Thomas will stay at his rental apartment.

  Brief good-byes are exchanged, along with a perfunctory kiss.

  The hum of his engine fades as his car moves farther and farther away.

  Then there is only a deep, desolate silence in the town house.

  The new deadbolt requires a key to unlock the door from the outside.

  But from the inside, a turn of the oval knob is all that is required to engage the lock.

  One year ago, Christmas Eve unfolded so differently: After our return from Litchfield, Thomas built a fire in the hearth and insisted that we each open a gift. He was like a young boy, his eyes shining, as he selected the perfect package to place in my hands.

  His wrapping was elaborate but messy, with too much Scotch tape and ribbons.

  His presents were always heartfelt.

  This one was a first edition of my favorite Edith Wharton book.

  Three nights ago, after you reported that Thomas had rebuffed your advances at Deco Bar, hope swelled; it seemed this sweet ritual could continue. An original photograph of the Beatles by Ron Galella had been purchased, framed, and carefully encased in layers of tissues and bright paper for Thomas.

  Now it sits by the white poinsettia in the living room.

  The holidays are the most wrenching time to be alone.

  A wife regards the flat, rectangular present that will not be unwrapped tonight after all.

  A mother stares at the stocking bearing the name Danielle that will never be opened by her daughter.

  And a different mother experiences her first Christmas without her only child, the daughter who took her life six months ago.

  Regret feels more pronounced in the stillness.

  All it takes is a few taps of my fingertips against the computer’s keyboard. Then, a text is sent to Mrs. Voss:

  In honor of April’s memory, a holiday donation has been made to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Thinking of you. Sincerely, Dr. Shields.

  The gift isn’t meant to appease Mrs. Voss, who is desperate to see the file labeled KATHERINE APRIL VOSS. The contribution is merely a spontaneous gesture.

  April’s mother is not alone in craving the story of what happened in April’s final hours: An investigator has formally requested my records, and threatened the possibility of a subpoena. Thomas, too, exhibited excessive curiosity about April’s file after he was informed that the Voss family had hired a private detective.

  Because the absence of notes from our last encounter would be suspicious, a truncated version of them was created. They held the truth; this was critical, given the slim possibility that April might have called or texted a friend just before her death, but the accounting of our interaction was much softer, and less detailed:

  You disappointed me deeply, Katherine April Voss. You were invited in
. . . Then you made the revelation that shattered everything, that put you in a completely different light: I made a mistake. I slept with a married man . . . You were told you would never be welcomed into the town house again . . . The conversation continued. At the conclusion of it, you were given a farewell hug . . .

  The substitute notes were created immediately after Subject 5’s funeral service.

  It is understandable that her mother covets them.

  But no one will ever be able to view the true recording of what happened that evening.

  Just like April, those notes no longer exist.

  A single, lit match devoured those pages from my yellow legal pad. Flames greedily consumed my words, lapping at the blue-inked cursive.

  Before those notes turned to ash, here is what they contained:

  SUBJECT 5/ June 8, 7:36 P.M.

  April knocks on the door of the town house six minutes after the appointed time.

  This is not uncharacteristic; she has a relaxed approach to punctuality.

  Chablis, a cluster of purple grapes, and a wedge of Brie are offered in the kitchen.

  April perches on a stool, eager to discuss her upcoming interview at a small public relations firm. She gives me a printout of her résumé and requests advice about how to explain her somewhat checkered job history.

  After a few minutes of encouraging conversation, my slim gold bangle, the one April has repeatedly admired, is slid onto her wrist. “For confidence,” she is told. “Keep it.

  The tenor of the evening abruptly changes.

  April breaks eye contact. She stares down at her lap.

  At first it seems she is overcome with positive emotion.

  But her voice wobbles: “I feel like this job will give me a fresh start.”

  “You deserve one,” she is told. Her wineglass is topped off.

  She slides the bangle up and down on her forearm. “You’re so good to me.” But her tone doesn’t contain gratitude; instead something more nuanced infuses it.

  Something not immediately identifiable.