Have You Seen Me?

by Kate White

  I know Hugh’s banking on this appointment, probably rooting for a physical origin, but as the hours pass, I’m growing more certain that a neurologist won’t turn up a thing.

  “I appreciate you doing that,” I say. “What about tonight? Will you be home for dinner?”

  “Definitely—and on the early side. And I’ll grab food on the way.”

  “Great, thanks.” Navigating a crowded grocery store is exactly the kind of thing I should avoid.

  Before dropping my phone into my purse, I do a fast scroll through my in-box. Needless to say, the pileup of emails is growing larger, but most of them can be ignored for the time being. There’s one I do need to deal with—from my podcast intern, Sasha. She says she hopes I’m feeling better, but mostly she’s pressing to meet with me before the next studio session in order to review her research. Will you be going to WorkSpace today? she asks, because if so, I’ll drop by there.

  I email back to say I’m working from home, but we can review the research over the phone at around five, which seems easy enough. Her irritating reply, less than sixty seconds later: I have to be on the Upper West Side around that time. Why don’t I drop by your place?

  Begrudgingly, I tell her that’s fine. She and Derek Kane seem to be really tight, and I don’t want her to tell her buddy that I’ve been hard to pin down. I wonder, not for the first time, if she and Kane are in a relationship—and that’s why he pushed so hard to have me take on someone with next to zero background in financial reporting.

  I look up to see we’re nearing my building. I end up asking the driver to drop me at the deli a half block away, where I pick up a tin of cinnamon Altoids and immediately pop one in my mouth.

  Back in my apartment, I dig out my yoga mat from the back of the closet and engage in twenty minutes’ worth of poses in the great room, concentrating fully on each position and doing my best not to let my mind wander. I feel energized when I’m finished, and an espresso also helps. I’m going to get through this crisis, I tell myself. I am.

  Inspired, I grab my laptop, answer a batch of emails, and then open the chapter of my book that I worked on last. I’m not that far behind, but it’s definitely time to hustle.

  But focusing turns out to be more difficult than I anticipated. Every sentence I manage to type is six words long and totally pedestrian.

  Plus, the questions are back, slowly lapping against my brain at first and then flooding it. Where was I for two whole days? Why did I flee my home? Was it really because of the fight with Hugh, or does that terrible day from my childhood still haunt me in some way?

  My gaze falls on my old iPhone, lying on the desk. I know Erling said this isn’t the right moment to be talking to Roger about the past, but I’m close to my half brother and I need to bring him up to speed about what’s happened anyway. There’s even a chance, I realize, that I made contact with him when I was gone. I grab the phone and tap his name. The call goes to voice mail, but I know I’ll hear from him soon enough. Rog is like that.

  Our father, Ben, had been married to Roger’s mother for nearly twenty years when she died unexpectedly of sepsis. Two years later, he met my mother, Lilly, and they married six months later. According to my mom, Roger and his younger brother, Quinn, fourteen and twelve at the time, were lovely, easygoing boys, who maturely accepted their father’s desire to remarry and embraced her presence—and mine, too, when I brazenly popped up a year later. I adore them both, but it’s Roger who’s always seemed more enchanted by my existence and eager to engage. He was especially caring when my own mother died of cancer seven years ago.

  My mother whom I miss and think of every day. My mother who, if she were alive, would surely be able to help me find a path out of this nightmare.

  My phone rings and, yup, it’s Roger.

  “Hey, Button,” he says, using a nickname my father once bestowed on me for being so buttoned-up about schoolwork. “Nice to hear your voice.”

  “Nice to hear yours, too. How is the lord of the manor today?” Roger lives in an impeccably restored manor house along the banks of the Delaware River, a few minutes away from Millerstown, the town where we grew up.

  “In fairly good form for a middle-aged man. Is everything okay?”

  There’s an urgency to the last question. Had I made contact with him on Tuesday or Wednesday?

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Something in your voice. And Dad mentioned he hadn’t heard from you in a few days. You’re usually so Johnny-on-the-spot with your calls.”

  “I had an issue this week, but I emailed him late last night.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Something weird. But I don’t want Dad to know.”

  “Talk to me.”

  I blurt it all out, except for the part about the fight with Hugh. As close as I am to Roger, I like keeping my marriage private.

  “Ally, how awful for you. Do you feel you’re getting the best medical care?”

  “I have a good therapist, and I’m going to see a neurologist for a second opinion. But I didn’t call you this week, did I?”

  “No, we haven’t talked since last weekend. Gosh, I feel terrible. Tell me what I can do.”

  “I mostly wanted to fill you in, but maybe we could get together soon, too.”

  “Absolutely. You could come out for the day, have lunch here.”

  Of course, any social engagement would surely have to be run by Roger’s wife, Marion, who seems to prefer having Roger all for herself.

  “That’s sweet, but you don’t have to go to any trouble. I just want to see you—and also, to ask you some questions.”

  I blurt out the last part without even seeing it coming—and against Erling’s advice.

  “Are you wondering if there’s any family history with this sort of thing?”

  “No one’s mentioned that as a factor. But lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened when I was nine, finding Jaycee Long. Dissociative states are sometimes caused by past trauma, and I’m wondering if that experience could have been a trigger.”

  There’s a long pause, and I can picture him doing his usual little scratch on the side of his head.

  “I’m not sure how much I can help, but I’ll try,” he finally says. “Though wouldn’t Dad be a better person to ask?”

  “Probably, but if I start asking questions, I’m sure he’ll get suspicious, and I don’t want to upset him.”

  “Good point. Well, I’m happy to talk, and actually, you may not need to drive all the way out. Marion surprised me with tickets for the New York Philharmonic Sunday afternoon and then we’re going to some friends’ apartment for dinner. We could grab a drink after the concert—maybe around five? Marion can shop or head to our friends’ place early.”

  That is more convenient for me, but I can’t help but be bugged by the mention of the concert. Regardless of how many times I’ve invited him and Marion here for a Sunday brunch or suggested we grab a play and dinner in the city, he usually passes, bemoaning the fact that he’s become a bit of a homebody since his early retirement from a hedge fund. And now Marion’s organized a day in Manhattan without even factoring in me and Hugh. But really, I shouldn’t be taken aback. From the moment Roger married her a few years ago, she’s been boxing me out in lots of little ways that my brother doesn’t even seem to notice.

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to throw off your plans.”

  “No, I’m dying to see you, Button. I want to be there for you.”

  “Thanks, Rog. That means a lot.”

  After agreeing to firm up our plans in the next day or so, we sign off. I get up to boil water for tea. Daylight has faded, and lights are blinking on in the endless high-rises visible from the apartment. Living here, with this breathtaking view of Manhattan at night, I’m always struck by how the building lights always seem dabbed on here and there at random, like the backdrop of a Broadway show.

  I sip my tea and reflect on the conversation with Roger. I’m
glad I asked for his help, and I’m grateful for the chance to see him even sooner than I’d hoped. But something makes my stomach knot, something beyond the fact that he’d planned to be in Manhattan and hadn’t told me. That Marion had surprised him with tickets? And then I realize I’ve completely forgotten Roger’s birthday. It was ten, no eleven, days ago.

  Shit. It’s like Gabby said—I’ve been distracted, forgetful. Was it because of having so much on my mind lately, or a precursor to my memory loss?

  I shoot him a quick email apologizing and order him a cookbook that I’d eyed for him months ago. Roger’s always been a bit of a bon vivant, someone who loves fine decor, the best wines he can get his hands on, and gourmet cooking.

  Absentmindedly I glance at my phone and to my shock, notice it’s almost five. Sasha is due momentarily. I set my laptop on the dining table and open it to the research notes she’d emailed for the podcast. Two minutes later the concierge rings to say my guest has arrived, and I use the time Sasha’s on the elevator to swap my boots for ballet flats.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” she says as soon as I swing open the front door of the apartment. “I more or less invited myself.”

  “No, it’s fine. Come in.” She’s carrying a wrapped bouquet of flowers and a tiny shopping bag. “Let me take your coat.”

  “First, these are for you.” She hands me both packages. “I thought the flowers could cheer you up. And I’ve brought chicken soup, too. I know this deli makes the absolute best in the city.”

  “Sasha, you shouldn’t have.” On the surface it seems like a lovely gesture, but to me it’s excessive. And from what I’ve learned about Sasha so far, she often has a secret agenda. I know to keep my guard up with her.

  “Oh please, my pleasure,” she gushes. “It’s so hard to be sick, especially when your plate is as full as yours is.”

  For a second, I wonder if she’s gotten wind of what happened to me. People I know in the field might have heard via the rumor mill of my bizarre visit at Greenbacks, learned it was me who was rolled out on a stretcher. But her expression doesn’t seem to be alluding to it.

  She shrugs off the strap of a quilted tote bag and slips out of her coat, revealing a striking drop-waist dress, black on top, with a row of black and white knife pleats on the lower half. It looks great with her blond bob. And it’s sleeveless, emphasizing her perfectly buffed arms.

  An awkward moment follows in which I can’t take her coat because I’m holding her offerings. She ends up hanging up the coat herself and then follows me into the great room, where I set the soup on the counter and tear the paper off the bouquet. The flowers are a stunning orange, a type of rose I’ve never seen.

  “These are amazing,” I tell her as I pull a glass vase from one of the cabinets.

  “I remember you saying your apartment was all white, so I thought you’d enjoy a pop of color on a gloomy day.”

  After I fill a vase with water and arrange the flowers, I carry it to the dining table, where I’ve gestured for Sasha to take a seat.

  “Your place is absolutely gorgeous,” she declares, scanning the room. “How long have you lived here?”

  “About three years. We bought it right after Hugh and I were married.”

  “How did you two meet, anyway?”

  “At a dinner party thrown by a mutual friend. Can I get you an espresso? Or a glass of chardonnay?”

  There’s a beat before she answers, and I sense she’s considering saying wine, a chance to make the meeting more social, but fortunately she opts for the espresso instead. I’m not in the mood for chitchat. While I’m preparing our drinks, I talk over my shoulder, switching topics to the podcast.

  By the time I set the two cups on the table, she’s spread out a sheaf of papers and begins to brief me. As planned, Sasha’s preinterviewed the main guest, Jamie Parkin, a female Wall Street veteran who’s written a book on developing everyday fearlessness, and drafted questions for me to ask. She’s also included a boatload of backup research on subjects such as grit and confidence in the workplace.

  There’s way more than I need here. I’m a major fan of research—you have to be, with financial topics—but too many statistics can suck the freshness and spontaneity out of an interview. Though I’m briefly tempted to tell Sasha this, I bite my tongue. Being research-crazy is probably good for her at this stage, and the bottom line is that I need projects to occupy her time.

  “Let’s focus for a few minutes on the last part of the podcast,” I tell her. As a favor, I’m allowing her to participate in the final segment of the show, a ten-minute “chat” with me that I usually do with my producer, Casey. It’s my chance to riff on a current financial news headline or trend and offer insights as to how it might affect listeners.

  “I’ve already made a list of things that are in the air right now, though that could change this week.”

  “Actually, I’d like to try a different tack this week,” I tell her. “Since the interview is going to be mainly about career strategies, and not as much personal finance, I thought you and I could chat about the financial mistakes people make early on in their careers.”

  “You mean like buying a toasted white chocolate mocha on the way to work instead of making coffee at home or in the office kitchenette?”

  “That’s been overdone lately, so let’s talk about factors that have a much bigger impact. Credit card debt. Not opening an IRA. That’s always a big mistake.”

  “If that’s what you want.” I detect a hint of sullenness in her tone. She was clearly banking on me going with one of her ideas.

  “Yes, I think that will be best in the mix. . . . Unfortunately, we’re going to have to wrap up now.” She’s been here far longer than I planned, and the conversation has started to drain me. “I need to take care of a few other things before dinner.”

  “Of course,” she says crisply, beginning to gather her belongings—the stack of papers, manila folders, a fancy rollerball pen. “Thanks for taking the time today.”

  “And thank you. For the soup—and the flowers.” I tug my phone from my sweater pocket to check if Hugh’s texted.

  “Oh good, you found it,” she says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your phone.”

  “Um, no, this is a spare.” I don’t recall mentioning my phone was MIA. “How did you know it was missing?”

  “Because you called on Tuesday to say you lost it.”

  10

  I freeze. I spoke to Sasha on Tuesday? Does this mean she knows something about my whereabouts that day? For a moment I sit tongue-tied at the table, not sure how to play this.

  “Don’t you remember?” she asks.

  “The two of us speaking?” I say finally, trying to fake awareness.

  “No, you called the reception desk at WorkSpace. I guess you wanted to let Nicole know you’d lost your phone, but she’d already left for vacation so you talked to Carson. He told me when I dropped by later that day.”

  I pick up the notepad I’ve been using and tap it lightly on the table a couple of times, a feeble attempt at nonchalance.

  “Did he mention where I was calling from?”

  “No, he didn’t,” she says, clearly wondering why I’m in the dark.

  “That was the day I started coming down with something, and the afternoon is a bit of a blur.”

  She furrows her brow. “Maybe you should get checked out.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t seem necessary. I’m totally on the mend now.”

  I feel desperate to learn more, but my gut tells me Sasha’s shared the extent of what she knows, and besides, it wouldn’t be smart to pique her interest any further.

  I rise and collect the espresso cups from the table and carry them to the counter. Sasha slips the last of her papers into her nylon Prada tote and rises from the table.

  I lead her back to the foyer and retrieve her coat from the closet, and while I’m waiting for her to slip into it, I hear Hugh’s key turn in the lock.
Sasha glances quickly toward the door, looking startled. Before I have time to say, “It’s my husband,” Hugh steps through the doorway, reeking of rotisserie chicken and loaded down with a briefcase and two plastic grocery bags. He seems taken aback by the sight of the two of us standing there.

  “Hugh, hi,” I say. “This is Sasha Hyatt, the intern who’s been working with me on the podcasts.”

  “Oh, right,” he says, dropping the briefcase at his feet so he can shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Sasha spares him the head-to-toe assessment I’ve seen her give other men on a couple of occasions, but he’s definitely gained her attention. She evaluates Hugh’s face as if it’s a designer handbag she’s deciding whether to buy.

  “Actually,” she says after a moment, “I think we’ve already met.”

  Hugh narrows his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’m drawing a blank.”

  “Now I’m drawing a blank,” she admits. “But somewhere. I never forget a face.”

  He shrugs neutrally. “Someone told me the other day that I look like the guy in the new Volvo commercial. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking of. Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course,” she says as Hugh hurries with his bags and briefcase into the great room. Sasha appears mildly vexed, as if she senses my husband has charm to spare and she’s been cheated of her share.

  “See you Tuesday at the studio,” I tell her, opening the door. “And thanks again for the goodies.”

  “You’re welcome. Feel better.”

  As soon as I ease the door shut, it seems as if this weird tension has been siphoned from the space along with her.

  “Feel better?” Hugh says when I join him at the island. He’s unloading his purchases onto the counter.

  “Yes, much,” I say, sliding onto one of the barstools.

  “Glad to hear that, of course, but what I meant was why was Sasha saying that? You didn’t tell her what happened, did you?”

  “God, no. But I had to explain being out of touch for a couple of days, so I said I’d been sick. Have you met her someplace?”