Have You Seen Me?

by Kate White

“By the way, I’ve already taken steps to update the police,” I say. “I called Roger last night after I remembered, and he’s going to talk to the police chief, whom he knows. I doubt that it will make any difference all these years later, but still, I want to get it off my chest.”

  “That seems like a very reasonable next step.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that discussing the murder in the sessions with you finally made the memory surface? And that the guilt and shame I’ve felt about lying were the reason I . . . I lost myself?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Maybe. And it could also be one of the things making me confused about the idea of having kids with Hugh.”

  She holds it a beat.

  “Why did you say with Hugh?”

  “What?” I’m not following.

  “You said, ‘the idea of having kids with Hugh.’ Do you feel conflicted about having children in general—or specifically with Hugh?”

  “God, I’m sure that was simply a manner of speaking,” I say, taken aback. “I love Hugh. I do. I want things to return to normal.”

  “I’m interested in hearing how things went with him this past weekend.”

  A sigh escapes my lips involuntarily. I dread articulating what I’m feeling and possibly validating what she seems to be hinting at.

  “Things are awkward between us at moments. Hugh’s been attentive, but sometimes I sense we’re like two strangers walking toward each other on the street and trying to anticipate which way the other is going to move so we don’t collide, but we keep getting it wrong.”

  I elaborate: the weird silences at times during meals; the almost total lack of physical contact; Hugh’s preoccupation with his case; the fact that last night he wolfed down Chinese takeout for dinner and immediately resumed working again.

  “Can you set aside time tonight to sit together and talk for a while?” she asks. “Hugh might be even more concerned about you than he’s expressing and needs help opening up.”

  “Yes, I can probably make that happen. And you’re right, I know he’s been concerned. It turns out he was really freaked out believing that our fight triggered my fugue state, though I told him I have doubts about that.”

  She cocks her head.

  “Because?”

  “The little information I do have suggests it began later the next day. For one thing, I sent out these totally coherent emails Tuesday morning.”

  “Disconnecting from reality can sometimes be a gradual process. You might have felt like yourself Tuesday morning, but as the day wore on, you became more distressed about the fight.”

  “But what about the tissues, then?”

  “Tissues?” She glances down at her notes.

  “The ones I found in my coat pocket—with dried blood?”

  “Right, yes, we talked about that.”

  “What I’m thinking,” I say, “is that the tissues are related to whatever incident caused me to dissociate. Something really stressful might have happened to me on Tuesday, and the stress ended up causing a nosebleed.”

  Her lips part ever so slightly, and I wait for a comment. But instead she sits quietly, studying me with her deep brown eyes.

  “I get your desire for immediate answers, Ally,” she says finally. “I also see why you wanted to speak to your brother. But it’s really essential for you to keep your stress level down and allow your brain to recover at its own pace. Let the detective work take place here in our sessions. That’s the best way to regain your footing completely and avoid triggering a relapse.”

  “Okay, I understand,” I say, slightly chastened. “And do you think if I stop trying so hard, I will remember one day?”

  “That’s definitely possible, yes. But not always the case. It’s important to recognize that memories can become so seriously fractured that they’re not retrievable. We’re out of time, but we can discuss this more when I see you Thursday.”

  I glance quickly at my watch, thinking she must be mistaken. But we are out of time.

  And I feel almost worse than when I arrived.

  13

  As soon as I return to the apartment, I head to the fridge, hesitate, and then finally pour myself a glass of pinot grigio from a bottle that Hugh’s already opened. I feel edgy as hell, and I know a few little yoga poses aren’t going to make a difference.

  I was really counting on today’s session with Erling to move me forward, but it seems to have left me in even greater turmoil. I notice that the back of my top is drenched in sweat.

  It’s going to take a while to feel grounded again, I remind myself. Memories will take time to surface, too. And covering certain topics—my relationship with Hugh, my lie years ago—is bound to churn me up. I have to be patient with the process.

  Maybe coming clean with the police this week will ease this new wave of anxiety. When I called Roger last night, the dinner party with friends was clearly still going on—I could hear wine-buzzy, winding-down chatter in the background—but he said of course he could talk. I expected him to be surprised by my admission, but he sounded more than that. His words caught a couple of times in his throat.

  “I see,” he’d said. “Well, you must have been very frightened back then. Would you like me to share this information when I speak to the chief?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Will do. I probably should get back to the table, but I’ll give him a call tomorrow—and let you know as soon as I have any news.”

  I guess I’d been hoping for him to say my actions back then were completely understandable, and he did urge me not to worry before he hung up, but I sensed that the revelation troubled him. Does he think less of me, that I’m a little liar? Does he suspect there’s more to the story than I’ve let on?

  My brother’s reaction made me reluctant to update Hugh last night. I will tell him, but not immediately, not when he has so much on his mind.

  Which means two sins of omission, of course. This and the coffee with Damien tomorrow. Thank god Gabby’s on her way over now—I need the comfort of her presence.

  Wineglass in hand, I head back to the bedroom, kick off my shoes, and change into lounge-y pants and a sweater. Then, for a while, I wander aimlessly around the apartment, like someone who can’t recall where she left her keys or set down a glass. I realize that on some level, I am searching, looking for the missing days. I know Erling keeps urging me to relax, but if I knew where I’d been and what I’d been doing, maybe I could make better sense of everything else.

  Her last comment from the session echoes in my head: that I might never remember. No, I can’t accept that yet.

  Finally, Gabby texts me to say she’s five minutes away, and then only seconds later, it seems, the buzzer to the apartment door is sounding and she’s striding in, all five feet eleven inches of her. She’s swaddled in a beige, drape-y shawl-collared coat, and her long red hair is tied in a high ponytail.

  “Wait,” I exclaim, spotting the aluminum roller bag she’s hauling behind her. “Did you come straight from the airport?”

  “Yup,” she says, embracing me. “I couldn’t wait. Omigod, I’m so relieved to see you.”

  “Same here.” The mere sight of her has already begun to soothe my ragged nerves.

  Leaving her bag behind in the foyer, she trails me into the great room.

  “Are you up for wine?” I ask. “I’ve got a bottle already open.”

  “Just a splash. I don’t want to crash too early or I’ll wake up at two A.M. and never get back to sleep. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

  I’ve been keeping Gabby up to date by email, though I haven’t told her yet about my recovered memory. I’m nearly certain she won’t judge me harshly when I do, but I feel like I need to share it with Hugh first.

  “Not much. I managed to do a little work today. Saw my therapist. Baby steps, really.”

  As Gabby settles onto the couch, I grab the wine bottle and an extra glass and plop down next to her. She shrugs off her coat and unw
inds the scarf that’s been wrapped around her neck. She’s wearing jeans and a tight black jersey top, along with some of her jewelry—an amulet around her neck and eight or nine bangles and ribbon bracelets, each one unique but fabulous in combination. Gabby has an enviably stylish but nonchalant way of dressing that I’ve never been able to master. I’m useless at nonchalant.

  “So just so I’m clear,” she says after I’ve filled her wineglass, “the strategy is, basically, take it easy, see the therapist a couple of times a week, and get a second opinion from a neurologist.”

  “Yup, and suck away on Altoids to stay in the moment. I still can’t believe this has happened. I don’t do unraveling.”

  Gabby smiles. “That’s for sure. Do you like this therapist? I mean, you went to her originally for a whole different reason.”

  “I do like her, and this latest stuff is in her wheelhouse. She’s worked regularly with people who’ve experienced trauma.”

  “And she’s been helpful?”

  “It’s been good to vent, but the process is going to take time. And she told me today that my memories might actually be too ‘fractured’ to retrieve, which is driving me crazy.”

  “I’ve already given you my opinion on that front. Hire a private detective. Once he’s figured out where you went, it might trigger you to remember what you were doing.”

  “You probably think I’m going to hire someone superhot who calls himself a private dick, and that you could date him after he’s done with my case. But I haven’t spotted any Chris Hemsworth types in the mix.”

  She raises a ginger eyebrow. “You’ve started looking?”

  “Just a basic Google search, that’s all. It looks like there’s a wide range of options. At one end are the really big agencies, which help companies deal with major risks and security issues. And then there are some small, local operations, often made up of ex-cops or ex-military guys.”

  “Try one of them.”

  I let out a long sigh. “Yeah, maybe I should. Plus, it’s not simply a matter of wanting to know where I was those days. I keep wondering if something happened to me last Tuesday, something bad.”

  “While you were in this so-called fugue state?”

  “Either in it or immediately beforehand, and that’s what made me disconnect. Not the argument with Hugh.”

  Absentmindedly, Gabby uses her right foot to wiggle off the black suede ankle bootie on her left foot and then performs the same maneuver on the opposite side.

  “Here’s a thought,” she says, once her legs are tucked beneath her on the couch. “What if you were freaked out by a bad thing that happened to someone else?”

  “You mean like seeing a person being attacked?”

  “Right. Or being hit by a car or, god—jumping from a building. Something. There was this woman I knew ages ago, a big-shot lawyer who dated my cousin Bradley. I bumped into her a couple of years ago and she told me she’d left her fancy law firm to get an MFA in poetry. And when I asked her why, she said that on one single day in Manhattan, she came across three different scenes with cops standing around a dead body under a white sheet. Three dead bodies all in one day! And it threw her so much she ended up changing her life entirely. That kind of stuff can fuck with your head.”

  “Your theory would explain the tissues I found in my pocket,” I say, rolling the concept around in my head. “If someone near me was injured, I might have tried to stop the flow of blood.”

  “Exactly.”

  I circle the rim of my empty wineglass with a finger. Leave it to Gabby to see the matter from a fresh perspective.

  “Okay, that’s definitely worth mulling over,” I say. “Now, if you’re so damn good at this, tell me why I ended up at Greenbacks Thursday morning.”

  She takes a long drink of wine, then shakes her head. “Not sure on that one. Why do you think you did?”

  “You sound like my therapist! I have no clue—but I’m hoping Damien might. I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow.”

  “Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.”

  She knows how nuts I was over Damien, and how crushed I was when it ended.

  “You think I’ll try to tear his pants off the minute I set eyes on him.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “I simply want to find out if he has an inkling of why I went to his company.”

  That’s not a hundred percent accurate, I realize as soon as I say it. Yes, I’m eager to learn what I can from Damien, but I’m starting to think it’s more complicated than that. I want to make sure that his most recent image of me isn’t of a totally unglued woman. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m curious as to what his life is like now.

  “But you already said you checked your email and you two haven’t had any recent contact. What can he provide that’s more than a wild guess?”

  “At the moment I’ll take anything I can get my hands on, including wild guesses.”

  I reach for the bottle of wine and raise it off the coffee table, flashing Gabby a look that asks if she wants more.

  “Un poco.”

  I don’t add any to my own glass. I’d love more wine, but my better instincts override the urge. Instead I jump up, grab a bottle of Perrier from the fridge, and carry it to the table along with two glasses. While I pour us each a few glugs of water, Gabby yanks the tie from her ponytail and shakes out her hair so that it fans out around from her head like a wildfire.

  “I admit, part of me wants to set eyes on Damien again,” I say, back on the couch. “The old touching-a-bruise thing. But if it wasn’t for the chance of getting information from him, I wouldn’t have responded to his text.”

  “Have you told Hugh?”

  I glance away. “No, but not because I’m trying to deceive him. I’m just having a hard time slipping back into a groove with Hugh again, and I don’t want to make it worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we’re together, it feels like we’re on one of those awkward third dates—you know, the kind when, despite the fact that everything seemed great on dates one and two, you can’t recapture the rhythm.”

  “Have you slept together already?”

  “What?” Her question catches me off guard. Is she asking if I’ve had sex with Hugh since this happened? The answer, of course, is no.

  “I’m asking about this imaginary third date you’re on. Have you already fucked?”

  “Gabby, it was just a dumb analogy.”

  “I’m trying to determine what made those first two dates so good. Maybe you need to figure out whatever it was.”

  “Okay, I see what you mean. Of course, there’s still the kid issue. I bet he’s terrified about bringing it up again.”

  “Well, he’s going to have to chill on the topic for now.”

  Gabby untucks her legs and reaches for her boots.

  “You’re leaving?” I moan.

  “I hate to bail, but if I don’t beat it home soon, I’m afraid I’ll pass out on your couch.”

  “But I haven’t even asked about you yet. About London . . .”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow and fill you in,” she says, stuffing her feet back into her boots. “And let’s have dinner soon—whenever you’re up to it.”

  “What’s happening with that new guy you’re seeing—Jake? Any potential there?”

  She shrugs. “Reply hazy. Ask again later.”

  We rise and I thank Gabby profusely for coming by. After seeing her to the door and hugging her good-bye, I retreat back to the couch and further contemplate her theory: that I might have observed a traumatic event. That I was a witness rather than a victim.

  I should have come up with that myself. I’ve always been intrigued with behavioral finance, the study of the influence of psychology on investors, including selective inattention, how we don’t always notice what’s going on around us and instead see only what we expect or want to see. I’ve been so focused on myself, on trying to figure out what happened to me, that I’ve failed to
imagine a different scenario.

  I quickly grab the pad on the coffee table and add a note about Gabby’s theory to the timeline I’ve drafted.

  After traipsing down to the bedroom alcove, I open my laptop and do another online search for detective agencies, narrowing it to smaller operations, most of which promise a range of services—like determining the whereabouts of a loved one, digging for possible dirt on a new boyfriend met via the internet, verifying a potential employee’s references, or proving whether or not your spouse is shagging someone else. All the agencies promise discretion, a guarantee that no one will have to know you’ve hired an investigator.

  There’s one agency I keep coming back to: Mulroney and Williams Private Investigations. Two mid-fortysomething-looking partners, one a former New York City police detective, the other a former Navy SEAL. Ha, surf and turf, I think. Their bios highlight their long records and commendations, which I have absolutely no way of completely verifying—unless, of course, I hire them to do it.

  A tab on their website says Missing Persons and I click there next—because that’s what this is really about, right? I’m looking for a missing person: me during those two days.

  The resulting page spells out their approach: they interview, gather physical evidence, do surveillance, in certain instances using wiretaps and global positioning devices. I love the final line: “Sometimes just having a professional outsider ask questions and look in different places is the key.” God, that’s what I need. Not the wiretaps or a GPD (too late for that!), but rather someone asking questions and looking in different places. And coming up with the truth.

  Returning to the home page, I find a contact form, requesting a few personal details as well as information about the case. I type in a brief summary of the situation, bite my lip, and then hit send. It’s not as if I’ve actually hired them. I’m simply making inquiries.

  I return to the living area and clear the coffee table. The sun has set, and the city is beginning to sparkle. My mind circles back to another theory of Gabby’s, about the way back into my usual groove with Hugh. Dr. Erling seemed to be encouraging that as well.

  After setting the wineglasses in the dishwasher, I swing open the door to the pantry cupboard and scan its contents. Hugh is due home at seven—I told him there was no rush since Gabby was stopping by—and it would be really nice, I realize, to have dinner waiting, a homemade dish since we’ve been subsisting on takeout. The larder’s close to bare, but I spot two cans of green olives and a box of penne.