Have You Seen Me?

by Kate White

  “Then what is it?” I ask.

  “It is about Ashley, in a sense. After I ran into her at that event, I took her to lunch. And then for a drink a week later.”

  “Why?”

  “I . . . I admit, I was attracted to her. I’d never felt that way in law school, but I did suddenly that night at the lecture. I tried to ignore it, but it was hard. I ended up seeing her a third time. For drinks again.”

  I wince and have to fight the instinct to shut my eyes, like I’ve just watched a hubcap fly off the car ahead of me on a highway and hurl itself toward my windshield. But another part of me muscles in and takes control. That part is clearheaded and dispassionate, processing the information as if I’m listening to a midday market report.

  “Is that why you were so weird around Sasha? Because she knows?”

  I’m thinking suddenly of the orange roses, how Hugh trashed them while they were still fresh. He didn’t want any reminders of his deception blooming in front of him.

  “Ashley didn’t admit anything to Sasha, but it’s clear she had suspicions. And she was playing some kind of nasty game by bringing Ashley up to both of us. Like she wanted to hurt you.”

  Pot, kettle, black.

  “So are you going to see her again? Do you want to?” I say, hating the questions as they spill from my lips.

  “I’m not sure what I want, Ally. Things have been so tense between us.”

  “And you’re really not sleeping with her?”

  “No, but . . . I kissed her. After we had drinks the last time. I swear to you, though. It never went any further than that.”

  Of course not, I think. He was probably too busy—and guilt-stricken when I became unhinged shortly afterward. That episode must have seemed to Hugh like the bad karma ambush from hell.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, jumping from the chair and pacing behind it. “Why, if you’re fantasizing about screwing another woman, pick a fight with me that Monday night about having—”

  And then it hits me. Maybe he started the fight to illuminate our differences, drive a wedge further between us and lay the groundwork for a split—or at least help him feel less sorry about lusting for Ashley.

  Or maybe the fight was never about babies after all.

  “Hugh,” I say. My heart aches like a hand that’s just been burned. “What was our Monday argument really about?”

  He lowers his head and rakes his hair with his fingers.

  “Not about kids,” he says finally, his voice breaking. “You . . . you saw a text from Ashley on my phone. You were upset and wanted to know what was going on. I told you exactly what I shared with you just now.”

  I stare at him, disbelieving for a moment. “Are you telling me you’ve been lying to me all this time, Hugh? About the fight?”

  “You were in such a bad way when I met you at the hospital. I didn’t want to make it worse for you.”

  The revelation is crushing. I think of the endless frustration and torment. The endless questions I’ve had.

  “I’ve spent the past two weeks trying to figure out what made me spiral out of control, and all this time you’ve been keeping this from me. How could you?”

  “I guess I felt that if you didn’t remember, we had a chance to start fresh.”

  “Start fresh? Did you ever consider how much the fight over her might have factored into my fugue state?”

  “I’m sorry, Ally. I—” He takes several steps closer and reaches out to touch my arm, but I yank it out of reach.

  “Get the fuck away from me.”

  “Please, let’s talk this out some more.”

  “There’s nothing to talk out. I don’t want you here tonight. I want you out of my sight.”

  “Ally, please—”

  “You can come back tomorrow once I’ve figured things out for myself, but for now you need to go. To the Yale Club or a hotel or whatever. Just go.”

  He starts to speak again, then decides not to. He rises and leaves the great room. I grab a half-full bottle of pinot grigio from the fridge, pour a glass, take two gulps, and retreat to the den, tightly shutting the door behind me. I try not to listen, but the sounds come faintly through the far wall: drawers opening, the thud of a suitcase onto the floor, Hugh speaking briskly into the phone, perhaps making a reservation. Then I hear his footsteps in the corridor along with the rumble of a roller bag.

  There’s a split second when the sounds cease, as if he’s paused, deliberating whether to knock. And then he moves away. Finally, from a distance, I hear the click of the front door closing.

  He’s gone.

  Instinctively my hands fly to my chest, pressing it, as if I’m trying to contain the surge of emotions. My husband’s attracted to, flirting with, kissing, sort of seeing, another woman. That’s bad enough, but his deceit about the fight registers as far worse. Because of his lie, I’ve been going down the wrong path in search of answers. Hugh, the person I love most in the world, fooled me in order to spare himself a shitstorm. This explains why he’s seemed so remote since my day in the ER. And no wonder he wasn’t more concerned when I disappeared. He knew I had every reason to take off without any word.

  The bloodied tissues in my coat pocket had me more and more convinced that an incident outside the apartment had triggered my dissociative state rather than a rehashed fight about kids. But discovering his infidelity is a whole other story. Could that really have shaken me enough to make me come undone?

  From far off, I detect the sound of a ringing phone. I swing open the door and hurry down the silent corridor. The ringing’s ceased by the time I reach the bedroom, but I discover I’ve missed a call from Roger. I try him back immediately.

  “So how bad is it?” he asks.

  “Bad.” I recap my conversation with Hugh, the words pouring out so fast they trip over one another. As I’m speaking, I glance around. There’s not even a hint of Hugh’s departure—no wire hangers strewn about or dresser drawers ajar—but still, the bedroom seems desolate, the loneliest spot in the universe.

  “Ally, this must be gutting,” Roger says. “But could you consider giving him another chance? He didn’t sleep with her.”

  “I haven’t had time to sort out my feelings yet. Besides, he seems smitten with this Ashley chick.”

  “Do you have anyone who can keep you company there tonight? What about your friend Gabby?”

  “Uh, maybe . . .” Part of me just wants to be alone.

  “I wish I could drive into the city tonight, but I need to be here when Marion gets home and find out exactly how much more she told her brother.”

  “Understood. Is there any news about Wargo?”

  “No, nothing yet. Maybe he’ll confess—or throw Audrey under the bus—but we’ll hardly be the first to know.”

  “At least the cops are finally closer to the truth.”

  He makes me promise to touch base with him later and to also call Gabby. After we hang up, I end up shooting Gabby a brief text. Roger’s right. It would be better to have some company right now.

  Are you busy? I write. Can you come back over?

  Sensing she might text back any second, I stare at the screen, but she doesn’t respond.

  For the first time since I’ve come up from the lobby, I wonder where her gift is. Maybe opening it will do me good. I trudge back down to the great room and scan the space for it without any luck.

  I wander aimlessly for a bit, ending up in the den and praying for Gabby to respond. If she doesn’t, what in the world do I do next? As I stand there, phone in hand, a smear of memory takes shape in my mind, fuzzy and vague. I’m here in the den. But not today. On another day, in the evening. I’m looking for something—I’m not sure what—and when I approach the desk, I see Hugh’s phone lying on top of it. A text pops on the screen as I’m standing there, and mildly curious, I glance at it.

  No apologies necessary. You can kiss me anytime.

  I’m remembering the night of the fight, I realize. After we’d turn
ed off the TV, he’d retreated to the bedroom, forgetting his phone on the desk. I close my eyes, trying to summon more, but that’s all there is. I step back, shuddering. And then, strangely, I’m studying the phone screen but from farther away. I’m up near the ceiling, in fact. Watching myself on the ground below.

  Out of my body.

  No, no. Don’t let this be happening, I think. I inhale to the count of four, hold it, exhale. And again. Stay present, I beg myself. Stay here.

  The phone rings, startling me. Dr. Erling.

  “Ally?” she says when I answer.

  “It’s me.”

  “I was calling to check on you. Is everything okay?”

  “I think—I think it might be happening again. The fugue state. I came back to the city today, and I felt disconnected for a brief time during the car ride. I snapped back, but then a few seconds ago, it seemed as if I was out of my body, looking down from above.”

  “Is anyone with you?”

  “No, no one. I made Hugh leave. He admitted he’s been seeing that woman, the one I told you about.”

  “We can talk about that later. Have you tried the breathing exercises, Ally?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “And are you still having that sensation you described?”

  “Not right this second. But I’m so afraid it will come back. I . . .”

  “It’s essential we meet in person, Ally. Right away. However, I don’t want you taking the train. Can you arrange for a car, like you did when you visited your brother?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll come right now.”

  “And you still have the address in Larchmont?”

  “Yes, I remember it.”

  “If the sensation comes back, call me immediately from the car.”

  As she hangs up, a sob catches in my throat. Please, I pray. Please let her help me.

  31

  I order an Uber, but it’s going to take twelve minutes to reach me. I’m afraid of staying in the apartment for even a second longer, worried that I’ll be back on the ceiling again, staring down at myself. I quickly grab my purse and rush down to the lobby, where I perch on a leather bench, waiting.

  When the car arrives, I nearly hurl myself into it. Once I’ve attached the seat belt, I grip the door handle as hard as I can, as if it’s the only thing holding me to the present moment.

  Jarring hip-hop is being piped in from both the front and back speakers. “Please,” I nearly beg the driver after a minute, “can you turn off the music?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he says, and then there’s only the sound of traffic outside the window and my ragged breathing.

  The ride to Larchmont, even with unexpected delays, should take less than an hour, but right now, that seems unbearably, dangerously long. I can sense my mind itching to tear away from my body, making a sound like two pieces of Velcro pulling apart as it does so. I can’t let it. I can’t let it.

  I’m beyond lucky that Erling can see me on such short notice, on a weekend no less. But I also need to make a plan for when I return to the city. I wouldn’t dare be on my own tonight, especially back in the apartment. I send another text to Gabby, telling her that I’m heading to meet with Erling now but would love to see her tonight—and crash with her if that’s okay. She answers immediately this time, apologizing for the delay and saying she’d love to have me stay.

  And then, as if I’m being commanded by an alien force, I text Damien, too.

  Would you have time to meet later? Going to my doctor’s in Larchmont but will be back around 7.

  Rooting through my purse, I produce the tin of Altoids and realize I’m down to only two. I need to save them, I realize, for the car trip home, when I’ll be leaving the safety of Dr. Erling’s office.

  I give myself a pep talk instead. I insist there’s no real reason in the world for me to detach from who I am. I made a mistake as a child, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of now. And no matter what happens with Hugh, I have good friends, a loving family, and work I’m crazy about. And even if I might have behaved stupidly during the two days I was gone—or done something I shouldn’t have—that doesn’t define who I really am.

  Hugh. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of him now, since it will only upset me more, but my mind keeps rushing there. If he does want to make a fresh start—his words—could I? What if Erling was right when she suggested the other day that maybe I do want kids, just not with Hugh?

  I take deep breaths. Knead my scalp as hard as I can with the tips of my fingers, paying attention to the sensation. Finally, there’s an exit sign for Larchmont, and minutes later we’re turning onto Erling’s street, with attractive clapboard and brick houses set graciously far apart from each other. It’s quiet today, with no one in sight. Maybe people are tucked inside doing Sunday kinds of things.

  We pull up to the house. I was hoping the mere sight of it would quell my anxiety, but my dread seems to mushroom. I need to get inside and talk to her as soon as possible.

  I fling open the car door, blurt out a thank-you, and deposit myself onto the sidewalk in front of the house. There are a couple of majestic maple trees in the yard, their leaves already vibrant shades of orange. I stare beyond them at the lovely gray clapboard house. There’s a light on in the office, as well as in what must be an upstairs bedroom.

  Though I’m standing in front of the walkway to the front door, I know from my previous appointment here to turn right and head a few yards down the street to a second path, this one shooting to the separate entrance at the side of the house. A narrow conservatory serves as a waiting area for the office.

  I hurry up the path, climb two steps, and enter the unlocked conservatory. The space has been winterized, so despite how brisk the day is, it’s warm inside.

  I press the buzzer by the inside door. It works the same way the system does in the New York office, triggering a tiny click inside so that Erling is alerted to a patient’s presence with minimal disturbance to any ongoing session. But I’m sure I must be the only patient today. Praying it won’t be long before I’m buzzed into the house, I position myself on the edge of one of the white wicker chairs. With my head lowered, I try to still my thoughts.

  It’s then, out of the corner of my eye, that I see a flash of something dark outside the conservatory.

  I jerk my head up and run my gaze along the windows. There’s nothing there now. Was it simply a tree branch jostled by the wind? Or was someone moving around outside, dashing toward the back of the house? I rise and make my way slowly down the length of the conservatory. When I reach the end, I peer out of the far window, but all I see is an empty bird feeder and a cluster of trees behind it.

  A creaking sound startles me next. When I spin around, I realize it was Dr. Erling opening her office door.

  “Ally, what’s happening?” she asks, clearly registering the expression on my face. I see her eyes go to my bruise, too.

  “I—I thought I saw something out there. Something black in the side yard.”

  She crosses to one of the bare windows and studies the surroundings.

  “Do you think it was a person?” Her expression is wary, and I can tell I’ve alarmed her a little, especially since she knows about Mulroney’s murder.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It might have been a crow,” she says. “They tend to congregate at this time of day. But come inside, and I’ll lock the door behind us.”

  I follow her into the large, comfortable office. Erling quickly locks the door, and I watch her push aside the cream-colored curtain above the door, taking a last look at the yard with a furrowed brow. My stomach is in knots now, as if someone is wringing it like a sponge.

  “No need to worry now,” she assures me.

  She gestures for me to sit, and I choose the middle of the couch, the same spot I took during my first visit here. Erling relaxes into the armchair across from me. She’s dressed more casually than usual—black pants and a knee-length gray cardigan buttoned over a paler gray blouse—but
it’s the weekend, after all. Her hair’s pulled back into a loose French twist, instead of down around her shoulders.

  “Your face,” she says as I slip out of my coat.

  “So much has happened since we spoke.”

  “How are you feeling right now?”

  “Incredibly tense. Partly, I guess, from thinking I saw something. But at least I haven’t had that out-of-body sensation again—not since I left the city for here.”

  “Good. You came by Uber?”

  “Yes, it was easy enough.”

  “Since you’ll need a car for the return, I suggest you schedule it now rather than trying to summon one when we’re finished. They’re sometimes hard to order here on short notice.”

  I feel a little frustrated by the delay—I need to tell her about Wargo trying to kill me and Hugh’s deceit—but I fish out my phone first and program in the information for the trip home. My hand trembles as I tap in the details. I was so sure I’d be more at ease once I arrived here, but I’m still engulfed in a swirl of dread and anxiety.

  “Sorry to make you take the time to do that,” Erling says when I’ve completed the task. “But this way you’re guaranteed a car, rather than having to take a train and then get home from Grand Central.”

  I nod dully. I take a deep breath to calm myself, which, for a second at least, seems to work. And then I find myself staring off in the middle distance, thinking. An answer slides into my brain, like a note on a slip of paper.

  “Ally?”

  “Sorry—I . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “Mulroney, the private detective who was murdered? His partner, Jay, went through the file on me and found notations Mulroney had made about the Tuesday I disappeared. There was a set of initials—G.C. Do you think it could mean Grand Central?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Jay assumed it was a person’s initials, but maybe . . . maybe Mulroney thought I went to Grand Central that day. I could have gone by cab—or taken the number 1 train to Forty-Second Street and then the shuttle over.”

  “Does that make any sense to you?”

  “Uh, not really. I don’t often have reason to be in that area. And the only time I’ve been to Grand Central lately is to take the train here for the appointment I had with you. Unless . . .”