“Yes, that makes sense, I guess,” I say, but I’m still thinking about Tuesday and Wednesday. “Shit, what about my podcast on Tuesday? What if I didn’t show for it?”
“You’re okay on that front. You’d told me before this that you’d banked one last Tuesday and weren’t recording this week.”
That’s right. I remember that now.
“Ally, why don’t we table this until tomorrow?” Hugh steps toward me and pulls me against his chest. “This can’t be doing you any good tonight.”
He’s right, I realize. I’m exhausted and feeling weirdly fragile. By rehashing this, I’m doing the opposite of what Agarwal suggested. The last thing I want is to find myself back in the psych unit.
Five seconds later the intercom rings with the concierge announcing our food is here, and while we wait for the knock on our door, I set the table, grateful for a menial task to occupy my mind.
During the meal I ask Hugh about the boat ride with the potential client. He doesn’t like the guy, he admits, and is thinking of foisting him onto another lawyer in the firm. The conversation seems stilted at times, as if we’re two strangers attending a convention and eating lunch side by side in the hotel ballroom.
Shortly after ten o’clock, we dress for bed. A peek at the top shelf of my closet indicates that my overnight bag is still there, and it appears as though my clothes are all accounted for. I think of the foul-smelling skirt and blouse I’d stuffed in the hamper earlier. Clearly, Ihadbeen wearing them for days.
Once I crawl beneath the covers, Hugh reaches out and spoons me, and I relax a little into his strong, smooth arms. Before long, his breathing goes deep, indicating he’s drifted off. I’m bone-tired, but every inch of me resists sleep. I’m afraid that when I wake up this might all be gone again.
After close to an hour of lying in bed wide-eyed and wired, I unwrap Hugh’s arms, slip out of bed, and grab my laptop and calendar from the alcove. Quietly I pad down the hall to the living room. I know I should be giving my brain a rest, but there must be answers waiting for me if I’m willing to dig.
Using our portable phone—which despite the endless robocalls, I’ve kept for years as a backup—I start with a call to Gabby, whose cell-phone number I know by heart. It’s after eleven, but she’s a night owl. She’s also a good fibber when she has to be, and I’m praying that she knows more than she let on to Hugh. The call goes to voice mail. I leave a message saying I need to speak to her ASAP, and asking her to call our apartment phone because my iPhone is missing in action.
Next I open my laptop and google “dissociative state.” It’s defined just as Dr. Agarwal described. “Dissociative disorders,” I read, “are typically experienced as startling, autonomous intrusions into the person’s usual way of responding or functioning. Due to their unexpected and largely inexplicable nature, they tend to be quite unsettling.”
The understatement of the year.
As I continue to read, I learn they’re sometimes referred to as “fugue” states, but the medical profession has moved away from using that term.
And then there’s this: “The major characteristic for all dissociative phenomena involves a detachment from reality, rather than a loss of reality, as in psychosis.”
Thank god for small favors, but none of this is telling me what I really want to know.
I open a new window and call up the website for Eastside Eats. I definitely don’t remember being there. I stare hard at the home-page photos. Did I sit at one of those wooden tables, consume a croissant or sandwich? It’s distressing to think I don’t recall a second of it.
I move on to my calendar next, starting with Tuesday. Like today, most of the morning was blocked off for writing. I reach for my laptop again and click on the “book” folder only to discover that it was last saved on Monday. So that’s not what I was doing Tuesday morning.
Tuesday afternoon on the calendar is mostly blank since, as Hugh had pointed out, I didn’t need to be in the podcast studio that day. At 3:30 I’d scheduled a phone interview with a new source for my book, a woman named Glenda Payne, but I have no idea whether I ended up calling her.
Wednesday morning is also blocked off for work on the book, followed by my appointment with Erling at oneP.M.After that is a notation to “shop for new coat.” I had saved that activity for after Columbus Day, when winter coat prices always start to drop.
Next, I scroll through emails received and sent, startingwith Tuesday morning. Though I have no recollection of doing so, I composed several messages between 9:00 and 9:17A.M.One was to my editor regarding the proposed catalog copy for my book. I sound perfectly coherent, as if nothing was awry. “The copy is great in general, but the phrase we want in this context is ‘money market fund,’ not ‘money market account,’” I’d told the editor. “They’re not interchangeable.” Hardly the sound of a woman who’s becoming unhinged.
Another email was to Nicole about a flight for an upcoming speech, nothing unusual there. She replied that she was on it and also reminded me she was headed out of town that day to attend her sister’s wedding and wouldn’t be back at WorkSpace until next week.
Interestingly, this batch of emails was sent from my phone rather than my laptop, which suggests I might have been on the move during that period.
From 9:17A.M.onward, there were no outgoing emails, and every onetome since then—and there are plenty—has gone unanswered. To my chagrin, I see a message from Glenda Payne asking if we ended up with our wires crossed about the time. Lovely. And also one Wednesday evening from Dr. Erling, wondering why I didn’t make the appointment and asking if everything is okay.
So I was a no-show, which means Erling won’t be able to offer any clues.
I see there’s also a “just checking in” email from my father, who’s been spending the fall in San Diego with my half brother Quinn and his family, gaining his strength back after his heart attack in July. God, it’s been three days since I hadany contact with my dad, when we usually talk every day or every other. I quickly reply sayinghi, love you, sorry I’ve been so busy but will write more later.
Finally, I glance through emails from the week before, wondering if anything I see will shed light on why I showed up at Greenbacks, but there’s nothing. Just for the hell of it, I search for my last email exchange with Damien. It turns out it was roughly five years ago, the week I left the company.
I chew on my thumb for a minute and then jump up. I grab a pad and pencil from the island counter, and return to the couch, where I begin scribbling down a timeline. I know I can be really anal, but it helps me to put things in writing.
MONDAY
evening: dinner, TV, argument
