I tell her that works perfectly and promise to see her in a few hours. As soon as we sign off, I schedule an Uber so I won’t have to be out on the street hunting down a cab.
I feel my shoulders relax a little. What I told Agarwal was true. I’ve valued my sessions with Erling, and though I don’t yet feel closer to understanding the origins of my ambivalence around having children, I’ve sensed I’ll get there with her guidance.
Now, I need her more than ever—to help me unlock the door to my memory and make sure I don’t unspool again.
I have zero appetite, but around noon I serve myself a few spoonfuls of Greek yogurt. Hugh calls—for the second time—to check on me and explains that he’s having my old iPhone messengered back to the apartment, complete with the SIM card.
Out of nowhere, fatigue ambushes me, and I lean back onto the couch, permitting my eyes to close. I can’t fall asleep, though. I need to leave soon for Dr. Erling’s.
The intercom buzzer jars me out of my stupor. The concierge announces I have a delivery from Greenbacks. Once again, the mere sound of the name kicks my pulse into higher gear.
The person who arrives at the door several minutes later isn’t a messenger but a bearded twentysomething guy who explains he’s a company intern—someone I’m sure who’s in awe of Damien and studying his every move. He hands me a large green shopping bag, his expression curious. The same stench that I noticed emanating from my clothes yesterdayis now wafting from the bag, and the guy’s probably curious as to why.
After he’s gone, I dump the coat onto the foyer floor. There’s a chance, I suddenly realize, that the now fetid trench might hold clues to my whereabouts. I check the right pocket first. There’s nothing in there but a fistful of bills—three tens and seven ones. Okay, interesting: I’d managed to transfer cash from my wallet to my pocket before losing my purse. Maybe I’d used the cash to buy more food.
Before I can try the other pocket, I notice it’s bulging, as if something thick has been stuffed in there. I reach in and tug out a large wad of white tissues.
Not white anymore, though. They’re almost entirely covered with dried brown splotches, and crusty in places, as if they were used to help clean up a serious spill. I stare, summoning a memory that never comes. And then, finally, I decipher what I’m seeing.
The tissues are caked with dried blood.
8
SESSION WITH DR. ELAINE ERLING
Iarrive at Dr. Erling’s building a full ten minutes ahead of schedule, feeling relieved to be there. I’m eager to pour everything out without the urge to edit myself the way I had with Dr. Agarwal.
But when the elevator reaches her floor, I’m surprised to find that my breathing is shallow, and there’s a hard pit in my stomach.
Am I scared? I wonder. Fearful of what I might learn if Dr. Erling helps me unravel the mystery of the missing days? Or am I still uneasy from my discovery of the bloody tissues, which I’ve stuffed in a Ziploc bag in my dresser drawer, in case... in case, I’m not sure what?
Outside Erling’s office, I press the bell, and hear the faint click of the door unlocking. I push it open and step into the foyer, a space featuring two straight-backed chairs, a small table with copies ofTimeandThe Atlantic, and, on the floor, the de rigeur white noise machine. Despite its whir, I’m able to detect the low murmur of voices comingfrom the other side of the inside door. I’m early, and Erling must be finishing up with the patient ahead of me.
Though it’s going to be impossible to relax, I take a seat and grab a magazine. I flip aimlessly through the pages, my eyes never resting on a single word.
The inner door quietly swings open. Out of courtesy to the other patient, I keep my eyes lowered, though I can tell from the shoes that it’s a man. He departs, and I wait a few minutes more until Dr. Erling opens the door again. Finally, it’s my turn.
She greets me warmly and beckons me in. From her appearance and the research I’ve done online, I’ve surmised she’s in her mid- to late forties. She’s an attractive woman, with shoulder-length auburn hair and deep brown eyes, though a sharp nose detracts from her being classically beautiful.
I settle myself into the same spot I’ve sat in on my other visits—a wide, nubby gray armchair directly across from hers. Erling waits for me to get comfortable before she takes her seat. She’s wearing a navy pencil skirt today, paired with a satiny ivory-colored blouse, and as she crosses one leg over the other, I notice her classy, pointy-toe navy pumps.
“Ally, I’m eager to hear more about your experience,” she says, “but please tell me first how you’re feeling at the moment.”
“Right this second, things feel fairly normal,” I tell her honestly. “But I’m really anxious—about losing my memory—and beyond that, I’m worried it might happen again.”
“Have you ever experienced anything like this before?”
“Never,” I say without hesitating. “And I can’t make sense of why it’s happenednow. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m a pretty together person. I’m comfortable with who I amand can’t imagine why I’d want to detach from this identity. And there weren’t any warning signs, at least that I noticed. My best friend told me I’ve been a little distracted lately, but that’s the only thing I can think of.”
“And do you feel fully present now? In the moment?”
“Right now, yes.”
“Do you have any sense that you’re standing outside your body? Watching yourself from a distance?”
“No, nothing like that.” I make a mental note of what she’s said, though, realizing that such a sensation must be a red flag. “Other than being totally drained, I feel like myself. But I have no clue where I was or what I was doing for two whole days. And I’m freaking out about it.”
“That’s a totally normal reaction, Ally.” She leans forward a little, her expression sympathetic. “Not remembering what happened to you is very unsettling. But we’re going to do a bit of detective work here and see if we can start piecing things together.”
