I nod gratefully, as tears well in my eyes.
“Tell me about the last thing you remember from this week,” she says.
I ease into my chair a little and take a deep breath, as if mentally rolling up my sleeves. I tell her about working Monday afternoon and later eating take-out food with Hugh but admit I have no recollection of the fight, even the start of it. I also share what Hugh revealed about my call to him and the charge on my credit card for food, and wrap up with my disastrous morning at Greenbacks.
Though Erling generally doesn’t take many notes during a session, she jots a few down today. During the brief momentsher eyes leave mine, I scan the office. It’s attractive, decorated in pleasant shades of blue and gray, but I actually prefer her Larchmont office—with its cinnamon-colored couch and cream-colored walls and curtains. Maybe that space feels more inviting because it’s part of her home, a room that I suspect also serves as her study.
“What type of tests did they perform in the ER?” she asks, glancing up again.
“Blood and urine, which turned up nothing. A few cognitive tests. They didn’t do any kind of head x-ray because they said I had no signs of a concussion. Though it’s weird—this morning I found tissues with dried blood in my coat pocket.”
“But you didn’t have any cuts or bruises?”
“No, so I wonder if I might have had a nosebleed. Maybe from getting hit in the face somehow? I used to get those when I was playing sports in school—when someone whacked me by mistake with a hockey stick or an elbow. And... sometimes they used to happen all on their own. When I was upset—or stressed out.”
Erling silently holds my gaze, as if waiting for me to elaborate.
“Part of me wishes Iwasbumped in the nose,” I tell her. “If my amnesia occurred because of a physical trauma, it would make it so much easier to understand. I can’t believe this is all because of the argument with Hugh.”
“Tell me what it’s been like when you and Hugh fought in the past.”
“We’ve always been civilized, though Hugh claimed I was pretty angry this time.”
“During our last session, you said that Hugh promised to give you some breathing room, that you could put the baby discussion on hold for a while.”
“I know, so the fact that he brought it up again must have made me feel really under the gun. And that’s exactly when the memory loss began.”
Erling cocks her head. “With a dissociative state,” she says, “memory loss doesn’t necessarily begin at the exact moment of a trauma. It can actually encompass a period of time prior to a traumatic event.”
I take a second to digest the information.
“So the fight mightnothave been the trigger?”
“Maybe not. Or it could have been one of a series of triggers. So we need to consider other possible sources of stress or trauma. I’d like to hear about the place you went to yesterday morning, the company you used to work for. What does it mean to you?”
Sigh. I knew we’d get here sooner or later.
I give her a brief overview of Greenbacks: it’s a website offering a ton of posts on personal finance topics, but there are other services, too, like individual money management handled totally online. I explain I worked there for more than four years, first as an editor, then as chief content officer—and that overall, I really enjoyed it. My coworkers were smart and interesting, and I found the work exciting. But since I’d always had a desire to make a name as a personal finance expert, I started working on my own about five years ago.
“I really don’t have any idea why I went back there,” I add, knowing that’s what she’s really wondering. “The friends I made have moved on, too... but there’s one thing I shouldmention. When I worked at Greenbacks, I was involved romantically with the founder and CEO, Damien Howe.”
“This man was married?” she says. Her expression still gives nothing away, though I swear her eyes widen almost imperceptibly.
“Definitely not. We were both single at the time. But he was my boss—and we kept it a secret from the other employees.”
“How do you feel about the relationship in retrospect?”
“Well, I never felt taken advantage of, if that’s what you mean. I was in my late twenties, already in a big job there, and he wasn’t all that much older, so it wasn’t some kind of crazy power imbalance. I was in love with him. I was. And I think he was in love withme. But once it became clear that some of my colleagues were on to us, I decided we should cool it for a while... for both our sakes. And he agreed... but then we never got back together.”
She waits, and when I don’t fill the silence, she asks how I felt about it ending.
“There were no repercussions,” I say. “This was never a hashtagmetoo thing. But I was confused—and hurt, too. Like I said, I thought we were only on hiatus. I figured I’d find a job elsewhere or accelerate my plan to go freelance, and then we could start seeing each other again. But he seemed to, I don’t know, lose interest.”
The room suddenly seems so quiet. Her office is only on the seventh floor of the building, but there isn’t even a hint of the traffic below.
“Can you describe your feelings for Damien now?” she asks.
“I swear I don’t have any. I can’t even tell you the last time I thought about him.”
