This question seems even more far-fetched than the first. I’m not even aware of who the people in my lifeare, let alone who I’d want to harm.
“No, no one.”
She has me fill out admission papers and then says she’s going to give me two printed screening tests. They’re attached to the clipboard, which she hands me. I rest it on my lap, on top of the bedsheet, and scan through questions and multiple-choice answers like, “I was very worried or scared about a lot of things in my life... never; a few times; sometimes; often; constantly.”
“But how do I answer these?”
“What do you mean, Ally?”
“I only know what my life is like this morning. I don’t know anything from before now.”
“Of course, then, just with regard to this morning.”
I lower my gaze to the paper and for a moment my attention drifts to the sheet covering my legs. An image blooms in my mind. I’m sitting on a big white sofa with a laptop resting on my thighs. It’s a sofa in my apartment, I feel sure.
“I’m a writer,” I announce to Evelyn, my eyes pricking with tears. “I work out of my apartment sometimes.”
“That’s good, Ally,” she says.
A split second later, another image trips over the first. I’m standing at a window on a high floor, coffee mug in hand, staring at Manhattan stretched out before me. It’s a stunning view, lots of sky and silvery buildings, and I’m smiling. I turn to say something to someone sitting behind me. A man.
“I live by Lincoln Center,” I blurt out this time. “In—in the West Sixties.”
“Very good. Anything else?”
My brain is trying to claw its way out from a landslide.
“No, nothing else,” I say, feeling desperate again.
“Try to relax. Let things come on their own.”
And then, as if by magic, more images appear, slowly at first and then in rapid succession, flooding my mind. With my words tumbling over one another, I share each new detail with Evelyn. She scribbles them down quickly—is she fearful they might vanish again? Soon, it’s no longer a collection of fragments but something that seems whole, like a tapestry.Me.
I’m a personal finance journalist, I tell her. I write a monthly column, give talks, host a weekly podcast. I’m working on a book called... it’s tentatively called25 Money Rules You Should Always Ignore. I spend part of the week in a communal work space, though I used to hold a key position at Greenbacks, the company I showed up at this morning. I grew up in Millerstown, New Jersey. My mother’s dead but my father, a retired pediatrician, is still alive. I have two half brothers, Quinn and Roger.
And I’m married toHugh. Hugh Buckley. Loving husband, lawyer, runner, Civil War history buff, Monopoly champion, Boston born and raised, and Ivy League graduate—though there’s nothing entitled-seeming about him. Our wedding was three years ago, and we spent our honeymoon in the Seychelles.
My god, Hugh. Whereishe?
“Do you know if they’ve made contact with my husband yet?” I say to Evelyn.
“I know they’ve been trying, but let me check again now.”
As soon as she departs, the tears that have been welling in my eyes spill over, wetting the paper scrubs. I have my life back.
Evelyn returns five minutes later. “We’ve reached your husband’s office,” she reports, “but he’s been out on business most of the morning, and they haven’t been able to get through to him yet.”
I squint, trying to remember what Hugh said about what he had planned for today. But I’m drawing a blank. In fact, I still don’t remember anything about the hours before showing up at Greenbacks—getting dressed, or saying good-bye to Hugh, or traveling downtown. And I still don’t have any clue why I went there.
What I need to do, I suddenly realize, is to split and sort this out with my own doctor and therapist, people I’m familiar with. Maybe I should even have further tests.
“Since you can’t reach my husband, it seems like the best idea is for me to head home on my own now,” I volunteer. “I don’t have keys, but our concierge can let me into the apartment.”
Evelyn’s eyes widen slightly.
“I know you’re eager to be home, Ally, but it’s essential for you to have someone accompany you. And it’s also important that you be examined by Dr. Agarwal. Let me see how long it will be before he can speak to you.”
So that’s the bottom line: there’s no way they’re giving me back my clothes and letting me out of here unless I’m accompanied.
