“Okay,” I say pleasantly, realizing it’s in my best interest to act compliant.
Evelyn smiles and promises to be back soon, but it’s Dr. Agarwal who shows up instead. He’s carrying a clipboard of his own, thick with pages. He’s in his mid- to late forties and has wavy black hair and deep brown eyes.
“Ben Agarwal,” he says, shaking my hand. “So sorry for the delay, Ms. Linden. I’m sure this has been a harrowing day for you.”
“Ally, please. And yes, itwasscary earlier, but fortunately I’m much better now.”
“Has anything like this ever happened to you before?”
“No, never. Not even close.”
“Ms. Capron said that things have been coming back to you. What have you begun to remember?”
“Pretty much everything.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Can you tell me your mother’s maiden name?”
“Hemmings.”
“And can you tell me what year it is and who the US president is?”
I rattle off the answers and throw in a few extra newsy facts as backup.
He smiles and thumbs through a couple of pages on the clipboard.
“You said pretty much everything came back. What’s still missing?”
“Just what happened very early this morning, really. I don’t recall getting up or leaving my apartment—or why I ended up at an office I haven’t worked at in five years.”
“Where would you ordinarily go first thing in the morning?”
“Generally to WorkSpace on West Fifty-Fifth Street. It’s a coworking setup where I have a small office. But lately I’ve been working at home a lot. I’m under deadline for a book I’m writing, and it’s quieter there.”
“What about last night? What do you recall about the evening?”
I look off, trying to summon the details.
“That part’s a little fuzzy actually,” I admit. “I know my husband and I had dinner at home. I’m sure he’ll be able to fill in the gaps when he arrives—though they seem to be having trouble finding him.”
“I have good news on that front. His office was able to reach him at his appointment a few minutes ago, and he’s headed here now from Connecticut.”
My sense of relief is diluted by frustration. Hugh must be at least an hour away, and so it’s up to me to take as much control of the situation as possible.
“I know I don’t have any obvious signs of a head injury,” I say. “But it seems that something along those lines must have happened to me. It was raining this morning—maybe I slipped and fell on the street.”
Agarwal purses his lips briefly, and I can tell he’s not buying it.
“A severe concussion can cause amnesia, but it usually involves forgetting events just prior to the injury—anywhere from a few minutes beforehand to a few days. In your case, you were missing big chunks of your identity. It seems what you actually experienced was what we call a dissociative state.”
“Dissociative?” I say, feeling myself frown in confusion. “What does that mean exactly?”
“In layman’s terms, it’s an involuntary escape from reality. It’s generally characterized by a disconnection between thoughts, identity, and memory—meaning you have difficulty recalling important information about who you are and events in your life.”
He’s reeled this off calmly enough, like he’s telling me I’ve slipped a disc or popped a blood vessel, but his words make my breath catch. How could something like this have happened tome?
“But that makes no sense,” I tell him. “I’ve never felt disconnected from my thoughts in any way.” Before I can chicken out, I ask him the terrifying question that’s been at the front of my mind. “Could—could it happen again?”
“Unfortunately, yes. A person can experience multiple episodes throughout his or her life. That’s why it’s key to determine the trigger.”
