An Anonymous Girl

by Greer Hendricks

I give her a big hug so she doesn’t see my eyes fill. “You are,” I whisper.

  After my aunt Helen has served the pumpkin and pecan pies, the guys head to the living room to watch the game, and the women decamp to the kitchen for cleanup. It’s another ritual.

  “Ugh, I’m so full I’m going to barf,” my cousin Shelly moans as she untucks her blouse.

  “Shelly!” Aunt Helen admonishes.

  “It’s your fault, Mom. The food was great.” Shelly winks at me.

  I reach for a dish towel as Becky brings in the plates, carefully setting them down in a row on the counter. Aunt Helen redid her kitchen a few years ago, replacing the Formica with granite.

  My mom starts to scrub the platters that Aunt Helen carries in from the dining room. My cousin Gail, Shelly’s sister, is eight months pregnant. She plops down on a chair at the kitchen table with a theatrical sigh, then drags over another chair so she can put her feet up. Somehow Gail always manages to avoid cleanup, but for once she has a reasonable excuse.

  “Sooo . . . tomorrow night everyone’s getting together at the Brewster,” Shelly says as she scoops leftover stuffing into a Tupperware container. By everyone, she means our high school classmates who are having an informal reunion.

  “Guess who’s going to be there?” She pauses.

  Does she really want me to start guessing?

  “Who?” I finally ask.

  “Keith. He’s separated.”

  I can barely remember which football player he was.

  Shelly isn’t interested in him for herself; she got married a year and a half ago. I’d bet twenty bucks that by next year, she’ll be the one with her feet up.

  Shelly and Gail look at me expectantly. Gail is rubbing slow circles on her stomach.

  My phone vibrates in the pocket of my skirt.

  “Sounds fun,” I say. “You’re going to be our designated driver, right, Gail?”

  “Like hell,” Gail says. “I’m going to be in a tub reading Us Weekly.”

  “Are you dating anyone in New York?” Shelly asks.

  My phone vibrates a second time, which it always does when I don’t immediately open a text.

  “No one serious,” I say.

  Her tone is sugary: “It must be tough to compete with all those beauti­ful models.”

  Gail inherited her blond hair and passive-aggressiveness from Aunt Helen, who chimes in quickly.

  “Don’t put off having kids for too long,” she says. “I bet someone is eager for grandchildren!”

  Usually my mother lets Aunt Helen’s digs slide, but now I can almost feel her bristle. Maybe it’s because she was drinking again at dinner.

  “Jess is so busy with all those Broadway shows,” my mom says. “She’s enjoying having a career before she settles down.”

  Whether my mom is defending me or herself with the exaggeration i sn’t clear.

  Our conversation is interrupted when Gail’s husband, Phil, wanders in. “Just going to grab a few beers,” he says, opening the refrigerator.

  “Nice,” Shelly says. “Aren’t you lucky, getting to sit around and watch the game and drink while we women clean up.”

  “You really want to be watching the football game, Shel?” he says.

  She bats her hand at him. “Get out of here, you.”

  I’m trying to feign interest in the discussion of whether yellow is the right color palette for Gail’s nursery when I give up and excuse myself. I go to the bathroom and slip my phone out of my pocket.

  The overly sweet aroma of the gingerbread-scented candle burning on the sink counter almost makes me gag.

  Across the screen is a new text from an unfamiliar number:

  Excuse me if I am intruding on your holiday. This is Dr. Shields. Are you in town this weekend? If so, I would like to schedule another session with you. Let me know your availability

  I read the text twice.

  I can’t believe Dr. Shields has reached out to me directly.

  I thought the study was only a two-part thing, but maybe I misun­derstood. If Dr. Shields wants me for more sessions, it could mean a lot more money.

  I wonder if Dr. Shields texted because Ben has the day off. It is Thanksgiving after all. Maybe Dr. Shields is in his home office, getting in a bit of work while his wife bastes the turkey and his grandkids set the table. He could be so committed to his job that he finds it hard to turn off, kind of like the way I’m beginning to find it difficult to stop think­ing about moral issues.

  A lot of the young women doing this survey would probably love the chance to go back for more sessions. I wonder why Dr. Shields chose me.

  My bus ticket back to the city is for Sunday morning. My parents would be disappointed if I left early, even if I told them it was for a big job.

  I don’t reply yet. Instead, I tuck the phone back in my pocket and open the bathroom door.

  Phil is standing there.

  “Sorry,” I say, and try to squeeze past him in the narrow hallway. I can smell the beer on his breath when he leans closer to me. Phil went to high school with us, too. He and Gail have been together since he was in twelfth grade and she was in tenth.

  “I heard Shelly wants to set you up with Keith,” he says.

  I give a little laugh, wishing he’d move aside and stop blocking my path.

  “I’m not really interested in Keith,” I say.

  “Yeah?” He leans closer. “You’re too good for him.”

  “Uh, thanks,” I say.

  “You know, I always had a thing for you.”

  I freeze. His eyes lock on to mine.

  His wife is eight months pregnant. What is he doing?

  “Phil!” Gail calls from the kitchen. Her words shatter the silence. “I’m tired. We need to get going.”

  He finally steps aside and I hurry past him, hugging the wall.

  “See you tomorrow, Jess,” he says, just before he shuts the bathroom door.

  I pause at the end of the hallway.

  My wool sweater suddenly feels itchy and I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I don’t know if it’s from the pungent candle or Phil’s flirtation. The feeling isn’t unfamiliar; it’s why I left home years ago.

  I make my way to the back porch.

  As I stand outside and gulp in the cold air, my fingers reach into my pocket and feel for the smooth plastic encasing my phone.

  My parents are going to run out of money eventually. I should stock­pile as much of it as I can now. And if I turn Dr. Shields down, maybe he’ll find another subject, one with more flexibility.

  Even I recognize that I’m coming up with too many rationalizations.

  I pull out my phone and respond to Dr. Shields: Anytime Sat or Sun works great for me.

  Almost immediately, I see the three dots that mean he is writing a response. A moment later, I read it: Wonderful. You are confirmed for noon on Saturday. Same location.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Saturday, November 24

  You have no idea how eagerly your third session has been anticipated, Subject 52.

  You look as lovely as ever, but your manner is subdued. After you enter Room 214, you slowly slip out of your coat and place it on the back of your chair. It hangs unevenly, but you don’t adjust it. You sit down heavily and hesitate before you touch the Enter key to begin.

  Were you lonely on Thanksgiving, too?

  Once the first query appears and you open your thoughts, your true nature asserts itself and you grow more animated.

  You are learning to enjoy the process, aren’t you?

  When the fourth question emerges, your fingers move across the keyboard swiftly. Your posture is excellent. You do not fidget. This all indicates that you have especially strong and clear feelings on this par­ticular subject.

  You see your friend’s fiancé kiss another woman a week before the wed­ding. Do you tell her?

  What I’d do is this, you type. I’d confront him and say that he has 24 hours to confess, or
I’ll tell her myself. It would be one thing if he were with his buddies at a bachelor party at a strip club and he put a twenty in a G-string. A lot of guys do that sort of stuff for show. But outside of a situation like that, there isn’t any excuse. I couldn’t look the other way and pretend I didn’t see it. Because if a guy cheats once, you know he’s going to do it again.

  After you write those words, you stop typing, hit Enter, and wait for the next question.

  It doesn’t immediately appear.

  A minute passes.

  Is everything okay? You type.

  Another minute passes.

  A response is crafted: Just a moment, please.

  You look puzzled, but you nod.

  Your answer is absolute: It seems you believe humans are incapable of reshaping their innate natures, even when their urges lead to pain and destruction.

  Your furrowed brow and slightly narrowed eyes illustrate the depth of your convictions.

  Because if a guy cheats once, you know he’s going to do it again.

  You are waiting for the next question. But it isn’t forthcoming.

  Your responses have formed an unexpected connection; when linked together, they create an epiphany.

  The vital lines in your previous answers are reviewed:

  I’m not looking for a serious relationship. You typed this in your second session.

  You twist around and peer at the clock on the wall behind you, then you look toward the door. From every angle, you are enchanting.

  I hope it’s okay if I break the rules. You wrote these words before you confided that this study is reshaping your relationship with your own morality.

  You fiddle with the silver stacking rings on your index finger as you frown at the computer screen. This is one of your habits when you are being thoughtful, or experiencing anxiety.

  I really need money, you wrote in your first session.

  Something extraordinary is occurring.

  It is as though you are now guiding the study into a different realm. You, the young woman who wasn’t supposed to be a part of it at all.

  You are presented with two more questions. They are out of se­quence, but you won’t know this.

  You reply to them both confidently. Flawlessly.

  The final query you will receive today is one no other subject will ever see.

  It has been developed expressly for you.

  When it appears, your eyes widen as they fly across the screen.

  Answer it one way, and you will walk out of this room and you won’t return.

  But if you answer it another way, the possibilities are endless; you could become a pioneer in the field of psychological research.

  It is a gamble, posing this query.

  You are worth the risk.

  You don’t reply immediately. You push back your chair and stand up.

  Then you disappear.

  Your footsteps rap against the linoleum floor. You briefly come into view, then you vanish again.

  You are pacing.

  Now the roles have been upended: You are the one causing a delay. You are also the one who will decide whether this study will undergo a metamorphosis.

  You return to your seat and lean forward. Your eyes flit across the screen as you read the question once more.

  Would you consider expanding your participation in this study? The compensation would be significantly higher, but significantly more would be asked of you.

  Slowly, you lift your hands and begin to type.

  I’ll do it.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Saturday, November 24

  Everything started off the same for my third session: Ben waiting in the lobby in a navy V-neck sweater. The empty classroom. A laptop on a desk in the first row, the words Welcome Back, Subject 52 floating on the screen.

  I was almost looking forward to answering Dr. Shields’s questions this afternoon; maybe it was the possibility of unloading my tangled feelings after my visit home.

  But toward the end of the session, things got weird.

  Right after I answered the question about a guy cheating on his fiancée, there was this long pause, and the tone of the queries changed. I can’t say exactly how, the next two just felt different. I’d come to ex­pect writing about things I could relate to or experiences I’d had. Those final questions seemed like the big, philosophical type you’d get on a civics exam. They required some thought to answer, but I didn’t have to dig deep into painful memories, like Dr. Shields often wants me to.

  Should a punishment always fit the crime?

  And then:

  Do victims have the right to take retribution into their own hands?

  Right before I left, I had to wrestle with the decision of whether to take the study to the next level. Significantly more would be asked of you, Dr. Shields wrote. It sounded kind of ominous.

  What did Dr. Shields mean? I tried to ask him. His reply appeared on my computer screen, just like his questions always do. He simply wrote that he’d explain next Wednesday if I could meet him in person.

  I finally decided the extra money was too tempting to turn down.

  Still, as I head home, I can’t stop wondering what he has planned.

  I’m not going to be stupid about all of this, I tell myself as I fasten Leo’s leash and head toward the 6BC Botanical Garden. It’s one of my favorite neighborhood walks in Alphabet City, and a good place to think.

  Dr. Shields wants to meet me in person. He gave me a different ad­dress than the NYU classroom, though. He told me to come to a place on East Sixty-second Street.

  I don’t know if it’s his office, or his apartment. Or something else entirely.

  Leo pulls sharply on his leash, jerking me toward his favorite tree. I realize I’ve just been standing there.

  I see a neighbor approach with her toy poodle. I quickly lift my phone to my ear and pretend to be involved in a conversation as she passes. I can’t engage in a casual conversation with her now.

  There are always stories about young women in the city who get lured into dangerous situations. I pass their faces on the cover of the New York Post, and receive alerts on my phone when there’s a violent crime in my borough.

  It’s not like I don’t take calculated risks; I walk into unfamiliar homes and locations every day for my job, and I’ve gone home with guys I’ve barely met.

  But this feels different.

  I haven’t told anyone about this study; Dr. Shields designed it that way. He knows an awful lot about me, yet I know virtually nothing about him.

  Maybe, though, there’s a way I can find out.

  We’ve just made it to the garden, but I give Leo a gentle tug and we head back to the apartment, my stride quicker than it was at the begin­ning of the walk.

  It’s time to turn the tables. Now I’m going to do some probing of my own.

  I pop the cap off a Sam Adams, reach for my MacBook, and sit down on my futon. Although I don’t know his first name, it should be easy enough to narrow down the various Dr. Shieldses in New York City by adding “research” and “psychiatry” as Google search terms.

  Immediately, dozens of hits appear. The first one that comes up is a professional article about ethical ambiguity in familial relationships. So that part of his story fits.

  I move my mouse toward the images link.

  I need to see a picture of the man who knows everything from where I live to the details of my last sexual encounter.

  I hesitate before clicking on it.

  I’ve imagined Dr. shields as I want him to be, wise and grand-fatherly, with kind eyes. That image is so concrete it’s hard to envision him any other way.

  But the truth is, I was projecting onto a blank canvas.

  He could be anyone.

  I click the mouse.

  Then I recoil and suck in my breath.

  My immediate thought is that I’ve made a mistake.

  Images bloom across my screen, filling it like a mosai
c.

  My eyes barely alight on one before another photograph pulls my gaze away, then another.

  I read the captions to double-check, then I gape at the biggest im­age on the screen.

  Dr. Shields is nothing like the portly professor I’ve imagined.

  Dr. Shields, Dr. Lydia Shields, is one of the most strikingly beautiful women I’ve ever seen.

  I lean forward, drinking in her long, strawberry-blond hair and creamy skin. She’s maybe in her late thirties. There’s a cool elegance to her chiseled features.

  It’s difficult to look away from her light blue eyes. They’re mesmerizing.

  Even through a picture, it feels like they see me.

  I don’t know why I assumed she was male. Thinking back, I realize Ben only called her “Dr. Shields. The way I incorrectly pictured her probably says something about me.

  I finally click on an image, a full-length one. She stands on a stage, holding a microphone with her left hand. She appears to be wearing a diamond wedding band. Her silky blouse is paired with a fitted skirt and heels so high I can’t imagine standing in them even for the duration of a walk to the stage, let alone for a speech. Her neck is long and grace­ful, and no amount of contouring can create the kind of cheekbones she possesses.

  She looks like the type of woman who lives in a very different world from the one I inhabit, scrambling for jobs and flattering customers to get a bigger tip.

  I believed I knew the person I was writing to: a thoughtful, compas­sionate man. But learning Dr. Shields is a woman causes me to rethink all of the questions.

  And all of my answers.

  What does this flawless-looking woman think about my messy life?

  My cheeks grow warm as I remember casually describing lap dances and G-strings at a bachelor party when I answered the question about what I’d do if I saw a friend’s fiancé kiss another woman. My grammar wasn’t always perfect when I wrote my answers, and I didn’t phrase things carefully.

  Yet she was kind to me. She pushed me to reveal things I never talk about, and she comforted me.

  She wasn’t repelled by anything I confessed; she invited me back. She wants to meet me, I remind myself.

  I zoom in on the photograph, noticing for the first time that Dr. Shields is smiling slightly as she holds the microphone to her lips.