Have You Seen Me?

by Kate White

  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 yesterday is 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

  I arrive 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 of Time and The Atlantic, and, on the floor, the de rigeur white noise machine. Despite its whir, I’m able to detect the low murmur of voices coming from 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 happened now. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m a pretty together person. I’m comfortable with who I am and 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.”

  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 moments her 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 I was bumped 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 might not have 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 should mention. 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 with me. 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.”

  Her right eyebrow shoots up, fast as a knee tapped with a reflex hammer. She’s not hiding her reaction this time.

  “You look surprised,” I say.

  “I am. It’s common for a person to hold on to some feelings for someone he or she was in love with once. It’s perfectly normal, even if you’re happily married now. It’s even normal to check up on a former partner, particularly on the internet.”

  I find myself shrugging. “Okay, I have thought about him at times, and I used to google him now and again. But it’s honestly been ages since I did that. I have no clue whatsoever why I would go to Greenbacks. And I definitely don’t think I’m holding any residual stress related to Damien or the company.”

  Erling taps a finger to her lips. She’s wearing a rose-colored lipstick that I’ve been too preoccupied to notice until now.

  “In our earlier sessions, we’d been discussing the experience you had when you were nine. How do you think that may be playing into what’s happened this week?”

  “Oh god,” I say, pressing my hands to my face. I knew we would get here, too. What I failed to tell the doctor yesterday was that my decision to see Erling wasn’t based only on my family-planning discussions. I’ve been worried that my ambivalence is related to this—this thing that happened to me years ago, and I knew I needed to talk it through with a professional. From the moment Dr. Agarwal used the phrase “trauma from the past,” I’ve been nagged by the idea that something that happened twenty-five years ago might also play a role in my current nightmare.

  I lower my hands. “Do you think talking about it with you churned everything up and made me detach from myself?”

  “What do you think, Ally?” That’s something she often does, throw my question back at me.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Like I told you before, I certainly don’t feel haunted by it every day. My parents were so supportive—staying home from work in the days after, even sending me to a therapist. But parts of that day are still confusing to me. Everybody seemed to be talking in hushed tones, and I wasn’t always sure what was going on.”

  “Have you been thinking a lot about that event?”

  “Yes,” I say and realize that I’m wringing my hands. “You—you said during another session that it might help for me to see if my brother Roger remembers anything about the episode. In light of everything this week, I think I need to do that.”

  “I’m not sure this is the right moment for that. But I think we need to return to the topic during the next session, when we have more time to focus on it.”

  “Okay.” I glance at my watch and discover to my shock that the session is almost over. “But I still haven’t remembered anything.”

  “It’s going to take time, Ally.” She crosses one leg over the other. “I’m curious. What were you doing when most of your memory returned at the hospital?”

  “Filling out some forms. It sounds kind of crazy, but when I glanced down at the white sheet on the bed, I suddenly had an image of our living room—we have a white sofa and white walls. And then things all came back in a tumble.”

  “That’s important to note. It often helps jog a memory when you stop pushing your brain so hard. Give it a chance to work on its own. Like I said, it can take time for these memories to surface.”

  I nod, realizing she’s making perfect sense.

  “And I think it’s best for you to take things very easy this weekend. With a dissociative state, the body has separated from the mind, so use your mind to stay as much in touch with your body as possible. Savor the food you eat. Do some yoga every day, really letting yourself engage with the positions. And I often recommend that patients keep cinnamon Altoids with them.”

  “Altoids?”

  “Yes, if you really concentrate on the flavor, it can help you be aware of your body and physical sensations. If you start to feel stressed or detached in any way, practice the breathing technique we talked about a few weeks ago, and of course, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “And I’ll see you next Wednesday—at our usual time?”

  “In light of your situation, Ally, I’d like to see you twice a week for now. Does that work for you?” I nod, and she grabs her calendar. “I have an opening at three on Monday, here in the city.”

  “That’s fine,” I say, relieved to think I’ll be coming more frequently. “Thank you.”

  “And if it’s doable on your end, let’s move your regular appointment to Thursdays so the sessions are evenly spaced.”

  “That works, too.”

  As Erling accompanies me to the door, I steal a glance at my watch, part of me certain that fifty minutes couldn’t have passed. But they have. I’m on my own again.

  Standing in the corridor, I order an Uber and then, while waiting for the elevator, mentally catalog the takeaways from the session, a little habit I initiated after my first visit with Erling:

  Not pushing myself may make it easier for the memories to return.

  The fugue state might not be related to the fight with Hugh.

  It could, however, be related to what happened in Millerstown. To me. And to Jaycee Long—the little girl I found murdered in the woods so many years ago.

  9

  As the Uber driver zigzags west and north toward the Central Park–Seventy-Ninth Street transverse, I realize I feel even more wired than I did before the session. Jittery, unable to stop gnawing on my thumb. Or keep a zillio
n questions from ricocheting in my head.

  My agitation, I realize, is due in part to my returning home empty-handed. On some level I’d allowed myself to believe that the session today would be a magic bullet, kick-starting my memory. But as Erling stressed, it might take time for memories to be recovered. Did she mean days? I wonder. Or weeks? I can’t stand the thought of being in the dark for so long.

  There’s something else eating at me, too. The memory of Jaycee Long refuses to loosen its grip on me.

  It’s not as if I didn’t obtain all the help I needed at the time. I had six months’ worth of weekly sessions with a child psychologist, an intent listener who for some reason always wore a shawl pinned around the shoulders of her blazer.

  And it wasn’t as if the bad thing had really happened to me. I was simply a bystander, a nine-year-old who took a shortcut through the woods on her way home from school, kicking at leaves until her foot came into contact with something it shouldn’t have.

  The body of a two-year-old toddler whose skull had been fractured.

  I swear that for the past couple of decades, I haven’t really thought much about Jaycee. It was only recently that memories of finding her bubbled up in my mind, making me wonder if that early episode was somehow squelching my desire to be a mother.

  Since Erling wants to circle back to the topic in our next session, it’s clear to me that she’s also wondering if the experience triggered my fugue state.

  My pulse is racing, and I command my mind to go elsewhere. I have to follow Erling’s instructions, do my best to keep stress at bay. That also means giving my brain a chance to recuperate and arrive at the truth at its own pace.

  Hugh calls when I’m ten minutes into the ride. “How did it go?”

  “Okay, I guess. We weren’t able to trigger any memories, but she gave me a few exercises for stress.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing.”

  “By the way, I ended up with a good recommendation for a neurologist at NewYork-Presbyterian. I made an appointment for midday next Wednesday. I wish it was sooner, but that’s the earliest they could squeeze you in.”