HAVE YOU SEEN ME?
Kate White

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the United States by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

This edition published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Kate White 2020

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com (background image); Mark Owen / Trevillion Images (woman)

Kate White asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008427238

Ebook Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008427245

Version: 2020-08-10

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Acknowledgments

Praise for Kate White’s Novels

About the Author

Also by Kate White

About the Publisher

1

As soon as I step off the elevator, something seems weird to me, off-kilter or unaligned—like a friend forcing a smile when she’s secretly livid with you.

Staring through the large glass doors at the end of the corridor, I realize that it’s dark inside the office and that no one else is here yet. That must be what’s throwing me off.

I pull my wrist through the sleeve of my trench coat and check my watch. It’s 8:05. For the first time since I’ve been at the company, I’ve beaten everyone in.

My gaze runs up my sleeve, and I suddenly notice how wet I am. What had felt like a drizzle outside was clearly heavier rain than that, and my coat’s soaked. Shoes, too. When I touch my head, I feel my hair plastered to my scalp.

And then, to make everything worse, I fumble in my pocket for my key card and discover it’s not there. Shit. I’ve either lost it or left it at home. My assistant has never been a morning person—there’s no chance of her showing up before nine. And the earliest the office manager, Caryn, will surface is probably eight thirty. I’ve got almost thirty minutes to kill.

I knead my forehead with my fingers, trying to decide what to do. I could trudge over to a café at Twenty-Second and Broadway. But I hate the thought of sitting there in my wet shoes, feeling the squishy leather pluck at my feet. And the trips there and back will do nothing for my appearance, which I’m sure is disheveled enough as it is.

Then, miraculously, I hear the elevator door slide open, and as I pivot, a young Asian guy in a black hooded sweatshirt steps off, carrying his phone in one hand and shaking out a collapsible umbrella with the other. It takes a second before he looks up from his screen and registers my presence. He must be brand-new at Greenbacks, because I’ve never seen him before.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. He’s looking at me as if my mouth’s started to foam. Hasn’t he ever seen anyone undone by the weather before?

“I’ve been away and I must have left my key at home today,” I say. “Would you mind letting me in?”

“Um, sure. You are …?”

Does he really not know? “Ally. Ally Linden.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. But it clearly doesn’t ring a bell. He’s definitely new, probably on the tech side, a team I don’t interact with all that often.

He snaps his key card from his wallet, swipes it over the black box, and swings open the door as soon as we hear the click. He motions for me to go first, and without having to look, he thrusts his arm to the right and taps a switch. The front section of the office floods with light, unveiling row after row of empty workstations.

“You all set?” he asks, turning back to me.

“Yes, thanks. You’re …?”

“Nick. Nick Fukuyama.”

“Great. Thanks for your help.”

He’s halfway across the floor, tapping more light switches with a flick of his wrist, when I discover I’m also missing the key to my office, one of the few private ones. I moan in frustration. It’s my first day back and I’m going to have a ton to do. I’ll have to wait for Caryn to unlock my door with her master key once she arrives.

I traipse across the lobby area to the glass-walled conference room and nudge the door open with my hip. After shrugging out of my coat, I drape it on the back of a chair by the wall to dry. I take a seat at the table and kick off my soggy shoes. There’s a pen holder on the table, stuffed tight with Dixon No. 2s—Damien Howe’s favorite brand of pencil—and a stack of pads as well, bearing the Greenbacks logo. I can at least make notes, I decide. A plan for the day, for the week ahead.

It’s hard to focus, though. I feel at loose ends, as if I haven’t acclimated yet from my trip. Through the window, I can see that the rain’s coming down really hard now, driven sideways by the wind so that it lashes the glass, with a sound at times like a train rumbling along the tracks. I notice that my throat feels slightly sore, and there’s a faint, throbbing pain in my temples.

I ignore both and force my attention to the pad. I scribble the words “To Do” across the top of the page. And then a row of question marks. I sense an answer hovering, but the words refuse to form.

The muffled ding of the elevator bell pulls me from my thoughts. Please, let this be Caryn, I pray, but when I look up, I see a woman, wearing a black baseball hat letting herself into the office. I can’t make out her face, but I can tell from the height and the shape that it’s not Caryn. I glance again at my watch. Eight twenty-two. Surely, it won’t be much longer.

I try to refocus on my notes, but seconds later, another noise from the front teases away my attention. I raise my head and spot a shock of blond hair, the sight of which jolts me.

God, that hair. Thick, a little shaggy on the sides, and honey-gold in color. So wildly improbable here in gritty, grungy, hipster-bearded, black-is-the-new-black New York City. Once, riding the train with him to a meeting uptown, I watched as two women jerked their heads in his direction, their eyes widening, as if they’d suddenly found themselves in a subway car with a merman.

Damien Howe is on his phone, talking, nodding in agreement. Striking a deal, maybe. He seems oblivious to everything else, but it’s probably not the case. As long as I’ve known him, he’s always been intensely aware of his environment.

He halts at the wide counter to the right of the entrance, opposite the Pullman-style kitchen, and grabs a coffee capsule. Probably dark roast. He likes his coffee strong and never takes milk or sugar. It’s surprising he doesn’t keep an espresso machine in his office, because that’s what he really prefers, especially the moment he rolls out of bed.

I watch as he waits the few seconds for the coffee to brew, seemingly lost in thought now that the call’s finished. I’ve been so good since we split about not looking at him, stopping myself from searching, sonarlike, for his presence, refusing to think of the body beneath those clothes, the sea-salt smell of his skin that used to make me wonder if he was a merman.

Five months. That’s all it lasted. We were ridiculously careful, betraying not even a hint of flirtation at work. But our coworkers had started to put two and two together. I sensed it before Damien did, conscious of their eyes swinging in slo-mo between us in meetings. Someone, somehow, detected a tell in Damien’s interactions with me that gave us away, like Jason Bourne catching the reflection of an asset in the blade of a butter knife.

Aware that the truth was seeping out, we agreed to cool things between us for the time being, and I put on as good a face as I could. It never restarted. And for weeks, months really, it hurt like hell.

His coffee’s done brewing. He secures a lid on the cup, adjusts the messenger bag that’s strapped over his torso, and turns, clearly bound for his office. I lower my gaze, back to the notepad, but I sense his attention land on me. And soon, out of the corner of my eye, I see him striding in my direction. Oh, lovely. He’s about to be treated to my best impression of a sewer rat.

There’s a whoosh as the door opens, and instinctively I stuff both feet back into my shoes and sit up a bit straighter.

“Ally?” he says.

I glance up, feigning nonchalance. “Morning, Damien.”

He looks serious, possibly even annoyed with me. Has a project of mine blown up while I was gone?

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“I’m sorry. Do you need the room?” That possibility had just occurred to me.

“No, I’m asking why you’re here. At Greenbacks.”

“Today, you mean?” The pulsing in my head intensifies. “It’s my first day back.”

“What are you talking about?” He steps closer, his eyes burrowing into me. “You haven’t worked here in years.”

2

My head’s practically pounding now.

“Damien,” I say. “I-I-I work here. I—”

But even as the words sputter from my lips, I realize they’re not true. I don’t work here. I don’t come to this place anymore. I press a hand to my head, urging alternate images to form in my mind, but I can’t seem to remember where I do work.

My eyes fill with tears. Don’t cry, I think. But a drop plops on the sleek black table.

“Ally, what’s going on?” Damien asks, his voice softening. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you come here to see me?”

I shake my head. The answer’s hopelessly out of reach. I start trembling, shaking, really. When I glance back at Damien, his expression reads as more concerned than cross.

“Let’s go into my office, okay?” he says.

He leads me from the room, abandoning his coffee cup so he can both grasp my arm and open the door. The work area is still mostly empty, with just one woman settled in a cube outside Damien’s office door, possibly the person I saw in the baseball hat. She raises her eyes from beneath a fringe of black hair, curiosity piqued.

He guides me to a chair inside his office and then shoves the door closed. Instead of sitting at his desk, he drags the other visitor chair over next to me.

“Okay, talk to me,” he says, taking a seat. His voice, so cool before, is almost tender now. “You must have come here for a reason. To speak to someone?”

I search the room with my eyes, hoping a clue will miraculously leap into view, but there’s nothing.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a shake of my head, “but I’m not sure how I ended up here. I can’t remember.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry. We can call someone to help you. Where’s your phone?”

“Um, in my purse.” He lowers his gaze to my lap and sees I’m not in possession of one.

“It’s probably in the conference room. Stay here, and I’ll get it.”

When he’s gone, I think as hard as I can, squeezing my head in my hands as if it were dough, but I still can’t picture where I work. Or what I do. Or where I should be at this moment.

It’s only a few seconds before Damien comes hurrying back. I see the woman with the black hair raise her eyes again, managing to monitor his actions without moving her head even an inch.

“It’s not in there,” Damien says, shutting the office door behind him. He remains standing this time. “Could you have left it someplace?”

“I—I don’t know.” My anxiety spikes. If I don’t have my purse, I don’t have my phone. Or my wallet, either.

“Where did you come from just now? From home?”

I stare up at him, not comprehending at first, my heart beginning to hammer.

And then it hits me that I have no sense of that, either—where I was before I arrived or where my home is. There’s a thick, dark curtain between this moment and everything that came before it.

Damien says something else, but I can barely hear him. The outer rings of my vision shrink so that he now looks tiny, like he’s at the end of a peephole. A wave of nausea swells inside me.

I sense myself start to slump in the chair and before I can straighten up, I keel over onto the floor.

3

A loud hum fills my head, and I hear beeping, too.

Then a woman’s voice, talking into a phone or radio. “The patient is currently conscious, but not alert,” she says. “Twelve-lead ECG is unremarkable.” There are other snippets: “BP:120/80 … pulse 100. Blood sugar is 120 … No HX or seizures, unknown medications.”

I force my eyes open to see that I’m in an ambulance on a gurney with my coat and shirt open and little white discs stuck to my chest. I don’t hear a siren, but the lights must be flashing, because I can see their red reflection dancing on the inside walls of the vehicle.

It comes back in a rush. Damien’s office. Not remembering. The dizziness. Blacking out.

Panic bubbles up inside me and then geysers, shooting to the very end of my fingers and toes. I twist my head to the left as far as I’m able to. A dark-haired woman sits next to me on a jump seat, dressed in black pants and a white shirt. Her eyes flick between several monitors on the inside wall of the ambulance.

She catches me looking at her and smiles.

“How you feeling, hon? Any better?”

“A little,” I tell her, but really, I don’t have a clue, not having a baseline to judge it against. “Can you tell me what happened to me?”

“You passed out, and your colleague was having trouble fully reviving you. I did a quick test for hypoglycemia and it came up negative. Do you have any history of that?”

I have a vague memory of my finger being pricked with a needle, back in Damien’s office. I was on the floor, my arms and legs too limp to move.

“Um, not that I’m aware of.”

“Any history of fainting?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

“It’s possible you’re just dehydrated. Your vitals are normal, at least.”

I lift my arm and notice that there’s an IV needle inserted into my vein.

“It’s just saline, to get you hydrated,” she says. “Be careful not to dislodge it.”

“Okay,” I say, grateful to have someone telling me what to do.

“The person who was with you said you were having trouble with your recall this morning. Can you tell me your name?”

“Ally. Ally Linden.”

“And how old are you, Ally?”

“Thirty-four.” I feel a flood of relief that the number spilled from my lips without me even having to think about it.

“Good. Can you tell me where you live—the actual address?”

“I—” This time I fail miserably. I have no idea what my address is. I rake through my mind, desperate for images—of me turning a key, entering an apartment. Nothing.

“That’s okay, just try to stay calm for now,” the paramedic says, her voice gentle.

“Why can’t I remember?” I plead. “Is something wrong with my head?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you to the hospital and they’ll figure it all out. And the colleague who helped you said his office would let the hospital know how to reach your husband.”

The bag of saline jostles as we hit a pothole and I realize I’m shaking, softly at first and then so hard my legs are bouncing.

I don’t remember being married. And I don’t have a single clue as to who my husband might be.

4

If I think too hard about where I am right now, I almost lose it. I have to fight the urge to jump off the bed and take off like a bat out of hell.

I’m in the ER, but not the regular part, where you go for a kidney stone or broken collarbone. I’m in a private room in this section completely removed from the fray. It’s the psych unit. The place for patients who are manic or paranoid or hallucinating out of their minds or dangerous to themselves or others. God, how have I ended up here?

This isn’t where I started the process, though. As soon as the ambulance arrived at the hospital, I was wheeled into the main emergency room. They drew blood and had me give a urine sample, clearly checking for drugs. They also examined my vision, reflexes, and coordination to rule out the possibility of a concussion.

Please let it be as simple as that, I’d prayed. Though there was no obvious bruising, I did have a throbbing headache. As I lay on a bed in a curtained-off area, I tried to summon a muscle memory of my skull smacking against a pointy edge of a cabinet or coffee table. But a coffee table where? I still couldn’t recall a thing about my current life beyond my name and age.

In the end there was nothing to suggest a concussion.

Over time, nurses and physician’s assistants came and went, whisking the faded curtain back and forth with a snap, and I waited, enveloped by sounds of beeping and pinging and gurneys rolling by, my panic ballooning with each passing minute.

“The paramedic said that the hospital was trying to reach someone on my behalf,” I told a nurse at one point. It was too distressing to even say the word husband out loud. “Do you know if they did?”

“Let me check,” she replied, but I never saw her again.

And then after three endless hours, I was told I was being moved for a psychiatric evaluation. Stay totally calm, I warned myself. Do not appear frantic or unhinged. I was sure if I did, it would become like one of those movie scenes in which someone starts screaming over and over that she’s not insane, which only guarantees that everyone believes she is.

I wondered if the psych section would be on a secret floor or hard to access, but the orderly simply wheeled me through a set of automatic doors at the far end of the regular ER, and there I was, like in one of those dreams in which you discover a series of unknown rooms in the house you’ve lived in for years.

I’m alone for now, in a private room, dressed in the paper scrubs they gave me. If I didn’t know better—and couldn’t glimpse the two uniformed guards out in the center area—I’d think I was in the VIP wing of the hospital—freshly painted, uncluttered, and very quiet, since there aren’t any beeping machines or monitors here.

There must be plenty of days, though, when it isn’t hush-hush, when patients are shouting, demanding to be let out.

Just thinking about it makes my breathing shallow. I inhale for four seconds, hold it for four, exhale for four and then do it all over again. Somehow the person I am knows how to take deep relaxing breaths, but doesn’t have a clue who she is.

I’m exhaling again when a woman enters, smiling kindly and carrying a clipboard. She’s fiftysomething, I guess, with a youngish vibe. Her shoulder-length gray hair is flipped a little on the ends, and she’s wearing knee-high brown suede boots beneath her wrap dress.

“Ally, good morning,” she says. “I’m Evelyn Capron, one of the clinicians here. How are you feeling now?”

The answer: Scared shitless. Worried sick. Frantic about being married to someone I can’t even picture.

“Concerned, of course,” I say, as evenly as I can master. “I’m not sure why I’ve lost my memory.”

Evelyn nods, her expression sympathetic. “Dr. Agarwal is going to be in to speak to you very shortly. In the meantime, I need to ask a few questions, just as background.”

“Okay.” But how can I possibly answer? For me, there is no background. Only today.

“Ally, are you feeling any inclination to harm yourself?”

Her question jolts me. I know it must be a routine question in the psych ward, but I can’t possibly fit the profile of a suicidal patient. Can I?

“No.”

“Do you feel any desire to harm someone else?”

This question seems even more far-fetched than the first. I’m not even aware of who the people in my life are, 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 called 25 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 to Hugh. 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. Where is he?

“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.

“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, it was scary 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 to me?

“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.”

“Can something physical trigger it?” Please, I think, don’t let me have a brain tumor.

“Generally, not. The symptoms usually first develop as a response to trauma. It might be physical abuse or sexual abuse, or in certain cases, a military combat injury. It’s the brain’s way of keeping painful memories under control.”

My heart skips. I’ve never been abused or been to war, thankfully, so does that mean something traumatic has happened to me recently? Today, even?

“There’s nothing like that in my life. What—what if I were mugged on my way to work this morning?” I say, as the thought suddenly pops into my mind. “And—that would explain my purse being missing.”

“Do you think having your purse snatched would have been highly traumatic for you?”

“Well,” I respond, managing a smile. “I’m constantly advising people to be smart with their money and not let go of it stupidly—so that probably would have upset me.”

This provokes a chuckle, but his expression quickly turns serious again.

“Tell me again about last night,” he says. “Even if it’s a little fuzzy.”

“Uh, like I said, we ate at home. We’d ordered in. And we watched something on TV. A pretty typical weeknight evening these days.”

“What about earlier in the day? Do you recall anything upsetting or stressful? Something related to your job—or personal life?”

“I’ve been a little stressed about finishing the book I mentioned, but not anything I haven’t experienced before.”

Agarwal says nothing in response but instead studies me quietly, his kind eyes glistening. I can tell he’s waiting for me to elaborate. And then I realize he’s probably wondering if the trauma has to do with my husband, that he might be physically or emotionally abusive. But Hugh’s a great guy—and he’s never been abusive in any way.

“There is one thing that’s been on my mind,” I say. There’s no harm in mentioning it, I decide. “When my husband and I got engaged, we were on the same page about wanting kids one day, but lately I’ve … I’ve had second thoughts. I’m not totally sure anymore, and it’s been, well … it’s been a source of a little friction. But we’re hardly at any kind of crisis point.”

And we’re not.

“Where do things stand at the moment?” Agarwal asks.

“We agreed a few weeks ago to table the discussion for a while. With the pressure off, I feel it’ll be easier for me to make a rational decision. And I’ve started seeing a therapist, someone to talk it over with.

“So it’s stressful but hardly traumatic,” I add, shrugging. “It hardly seems like something that could make me disconnect from my identity.”

Agarwal nods, as if weighing my comment.

“The traumatic event doesn’t have to have happened recently,” he says. “It could be an episode from your past that’s rising to the surface again for some reason.”

I look off again, thinking. Suddenly my lips part as my brain pries something away, like I’m opening an orange or tangerine and the thin white membrane is tearing apart. No, this can’t really be what it’s all about, can it?

I glance back at Agarwal, and the alertness in his eyes intensifies. He knows he’s touched a nerve.

“Is there something that’s been troubling you lately, Ally?” he continues. “Something from your past?”

“Nothing I can think of,” I lie. “At least not off the top of my head.”

5

Agarwal’s expression gives nothing away this time, but I can sense anticipation morphing quickly into resignation below the surface. Though he seems caring and competent, this isn’t something I intend to discuss with him.

He studies me for another minute before speaking. “The therapist you’re seeing. How many sessions have you had so far?”

“Uh, I’ve seen her five or six times.”

“Do you know if your therapist does cognitive behavioral therapy? That’s what is most often recommended in these cases.”

“Um, yes, I remember seeing that in her bio.”

“If I have your permission, I’d like to speak with her in the next day or so and review what’s happened.”

“Sure.” That seemed to make sense. “Her name is Elaine Erling. I don’t have her number with me, obviously, but my husband can provide it or you can find it online. She’s got an office in the city and also one in Westchester County—in Larchmont.”

“When is your next appointment?”

“Wednesday. But I’ll try to get in to see her before then.

Tomorrow if possible.”

Hopefully Erling can squeeze me in, and with luck she’ll be working out of her Manhattan office. I’ve been to the Larchmont office just once—when I had a scheduling conflict—and a trip there is not something I could pull off under these circumstances.

“Yes, it’s important to see her as soon as possible. Now, why don’t you try to rest a little before your husband arrives.”

After he departs, I realize how bone-achingly tired I am, something I’ve been too wired and vigilant to notice until now. I finally allow myself to sink fully into the bed. Hugh is coming and he’ll take me home. I don’t have to fret anymore. Within seconds I’m drifting off to sleep.

When my eyes finally flutter open, I discover Evelyn standing along the side of my bed. Her fingers rest on my arm and she’s gently stirring me awake.

“Look who I’ve brought,” she says.

Hugh steps from behind her, his face pinched with worry.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says.

I project myself forward and we embrace, hugging tightly. His silky tie, the soft, rich cotton of his shirt, the feel of his fingers softly raking my hair—it all seems so real. My body pulses with relief. This whole horrible day—maybe it’s nothing more than a momentary blip in my life.

“I’m so glad you’re finally here,” I tell him.

“I’m sorry it took forever. Traffic from Connecticut was a mess, and there was one annoying delay after another.”

I glance at Evelyn. “I hope this means I can be released now.”

“Why don’t we have Dr. Agarwal weigh in on the timing?” she says. “He’ll be back shortly, I’m sure.”

“Oh god, Hugh. I’m so embarrassed about this,” I say as soon as she steps out of the room.

“Don’t be silly. But can you fill me in? They wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, only that you were being held in the ER for observation. I’ve been going out of my mind.”

You and me both, I almost say, but he’s probably not in the right mood for gallows humor. I explain about showing up at Greenbacks this morning, purseless and phoneless, passing out, remembering nothing, and then, almost all at once, everything flooding back. Despite how calmly he appears to take it, I can read the concern in his light brown eyes.

“Why Greenbacks?” he asks when I’m finished. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that’s his first question. He knows about my years there. And he knows, too, about my prior relationship with Damien.

“I have no idea. Maybe I was so disoriented, I lost track of where I actually work now.”

“Could you have had a concussion?”

“They don’t think so, but—”

I’m spared from recounting my psychiatric assessment by the return of Dr. Agarwal, who offers Hugh a recap of what he shared with me earlier. I have to hand it to my husband: as freaked out as he must be listening to Agarwal, especially when he brings up the fact that reoccurrences are common, Hugh appears to take it all in with perfect equanimity.

“How can I be of help to my wife?” he asks when Agarwal finishes.

“Just be as supportive as possible. Ally should do her absolute best to avoid stress. It’s possible her memory from this morning will return in time.”

Hugh is quiet for a moment. “Understood,” he says finally.

We soon discover that the only obstacle blocking my departure now is paperwork, and because several staffers don’t seem to know where the release forms are at the moment, it feels like I might never be discharged. Hugh springs into action, not in an aggressive, alpha-male way, but in that subtle lawyer style of his, sorting through the confusion, finding a person to take charge, and flashing me a conspiratorial grin when the designated hero finally appears, papers in hand.

I wonder again how distressed he really is. We’ve navigated our share of tough times in our four years together—his younger sister’s serious car accident, which thankfully she fully recovered from; my father’s heart attack this past summer; the stressful periods when Hugh’s smack in the middle of a big case and working nights and weekends with very little time for me. But this is a whole other ball of wax.

Once my clothes and watch have been returned to me and I’m dressed, Hugh squeezes my hand.

“You all set?” he asks.

“Yup.”

“You don’t have a coat?”

I glance down at my blouse and pants, wrinkled from being balled into a plastic bag, and my black kitten heels, still damp from the rain. I remember a coat—my black trench.

“Maybe it was left behind in the ambulance.”

“Why don’t I follow up on that later—let’s get you home now.”

Outside I see that the rain has stopped, though it’s left behind a bruised, swollen October sky. In the cab Hugh pulls me toward him and leaves his arm draped around me. My right cheek rests on the soft worsted wool of his suit. My friend Gabby once joked that Hugh probably showered in his suits, but I like them, especially seeing them lined up in his closet. To me they’re a reminder of how hard he’s worked, never taking anything for granted.

I’m sure he has a billion more questions but is saving them till we’re home and I’m feeling better. It’s a relief to not have to talk and yet at the same time I feel wired again, my limbs jittery.

Finally, we’re inside our building lobby, hurrying past the doorman and concierge—who probably note my disheveled appearance but would never betray their surprise—and riding the twenty-seven floors to our apartment.

“Would you like something to drink?” Hugh asks as we pass from the foyer into the great room, which serves as a combination living, dining, and kitchen area.

“A glass of sparkling water, if you don’t mind,” I tell him, taking in the clean open space as if I’m seeing it for the first time: the white couch and armchairs, the glass-topped dining table, the floor-to-ceiling windows with the city views spilling out below and beyond.

“What about something more nourishing? Like some soup?”

“Honey,” I say smiling, hoping to lighten the mood a little. “I’m sure we don’t have any soup. Unless you count the three old cubes of chicken bouillon that I brought along as part of my wedding dowry.”

He chuckles. “Right. How about takeout then? We can order from Pavone’s.”

“Um, sure, sounds good.” I’m not hungry, but I need to be sitting across from Hugh at our dining table, a regular nightly ritual for us.

As Hugh pours me a glass of Pellegrino water, I wander the length of the room.

“What’s the matter, Ally?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

“My purse. I was praying it might be here—along with my keys and my phone. Can you call my number?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s here. I would have heard your phone ringing before.” After handing me the glass, he slides his phone from his pants pocket and taps the screen.

I hold my breath, but there’s only silence.

“I still have my old iPhone, so I can use it with a new SIM card—but darn, all our credit cards. They have to be canceled.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. And you can use our spare key. I’ll have another one made for us.”

“I hate to dump this all on you.”

“I don’t mind, truly. I just want you to relax, take it easy tonight.”

I realize how achy I still am. “I think what I want most of all before dinner is a shower.”

“Of course. Can you handle it alone?”

“I think so. I don’t feel faint anymore, really.”

“I might hang in the bedroom while you’re showering.”

“Hugh, I appreciate the thought, but it’s really not necessary.”

He steps forward and encircles me with his arms. “You’ll have to forgive me if I glom on to you over the next few days. I want to be sure you’re okay.”

“I like the idea of you glomming on to me, but I’ll be fine showering.”

“Okay, I’ll order dinner and cancel the cards. How about chicken piccata? And a salad?”

“Sounds good.”

Leaving Hugh behind, I traipse down the long corridor to the master bedroom. After draining the water glass, I peel off my blouse, bra, pants, and underwear and stuff them all into the hamper, though I’m tempted to chuck them in the waste basket. There’s a sour, sweaty smell emanating from them, and they have a clammy feel, too, as if I’ve been in them for days.

After grabbing my robe, I search all around the space, and also in the alcove off the bedroom, which I use as a home office when I don’t go to WorkSpace. There’s no sign of my purse anywhere, but my laptop is here, in the middle of my desk—exactly where I always keep it when I’m home. I breathe a sigh of relief that I hadn’t had it with me today, because surely it would be missing now, too.

I open the laptop and click on “find my phone,” hoping for a miracle. But a miracle doesn’t happen. The response is phone not found. It was either turned off or ran out of battery in the general vicinity of my apartment building.

Next, I check the day’s calendar to see what light it can shed. The hours from 8:30 to 11:00 are blocked off with the notation “work on book,” and at 11:30, there’s a note to myself to “call Jackie,” a reference to my book agent. Obviously, that call never happened.

I’m not usually an early morning person, and I can’t figure out why in the world I’d gotten up and left the house by 7:15, which is when I must have departed to have arrived at Greenbacks by 8:05. Had I planned something I hadn’t noted on the calendar?

I rest my hands on the desk, one on each side of the computer, and try to picture myself here. Hugh generally leaves in the morning before I do—he’s recently been made a junior partner at his law firm and likes to be in his office most days by 7:30—and after he’s gone I like to take my coffee into the alcove. I scan through the Wall Street Journal online and review my schedule. But my efforts to recall this morning are futile. It feels as if I’m trying to light a match that’s been soaked in water.

I trudge to the bathroom, start the shower, and close my eyes as the warm water gushes over me. I soap my hair twice with shampoo, kneading my scalp with my fingers.

Once I’m finished, I dry off and settle onto the stool in the bathroom, finally sensing my body relax a little. I’ve always loved this room. It’s entirely white and spalike, with shelves holding impossibly thick bath towels, one of which I’ve swaddled myself in. At the end of a tough day, I’ll often light the room with candles and soak in the tub, feeling my tension melt away. Letting go of the silly need to do everything perfectly. Yet somehow, for a few hours this morning, I managed to forget that this room, this entire apartment, even existed.

What if it happens again? Me not knowing where I live or who my husband is or who I really am? I grip the edges of the stool, terrified at the thought.

I rise quickly from the stool and return to the alcove, where I type out an email to Dr. Erling.

Can you possibly squeeze me in for an extra appointment before Wednesday? Tomorrow would be best. Something really scary happened to me and I need to see you urgently.

A few minutes later, dressed in a long-sleeved tee and sweats, I find Hugh standing at the granite-topped island that separates the kitchen area from the rest of the great room, opening a bottle of Italian red wine. His tie’s off now, as well as his jacket, both draped over the back of one of the barstools along the island.

“I thought I’d have a glass of wine, but you probably shouldn’t, right? At least not tonight.”

“Right, I’d better not. Water is fine.”

“Let’s sit for a bit, okay?” he adds, pouring me another glass of sparkling water. “Dinner should be here soon.”

He’s dimmed the overhead lights, I notice, and switched on a few table lamps so that the lighting is soft and soothing. The city is sparkling outside the windows now. This is the kind of apartment I fantasized about during my early days in New York, and though we were able to buy it in large part because of Hugh’s generous salary, I contributed a nice chunk to the down payment thanks to the savings I’d dutifully squirreled away. I’ve always practiced what I preach as a personal finance reporter.

We settle onto the couch a foot or so apart. There’s something slightly awkward about our interaction, I notice. This can’t be easy for him.

“You must have been really worried when the hospital called you,” I say.

“Forget about me. I was just concerned about you … and not being able to get there fast enough. There was a brief moment when all I could think was, ‘How do I hire a freaking chopper?’”

I smile. “I don’t think that hospital has a helipad on the roof, though.” I take a long sip of water, realizing how thirsty I am. “They said they couldn’t reach you for a while.”

“Yeah, I’d gone to Westport to meet with that potential client—Ben Sachs—and two of his associates.”

“That’s what I guessed.”

“Unbeknownst to me, he’d decided to turn the office meeting we’d set up into brunch on his boat, and needless to say, the cell service sucked. Apparently, Melinda was trying to reach me for hours without any luck, so she ended up sending someone to the marina to wait for me.”

“Well, I’m just glad she finally got through.” I let my eyes roam the great room, hoping that clues will present themselves. “Hugh, I really need you to help me fill in a few blanks, okay? According to my calendar, I’d blocked off time this morning to work on my book, so why would I have left here so early? Did I mention anything to you about an appointment or last-minute meeting today?”

His expression clouds. “I can’t help you with this morning.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, puzzled.

“I didn’t see you.”

“You mean I left even earlier than you did?”

“No, Ally, you weren’t here at all. You’ve been gone for two whole days.”

6

I hear his words, but they stall out in my brain.

“Hugh, I don’t understand,” I say. “What are you talking about?”

“I haven’t set eyes on you since Tuesday morning.”

The full-blown panic I experienced this morning had slowly subsided, but it now it rears its head again like a jungle cat catching the scent of prey on the wind.

“But … we ordered in.” I think of the vague memory of the evening I’d shared with Dr. Agarwal. “We watched TV.”

“That was Monday night.” Hugh’s expression is pained. “You were in bed when I left the next morning at around—I’d say, seven—and I assumed you were asleep. That was the last time I saw you before I came to pick you up at the hospital.”

My heart races as I grasp the truth. I’ve been so focused on making sense of today that I didn’t give much thought to the days immediately prior. But Tuesday and Wednesday, I now realize, are a total blank. Where the hell was I?

“Why didn’t you explain this to Dr. Agarwal?”

“I wanted to get you out of there, and it seemed that the less said at the moment, the better.”

“But … weren’t you worried about where I was?” I say, almost pleading. Why hadn’t Hugh called the police?

“Yes, of course I was, but not because I thought you were in any danger.” He takes a breath, exhales. “We … we had a big argument before bed Monday night. I thought you’d gone to stay with a friend for a couple of nights. Gabby, maybe.”

It’s not that odd that his mind went to her. Gabby’s the first important friend I made in New York—we ended up sharing an apartment after we met through mutual friends—and though we’re wildly different, we’ve been close for more than a decade. But the idea of my taking off seems unfathomable.

“Hugh, that’s crazy. How could you think I would just move out for a few days?”

He swipes a hand over his scalp, raking his fingers through his short brown hair. “You said you needed space, that you wanted time alone to think, and so I took you at your word. I tried calling you, of course—a bunch of times. But you never called me back.”

I push myself up from the sofa, stumbling slightly on the edge of the rug.

“Ally, please sit down,” he insists.

But I can’t, and instead pace in front of the coffee table, trying to grapple with what he’s just revealed.

“So what was the fight about?” I ask. That’s the million-dollar question, after all.

He rises from the couch himself and heads to the island, where he pours another glass of wine.

“It was my fault,” he says, avoiding my gaze momentarily. “It was a discussion I was hoping to keep positive, but it ended up spiraling in the wrong direction.”

“A discussion about what?”

“Kids. I pressed you again.”

“Well, how bad did it get?”

“We weren’t screaming, if that’s what you mean.”

No, we wouldn’t have screamed. We’re both controlled and averse to messiness, and that’s how I prefer it.

“But it did get a little heated,” he adds. “And you seemed really upset.”

Mostly I’ve tried to be understanding of Hugh’s position. I mean, let’s face it, I pulled a bait and switch on the guy, leading him to believe when we married that I was enthusiastic about parenthood but then developing cold feet. That said, the sudden pressure from him was unexpected. It was as if “have a kid” was the next box he wanted to tick off after “make partner” and “buy a dream apartment.” But as I’d told Dr. Agarwal, Hugh had promised to table the issue for a while. I must have been really pissed when he raised it again the other night.

And yet, how could a fight on well-trodden terrain be enough to make me disassociate, lose track of my identity?

“Do you think I was at Gabby’s all this time?” That would be some kind of relief—meaning (1) at least I was safe and (2) she’ll have a few answers for me.

“No. I called her Wednesday morning, hoping to make contact with you, and it was clear you hadn’t gone there.”

“Did you ask her directly?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to let on what had happened in case you weren’t there. So I told her I needed a few ideas for your birthday, and she ended up giving me a bunch of suggestions. It was clear from her tone that you weren’t at her place, and that she probably had no clue about our argument.”

I throw up my hands, more confused than ever. “If I wasn’t with Gabby, where was I?”

“At another friend’s, I guess.”

It’s hard to imagine who that could be. My other two closest friends aren’t in New York at the moment: Diane recently accepted a job in Chicago, and John is freelance writing from Dallas while his partner handles a two-month project there.

“Maybe I stayed in a hotel. Do you know if I took a bag?”

“I assumed you did, but I haven’t taken a look in your closet. But I don’t think you were at a hotel. I checked the credit card statement on Wednesday afternoon. Like I said, I wasn’t worried at that point, but of course I wanted to know where you were. The only charge was for around fifteen dollars for food on Wednesday. It must have been for lunch.”

“Where was it?”

“A place called Eastside Eats. I googled it and it’s on Fifty-First Street between Third and Lex.”

I can’t imagine what I would be doing in Midtown East. I’m rarely in that part of the city.

“According to the website,” Hugh adds, “it looks like it’s your standard-issue gourmet café.”

That tells me nothing other than the fact that at some point while I was missing, I went hunting for a cup of coffee and maybe my usual tuna salad and sprouts on multigrain.

“What about my bank card? Did I ever take cash from an ATM?”

“Nope.”

I glance around the room, hoping again for a prompt, for a hint of any kind.

“Was the fight in here?”

He shakes his head. “It started in the den, right after we turned off the TV.”

“What did we watch?”

“A documentary. About the financial meltdown in 2008.”

“Okay,” I say, as images from that day pop up in my memory, “I do remember Monday.” I spent a chunk of the day at WorkSpace with my assistant/researcher, Nicole. Then Hugh and I had dinner and watched the documentary. “But nothing after that.”

Nothing. I grab my head in my hands. “This is crazy.”

“Ally, as Dr. Agarwal said, it’s important not to stress yourself out.”

“I’d be much less stressed if I could figure out where I was all this time … I wonder if I managed to show up for my appointment with Dr. Erling on Wednesday.”

“If you missed it, Erling will clearly understand. You’re going to get ahold of her, right?”

“I already left her a message. God, she has to help me remember.”

“Is it really the end of the world if you don’t end up remembering everything? The key thing is that it doesn’t happen again, and that means getting the best medical help.”

It does feel catastrophic to me; there’s a sense of fear creeping up my back, spreading over me. Fear about the missing days and what happened to me during that time. I grip my head again, as if the pressure could somehow force the memories to the surface.

“I also think you should see a neurologist for a second opinion,” Hugh adds. “Maybe you did sustain a concussion.”

“Yes, that makes sense, I guess,” I say, but I’m still thinking about Tuesday and Wednesday. “Shit, what about my podcast on Tuesday? What if I didn’t show for it?”

“You’re okay on that front. You’d told me before this that you’d banked one last Tuesday and weren’t recording this week.”

That’s right. I remember that now.

“Ally, why don’t we table this until tomorrow?” Hugh steps toward me and pulls me against his chest. “This can’t be doing you any good tonight.”

He’s right, I realize. I’m exhausted and feeling weirdly fragile. By rehashing this, I’m doing the opposite of what Agarwal suggested. The last thing I want is to find myself back in the psych unit.

Five seconds later the intercom rings with the concierge announcing our food is here, and while we wait for the knock on our door, I set the table, grateful for a menial task to occupy my mind.

During the meal I ask Hugh about the boat ride with the potential client. He doesn’t like the guy, he admits, and is thinking of foisting him onto another lawyer in the firm. The conversation seems stilted at times, as if we’re two strangers attending a convention and eating lunch side by side in the hotel ballroom.

Shortly after ten o’clock, we dress for bed. A peek at the top shelf of my closet indicates that my overnight bag is still there, and it appears as though my clothes are all accounted for. I think of the foul-smelling skirt and blouse I’d stuffed in the hamper earlier. Clearly, I had been wearing them for days.

Once I crawl beneath the covers, Hugh reaches out and spoons me, and I relax a little into his strong, smooth arms. Before long, his breathing goes deep, indicating he’s drifted off. I’m bone-tired, but every inch of me resists sleep. I’m afraid that when I wake up this might all be gone again.

After close to an hour of lying in bed wide-eyed and wired, I unwrap Hugh’s arms, slip out of bed, and grab my laptop and calendar from the alcove. Quietly I pad down the hall to the living room. I know I should be giving my brain a rest, but there must be answers waiting for me if I’m willing to dig.

Using our portable phone—which despite the endless robocalls, I’ve kept for years as a backup—I start with a call to Gabby, whose cell-phone number I know by heart. It’s after eleven, but she’s a night owl. She’s also a good fibber when she has to be, and I’m praying that she knows more than she let on to Hugh. The call goes to voice mail. I leave a message saying I need to speak to her ASAP, and asking her to call our apartment phone because my iPhone is missing in action.

Next I open my laptop and google “dissociative state.” It’s defined just as Dr. Agarwal described. “Dissociative disorders,” I read, “are typically experienced as startling, autonomous intrusions into the person’s usual way of responding or functioning. Due to their unexpected and largely inexplicable nature, they tend to be quite unsettling.”

The understatement of the year.

As I continue to read, I learn they’re sometimes referred to as “fugue” states, but the medical profession has moved away from using that term.

And then there’s this: “The major characteristic for all dissociative phenomena involves a detachment from reality, rather than a loss of reality, as in psychosis.”

Thank god for small favors, but none of this is telling me what I really want to know.

I open a new window and call up the website for Eastside Eats. I definitely don’t remember being there. I stare hard at the home-page photos. Did I sit at one of those wooden tables, consume a croissant or sandwich? It’s distressing to think I don’t recall a second of it.

I move on to my calendar next, starting with Tuesday. Like today, most of the morning was blocked off for writing. I reach for my laptop again and click on the “book” folder only to discover that it was last saved on Monday. So that’s not what I was doing Tuesday morning.

Tuesday afternoon on the calendar is mostly blank since, as Hugh had pointed out, I didn’t need to be in the podcast studio that day. At 3:30 I’d scheduled a phone interview with a new source for my book, a woman named Glenda Payne, but I have no idea whether I ended up calling her.

Wednesday morning is also blocked off for work on the book, followed by my appointment with Erling at one P.M. After that is a notation to “shop for new coat.” I had saved that activity for after Columbus Day, when winter coat prices always start to drop.

Next, I scroll through emails received and sent, starting with Tuesday morning. Though I have no recollection of doing so, I composed several messages between 9:00 and 9:17 A.M. One was to my editor regarding the proposed catalog copy for my book. I sound perfectly coherent, as if nothing was awry. “The copy is great in general, but the phrase we want in this context is ‘money market fund,’ not ‘money market account,’” I’d told the editor. “They’re not interchangeable.” Hardly the sound of a woman who’s becoming unhinged.

Another email was to Nicole about a flight for an upcoming speech, nothing unusual there. She replied that she was on it and also reminded me she was headed out of town that day to attend her sister’s wedding and wouldn’t be back at WorkSpace until next week.

Interestingly, this batch of emails was sent from my phone rather than my laptop, which suggests I might have been on the move during that period.

From 9:17 A.M. onward, there were no outgoing emails, and every one to me since then—and there are plenty—has gone unanswered. To my chagrin, I see a message from Glenda Payne asking if we ended up with our wires crossed about the time. Lovely. And also one Wednesday evening from Dr. Erling, wondering why I didn’t make the appointment and asking if everything is okay.

So I was a no-show, which means Erling won’t be able to offer any clues.

I see there’s also a “just checking in” email from my father, who’s been spending the fall in San Diego with my half brother Quinn and his family, gaining his strength back after his heart attack in July. God, it’s been three days since I had any contact with my dad, when we usually talk every day or every other. I quickly reply saying hi, love you, sorry I’ve been so busy but will write more later.

Finally, I glance through emails from the week before, wondering if anything I see will shed light on why I showed up at Greenbacks, but there’s nothing. Just for the hell of it, I search for my last email exchange with Damien. It turns out it was roughly five years ago, the week I left the company.

I chew on my thumb for a minute and then jump up. I grab a pad and pencil from the island counter, and return to the couch, where I begin scribbling down a timeline. I know I can be really anal, but it helps me to put things in writing.

MONDAY

evening: dinner, TV, argument

TUESDAY

7:00: still in bed

9:00–9:17: sent emails

WEDNESDAY

Possibly lunchtime: bought food at Eastside Eats

THURSDAY

8:05: arrived at Greenbacks

This offers next to nothing about where I was those days, especially after dark. What did I do for food? And where did I sleep? Somehow, no matter what it takes, I’m going to have to fill in the blanks.

But ultimately, I need answers to more than the “where?” and “when?” questions. I need to know why I lost my sense of self. Was it really because of a fight with Hugh regarding kids?

Or was it instead—as Agarwal prompted me to wonder—because of a trauma from the past? The only thing that fits the bill is something that happened to me when I was nine years old. But that can’t be it, can it? Would a dreadful afternoon from so long ago really have made the wheels come off for me?

7

When I wake the next morning, I still feel exhausted and frayed at the edges. Hugh’s side of the bed is empty, though I detect the aroma of sautéing onions drifting from the living area. He’s making breakfast. Perched on the edge of the mattress, I quickly comb through my memory, praying that somehow the missing days have emerged as I slept, but they haven’t.

At least I’ve woken up in my own bed.

After dressing, I find Hugh at the stovetop, standing over a sizzling skillet with a Williams Sonoma dish towel tucked into his khakis. He smiles but I detect a wariness in his eyes.

“Hey, how you feeling?” he asks.

“Okay, I guess. Rested.” Though that’s a stretch. I didn’t crawl into bed again until after midnight.

“I thought you could use one of my pepper and onion omelets.”

“Fantastic … Why aren’t you dressed for work?”

“I figured I’d hang around here for the day. There’s nothing on my schedule that can’t be rearranged.”

I’d love his company, but he’s in the middle of a big case at work, and I hate to take him from it. “Hugh, I promise I’ll be fine, and if you’re here, it’ll only make me feel more like a patient.”

He looks relieved. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay, but I’d really appreciate it if you stayed in today and just tried to relax.”

I nod, knowing I shouldn’t push myself.

“By the way,” he adds. “I’ve emailed a few people for neurologist recommendations, without saying what the issue is. I hope to have a name by later today. Any word from Dr. Erling?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure I’ll hear from her as soon she checks her email.”

“Let me know when you do. By the way, do you plan to tell your family what happened?”

“Roger, yes, but definitely not my dad. It would be too stressful for him.”

“How about my parents? Should I say anything to them?”

“Let’s not for now, Hugh. I’m counting on this sorting itself out, and I don’t want to worry them unnecessarily.”

There’s a bit more to it than that. I like Hugh’s parents, who have been generally lovely to me. But they’re fairly high on the uptight scale, and I’m sure this news would wig them out.

Hugh and I eat breakfast at the table, watching the nearly cloudless sky brighten. At several junctures we seem oddly at a loss for words. Is he on pins and needles, I wonder, terrified I’ll unravel again?

After changing into a suit, Hugh tells me good-bye, promising to stop by an AT&T store this morning and outfit my old phone with a new SIM card so I can start making calls.

I pour myself another cup of coffee and, using my laptop, respond to the most urgent emails in my in-box, including the one from Glenda Payne, the interview subject I dropped the ball on. I apologize profusely and ask her if we can reschedule. I also shoot a response to Sasha Hyatt, a former beauty editor who’s convinced she can transform herself into a personal finance guru and has been foisted on me as an intern by an executive with the company that’s sponsoring my podcast. She’s written me three times since Tuesday, wondering if I received the research she’d emailed me for the next show. I tell her yes, I have it, but I’ve been under the weather and will need to follow up later.

Just as I’m finishing my coffee, the portable phone by the couch rings. When I lift the receiver, I see Gabby’s name on the screen and the sight of it triggers a rush of relief.

“Hot date?” I answer. “Or did you go to bed ridiculously early?”

“What? Wait, did you forget?”

My blood seems to freeze. “Forget what?”

“That I’m in London?”

“Oh gosh, sorry,” I say, suddenly recalling that she’d planned to leave this week on a trip for the jewelry business she runs. And it means that she probably won’t be able to offer me any clues.

“Is everything okay?”

“Uh—not exactly. But it can wait until you return.”

“No way. I’m just hanging out in the hotel until my next appointment. What’s going on?”

I spill it all then—about the fight with Hugh, how he assumed that I was at her place, my amnesia, my long, distressing day in the ER.

“Ally, this is so scary,” she exclaims. “Hugh did call me, right before I left on Wednesday, but I never sensed anything was wrong. I’m supposed to fly back Monday, but let me call my assistant and see if she can get me out of here earlier.”

“No, please, don’t even think about it. You can answer a few questions for me, though.”

“Of course, fire away.”

“When was the last time we spoke?”

“Let’s see—it must have been Monday, late in the afternoon.”

That’s one thing I do remember now that she mentions it.

“Did I give you any hint I was coming undone?”

“No, you sounded fine. The only thing that seems odd in hindsight is that you promised to call me before I left for London, but I never heard from you. I just figured you were busy and forgot.”

My pulse quickens. “Have I been forgetful lately?”

She sighs. “To be honest, a little.”

“About important stuff?”

“Nothing like that. Maybe distracted is a better word. Like last weekend, you said you were going to swing by my apartment at three but you showed at three thirty.”

I picture her sitting at her wooden table, her long red hair fanned out around her shoulders. We chatted about a thriller we’d both read, a new guy she’s seeing, her search for a better publicist for her rapidly expanding business.

“I’m sorry I screwed that up. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t a big deal. I know the baby stuff has been eating at you. Do you think all the stress caused this?”

“I’m not sure, but now I’m even more stressed, and I will be until I figure out where I was.”

In my mind’s eye I can see the wheels turning in my friend’s mind. “You know what I would do if I were you?” she says. “Hire a private detective.”

Gabby’s an out-of-the-box thinker—it’s what makes her jewelry designs unique and riveting—so I’m not surprised she’s going there. But her suggestion feels like a move I’m not ready to make yet.

“Maybe.”

“Why maybe?”

“It would be an awfully big step. Besides, I’m hoping my therapist can help me regain my memory, and then I won’t need a detective on the case … but anyway, I should let you go.”

“Okay, but promise you’ll call me day or night if you need anything. And why don’t I plan to drop by right after I get back on Monday? My flight lands around four.”

“You’ll be exhausted.”

“Don’t worry about it. I need to be with you.”

As soon as we hang up, I check my email to see if Dr. Erling has responded, but there’s no word from her. Then I google “private detective agencies NYC,” simply to see what surfaces. The number of possibilities seems overwhelming and after perusing the first dozen or so, I shut my laptop with a sigh.

The house phone rings again, startling me. I assume it’s a robocall, but to my shock, I find myself staring at the main number for Greenbacks. Damien? When I answer, however, a woman’s voice asks for Ally Linden.

“This is she.”

“I’m Damien Howe’s assistant. I have your trench coat—you left it in the conference room—and I wanted to arrange to send it over to you. We’re lucky we still had an old home number for you.”

I’m grateful to hear it. The coat wasn’t pricey, but I liked it. Besides, I can take comfort in the fact that unlike my memory, it hasn’t been sucked into a black hole and lost forever. Maybe today won’t be as much of a hot mess as yesterday.

After I provide the address, she tells me the messenger should be there in a few hours. Something about her tone and uptalk suggests she’s young, and I wonder if she’s the woman I’d seen in the cubicle outside Damien’s office yesterday. Is he sitting in his office with the door open, eavesdropping on the call?

“Oh, and Damien wanted me to ask how you were feeling,” she adds. “He called the hospital, but they weren’t allowed to give out any information.”

I cringe as I flash back on the face-plant I did in his office and being hauled out on a stretcher, my hair slicked back with rainwater. I must have looked like a marooned seal.

“Please tell him I’m doing fine today, and that I appreciate his concern.”

Of course, I think, after we’ve signed off, he didn’t call to inquire himself. Does the idea of us speaking to each other unsettle him as much as it does me?

When I open my laptop again, I see to my relief that Dr. Erling’s responded, asking if I’m free to talk and giving me her number. I call her New York office immediately.

“Ally, please tell me what’s happened.” The sound of her deep, steady voice provides instant comfort.

“Everything’s such a mess. I spent most of yesterday in a psych ward.”

“Yes, I spoke to Dr. Agarwal only a few moments ago,” she says.

I quickly recap from my perspective, offering details she wouldn’t have heard from Agarwal, like how long I was actually gone.

“I know I never made the appointment Wednesday,” I add. “We didn’t speak at all, did we?”

“We did, actually—but Tuesday morning. I called you around nine and asked if there was any chance you could switch this week’s appointment to my Larchmont office, and you said you could. But you never showed up the next day.”

“Did I sound okay when we talked?”

“Yes, but you mentioned you were upset about something to do with Hugh and eager to see me.”

It’s not much, but I have a couple more clues now: I had a conversation with Erling, which I can add to my timeline, and the fight with Hugh was clearly on my mind.

“I know how jammed your schedule is, but is there any way you can see me today?”

“Yes, of course. This is important. I had a cancellation at two thirty. Can you make that?”

I tell her that works perfectly and promise to see her in a few hours. As soon as we sign off, I schedule an Uber so I won’t have to be out on the street hunting down a cab.

I feel my shoulders relax a little. What I told Agarwal was true. I’ve valued my sessions with Erling, and though I don’t yet feel closer to understanding the origins of my ambivalence around having children, I’ve sensed I’ll get there with her guidance.

Now, I need her more than ever—to help me unlock the door to my memory and make sure I don’t unspool again.

I have zero appetite, but around noon I serve myself a few spoonfuls of Greek yogurt. Hugh calls—for the second time—to check on me and explains that he’s having my old iPhone messengered back to the apartment, complete with the SIM card.

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 zillion 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.”

I know Hugh’s banking on this appointment, probably rooting for a physical origin, but as the hours pass, I’m growing more certain that a neurologist won’t turn up a thing.

“I appreciate you doing that,” I say. “What about tonight? Will you be home for dinner?”

“Definitely—and on the early side. And I’ll grab food on the way.”

“Great, thanks.” Navigating a crowded grocery store is exactly the kind of thing I should avoid.

Before dropping my phone into my purse, I do a fast scroll through my in-box. Needless to say, the pileup of emails is growing larger, but most of them can be ignored for the time being. There’s one I do need to deal with—from my podcast intern, Sasha. She says she hopes I’m feeling better, but mostly she’s pressing to meet with me before the next studio session in order to review her research. Will you be going to WorkSpace today? she asks, because if so, I’ll drop by there.

I email back to say I’m working from home, but we can review the research over the phone at around five, which seems easy enough. Her irritating reply, less than sixty seconds later: I have to be on the Upper West Side around that time. Why don’t I drop by your place?

Begrudgingly, I tell her that’s fine. She and Derek Kane seem to be really tight, and I don’t want her to tell her buddy that I’ve been hard to pin down. I wonder, not for the first time, if she and Kane are in a relationship—and that’s why he pushed so hard to have me take on someone with next to zero background in financial reporting.

I look up to see we’re nearing my building. I end up asking the driver to drop me at the deli a half block away, where I pick up a tin of cinnamon Altoids and immediately pop one in my mouth.

Back in my apartment, I dig out my yoga mat from the back of the closet and engage in twenty minutes’ worth of poses in the great room, concentrating fully on each position and doing my best not to let my mind wander. I feel energized when I’m finished, and an espresso also helps. I’m going to get through this crisis, I tell myself. I am.

Inspired, I grab my laptop, answer a batch of emails, and then open the chapter of my book that I worked on last. I’m not that far behind, but it’s definitely time to hustle.

But focusing turns out to be more difficult than I anticipated. Every sentence I manage to type is six words long and totally pedestrian.

Plus, the questions are back, slowly lapping against my brain at first and then flooding it. Where was I for two whole days? Why did I flee my home? Was it really because of the fight with Hugh, or does that terrible day from my childhood still haunt me in some way?

My gaze falls on my old iPhone, lying on the desk. I know Erling said this isn’t the right moment to be talking to Roger about the past, but I’m close to my half brother and I need to bring him up to speed about what’s happened anyway. There’s even a chance, I realize, that I made contact with him when I was gone. I grab the phone and tap his name. The call goes to voice mail, but I know I’ll hear from him soon enough. Rog is like that.

Our father, Ben, had been married to Roger’s mother for nearly twenty years when she died unexpectedly of sepsis. Two years later, he met my mother, Lilly, and they married six months later. According to my mom, Roger and his younger brother, Quinn, fourteen and twelve at the time, were lovely, easygoing boys, who maturely accepted their father’s desire to remarry and embraced her presence—and mine, too, when I brazenly popped up a year later. I adore them both, but it’s Roger who’s always seemed more enchanted by my existence and eager to engage. He was especially caring when my own mother died of cancer seven years ago.

My mother whom I miss and think of every day. My mother who, if she were alive, would surely be able to help me find a path out of this nightmare.

My phone rings and, yup, it’s Roger.

“Hey, Button,” he says, using a nickname my father once bestowed on me for being so buttoned-up about schoolwork. “Nice to hear your voice.”

“Nice to hear yours, too. How is the lord of the manor today?” Roger lives in an impeccably restored manor house along the banks of the Delaware River, a few minutes away from Millerstown, the town where we grew up.

“In fairly good form for a middle-aged man. Is everything okay?”

There’s an urgency to the last question. Had I made contact with him on Tuesday or Wednesday?

“What makes you say that?”

“Something in your voice. And Dad mentioned he hadn’t heard from you in a few days. You’re usually so Johnny-on-the-spot with your calls.”

“I had an issue this week, but I emailed him late last night.”

“What’s going on?”

“Something weird. But I don’t want Dad to know.”

“Talk to me.”

I blurt it all out, except for the part about the fight with Hugh. As close as I am to Roger, I like keeping my marriage private.

“Ally, how awful for you. Do you feel you’re getting the best medical care?”

“I have a good therapist, and I’m going to see a neurologist for a second opinion. But I didn’t call you this week, did I?”

“No, we haven’t talked since last weekend. Gosh, I feel terrible. Tell me what I can do.”

“I mostly wanted to fill you in, but maybe we could get together soon, too.”

“Absolutely. You could come out for the day, have lunch here.”

Of course, any social engagement would surely have to be run by Roger’s wife, Marion, who seems to prefer having Roger all for herself.

“That’s sweet, but you don’t have to go to any trouble. I just want to see you—and also, to ask you some questions.”

I blurt out the last part without even seeing it coming—and against Erling’s advice.

“Are you wondering if there’s any family history with this sort of thing?”

“No one’s mentioned that as a factor. But lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened when I was nine, finding Jaycee Long. Dissociative states are sometimes caused by past trauma, and I’m wondering if that experience could have been a trigger.”

There’s a long pause, and I can picture him doing his usual little scratch on the side of his head.

“I’m not sure how much I can help, but I’ll try,” he finally says. “Though wouldn’t Dad be a better person to ask?”

“Probably, but if I start asking questions, I’m sure he’ll get suspicious, and I don’t want to upset him.”

“Good point. Well, I’m happy to talk, and actually, you may not need to drive all the way out. Marion surprised me with tickets for the New York Philharmonic Sunday afternoon and then we’re going to some friends’ apartment for dinner. We could grab a drink after the concert—maybe around five? Marion can shop or head to our friends’ place early.”

That is more convenient for me, but I can’t help but be bugged by the mention of the concert. Regardless of how many times I’ve invited him and Marion here for a Sunday brunch or suggested we grab a play and dinner in the city, he usually passes, bemoaning the fact that he’s become a bit of a homebody since his early retirement from a hedge fund. And now Marion’s organized a day in Manhattan without even factoring in me and Hugh. But really, I shouldn’t be taken aback. From the moment Roger married her a few years ago, she’s been boxing me out in lots of little ways that my brother doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to throw off your plans.”

“No, I’m dying to see you, Button. I want to be there for you.”

“Thanks, Rog. That means a lot.”

After agreeing to firm up our plans in the next day or so, we sign off. I get up to boil water for tea. Daylight has faded, and lights are blinking on in the endless high-rises visible from the apartment. Living here, with this breathtaking view of Manhattan at night, I’m always struck by how the building lights always seem dabbed on here and there at random, like the backdrop of a Broadway show.

I sip my tea and reflect on the conversation with Roger. I’m glad I asked for his help, and I’m grateful for the chance to see him even sooner than I’d hoped. But something makes my stomach knot, something beyond the fact that he’d planned to be in Manhattan and hadn’t told me. That Marion had surprised him with tickets? And then I realize I’ve completely forgotten Roger’s birthday. It was ten, no eleven, days ago.

Shit. It’s like Gabby said—I’ve been distracted, forgetful. Was it because of having so much on my mind lately, or a precursor to my memory loss?

I shoot him a quick email apologizing and order him a cookbook that I’d eyed for him months ago. Roger’s always been a bit of a bon vivant, someone who loves fine decor, the best wines he can get his hands on, and gourmet cooking.

Absentmindedly I glance at my phone and to my shock, notice it’s almost five. Sasha is due momentarily. I set my laptop on the dining table and open it to the research notes she’d emailed for the podcast. Two minutes later the concierge rings to say my guest has arrived, and I use the time Sasha’s on the elevator to swap my boots for ballet flats.

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” she says as soon as I swing open the front door of the apartment. “I more or less invited myself.”

“No, it’s fine. Come in.” She’s carrying a wrapped bouquet of flowers and a tiny shopping bag. “Let me take your coat.”

“First, these are for you.” She hands me both packages. “I thought the flowers could cheer you up. And I’ve brought chicken soup, too. I know this deli makes the absolute best in the city.”

“Sasha, you shouldn’t have.” On the surface it seems like a lovely gesture, but to me it’s excessive. And from what I’ve learned about Sasha so far, she often has a secret agenda. I know to keep my guard up with her.

“Oh please, my pleasure,” she gushes. “It’s so hard to be sick, especially when your plate is as full as yours is.”

For a second, I wonder if she’s gotten wind of what happened to me. People I know in the field might have heard via the rumor mill of my bizarre visit at Greenbacks, learned it was me who was rolled out on a stretcher. But her expression doesn’t seem to be alluding to it.

She shrugs off the strap of a quilted tote bag and slips out of her coat, revealing a striking drop-waist dress, black on top, with a row of black and white knife pleats on the lower half. It looks great with her blond bob. And it’s sleeveless, emphasizing her perfectly buffed arms.

An awkward moment follows in which I can’t take her coat because I’m holding her offerings. She ends up hanging up the coat herself and then follows me into the great room, where I set the soup on the counter and tear the paper off the bouquet. The flowers are a stunning orange, a type of rose I’ve never seen.

“These are amazing,” I tell her as I pull a glass vase from one of the cabinets.

“I remember you saying your apartment was all white, so I thought you’d enjoy a pop of color on a gloomy day.”

After I fill a vase with water and arrange the flowers, I carry it to the dining table, where I’ve gestured for Sasha to take a seat.

“Your place is absolutely gorgeous,” she declares, scanning the room. “How long have you lived here?”

“About three years. We bought it right after Hugh and I were married.”

“How did you two meet, anyway?”

“At a dinner party thrown by a mutual friend. Can I get you an espresso? Or a glass of chardonnay?”

There’s a beat before she answers, and I sense she’s considering saying wine, a chance to make the meeting more social, but fortunately she opts for the espresso instead. I’m not in the mood for chitchat. While I’m preparing our drinks, I talk over my shoulder, switching topics to the podcast.

By the time I set the two cups on the table, she’s spread out a sheaf of papers and begins to brief me. As planned, Sasha’s preinterviewed the main guest, Jamie Parkin, a female Wall Street veteran who’s written a book on developing everyday fearlessness, and drafted questions for me to ask. She’s also included a boatload of backup research on subjects such as grit and confidence in the workplace.

There’s way more than I need here. I’m a major fan of research—you have to be, with financial topics—but too many statistics can suck the freshness and spontaneity out of an interview. Though I’m briefly tempted to tell Sasha this, I bite my tongue. Being research-crazy is probably good for her at this stage, and the bottom line is that I need projects to occupy her time.

“Let’s focus for a few minutes on the last part of the podcast,” I tell her. As a favor, I’m allowing her to participate in the final segment of the show, a ten-minute “chat” with me that I usually do with my producer, Casey. It’s my chance to riff on a current financial news headline or trend and offer insights as to how it might affect listeners.

“I’ve already made a list of things that are in the air right now, though that could change this week.”

“Actually, I’d like to try a different tack this week,” I tell her. “Since the interview is going to be mainly about career strategies, and not as much personal finance, I thought you and I could chat about the financial mistakes people make early on in their careers.”

“You mean like buying a toasted white chocolate mocha on the way to work instead of making coffee at home or in the office kitchenette?”

“That’s been overdone lately, so let’s talk about factors that have a much bigger impact. Credit card debt. Not opening an IRA. That’s always a big mistake.”

“If that’s what you want.” I detect a hint of sullenness in her tone. She was clearly banking on me going with one of her ideas.

“Yes, I think that will be best in the mix … Unfortunately, we’re going to have to wrap up now.” She’s been here far longer than I planned, and the conversation has started to drain me. “I need to take care of a few other things before dinner.”

“Of course,” she says crisply, beginning to gather her belongings—the stack of papers, manila folders, a fancy roller-ball pen. “Thanks for taking the time today.”

“And thank you. For the soup—and the flowers.” I tug my phone from my sweater pocket to check if Hugh’s texted.

“Oh good, you found it,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“Your phone.”

“Um, no, this is a spare.” I don’t recall mentioning my phone was MIA. “How did you know it was missing?”

“Because you called on Tuesday to say you lost it.”

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