An Anonymous Girl (25 page)

“But just the other night you looked up the phone numbers for some of Dr. Shields’s former subjects. I had to do their makeup,” I splutter.

He stares at me,
confused: “What are you talking about?”

I try to collect myself, but my mind is swimming. A baby a few tables over begins to cry, a high, piercing sound. The barista flips on a giant electric grinder and it loudly chews through beans. I need to get Ben to help me, but I can’t focus.

“Dr. Shields told me you transposed the numbers for one of the women who was involved in a past study, and
then when I went to see her I wound up in the wrong place. I ended up in some drug addicts’ apartment.” My voice sounds high and rushed. The woman next to us turns to stare.

Ben leans in closer. “I haven’t spoken to Dr. Shields in weeks,” he says, his voice low. The way he’s looking at me, I can’t tell if he believes a word I’ve said.

I think back to the yellow legal pad with the five
telephone numbers. They were all in Dr. Shields’s neat cursive.

She did say Ben transposed the numbers, didn’t she? Maybe she meant he made the error when he originally took down the information for the study.

But why would she let him go if she were still conducting her research with other young women?

Ben pointedly glances at his watch.

I scan my questions, but if Ben isn’t aware
of the ethical tests Dr. Shields is conducting on me, none of them can help.

“You don’t know
anything
about what she’s doing now?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

I suddenly feel chilled to the bone.

“I signed a nondisclosure agreement,” he says. “I’m finishing up my master’s and she could make trouble for me at the school. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

“So why are you?”
I whisper.

He picks a piece of lint off his coat sleeve. His eyes survey the occupants of the coffee shop once more. Then he pushes back his chair.

“Please!” The word comes out sounding like a strangled cry.

Ben lowers his voice when he speaks again, and I can barely make out his words over the hum of conversation and the baby’s crying.

“Find the file with your name on it,” he
says.

I gape at him. “What’s in it?”

“She had me gather background information on all of her subjects. But she wanted more about you. Then she removed it from the cabinet that held all the other subjects’ folders.”

He turns to go.

“Wait!” I call. “You can’t just leave.”

He takes a step toward the door.

“Am I in danger?”

He hesitates, his body twisted away from me. Then
he briefly turns back.

“I can’t answer that, Jess,” he says, just before he walks away.

The manilla folder sat on Dr. Shields’s desk during our early sessions. What could be in it?

After Ben leaves, I sit there for a while, staring into space. Then I finally call Thomas.

He answers on the first ring: “Why haven’t you been responding to my calls or texts? Did you see the picture
I sent?”

“I saw it, I say.

I hear running water in the background, then a metallic clanking sound.

“I can’t talk now,” he says, sounding almost frantic. “I’ve got dinner plans. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow. Don’t tell her anything,” he warns me again, just before he hangs up.

It’s dark by the time I leave the coffee shop.

As I walk home, huddled against the cold bite
of the wind, I try to imagine the contents of the folder Dr. Shields keeps on me. Don’t most therapists take notes during their sessions? It probably contains a transcript of every conversation we’ve had, but why would Ben urge me to find that?

Then I realize I haven’t seen that file in weeks.

I remember it in the center of Dr. Shields’s meticulous desk, and attempt to visualize the typewritten
letters on the tab. I never saw them clearly, but I’m now certain they spelled my name: Farris, Jessica.

Dr. Shields only ever called me Subject 52 and then, later, Jessica.

But the last thing Ben did in the coffee shop was call me “Jess.”

When I finally reach my apartment building, I see the front door is ajar. I feel a flare of annoyance at the careless neighbor who failed to pull
it closed tightly, and for the super who can’t seem to permanently fix it.

I climb the frayed gray carpet on the stairs, passing Mrs. Klein’s apartment one floor below mine and inhaling the aroma of curry.

I stop at the end of my hallway. There’s something in front of my door.

When I draw closer, I see it’s a plain brown paper bag.

I hesitate, then pick it up.

The smell is
rich and familiar, but I can’t identify it.

Inside is a container of chicken noodle soup. It’s still warm.

There’s no note in the bag.

But there’s only one person who thinks I’m not feeling well.

Monday, December 17

A sharp, sudden noise alerts me to the presence of someone in the town house.

The cleaning lady does not come on Mondays.

The rooms are still, and bathed in shadows. The noise originated from the left.

A town house in New York City affords certain advantages: More space. Privacy. A backyard garden.

Of course, there is one significant
disadvantage.

There is no doorman standing guard.

Another loud, clanking noise.

This one is recognizable: A pot has been placed on the six-burner Viking stove.

Thomas always has a heavy hand while cooking.

He is following our Monday-night routine, the one that was suspended when he moved out.

He does not immediately notice my appearance in the doorway to the kitchen; perhaps
the sound of a Vivaldi concerto on the Sonos system covered the sound of my movements.

He is chopping zucchini for the whole-wheat pasta primavera; it is one of the few dishes in his repertoire. He knows it is my favorite.

Two white Citarella grocery bags rest on the counter, and a bottle of wine sits on ice in a silver bucket.

Calculations are swiftly performed: Thomas’s last client
of the day departs at 4:50
P
.
M
. It is a twenty-five-minute journey from his office to the town house. An additional twenty minutes for grocery shopping. The preparation for this meal is well under way.

He could not have been with you earlier tonight, Jessica. Wherever you went when you pretended to be home sleeping, it was not to meet my husband.

The immediate, overwhelming rush of relief
conjures the sensation of a physical weakening.

“Thomas!”

He spins around, holding out the knife as if to defend himself.

Then he releases a high, tight laugh.

“Lydia! You’re home!”

Is this the only reason for his unease?

The relief begins to ebb.

Nevertheless, he is approached and greeted with a kiss.

“Class ended early,” he is told. But no further explanation
is given.

Sometimes silence is a more effective tool to loosen information than a direct question; members of the law enforcement community often employ this tactic when a suspect is in custody.

“I just— I know we didn’t talk about it, but I thought you wouldn’t mind if I came over and surprised you by making dinner,” Thomas stammers.

It is his second unannounced visit in the past
forty-eight hours.

This also violates the unspoken arrangement put into place following his indiscretion: Thomas has never before used the key he retained after he moved out.

Or has he?

By now, contradictory evidence is muddying the perception of the situation.

A new safeguard will be enacted tomorrow to detect his presence in the town house, should he enter without prior authorization
in the future.

“How lovely,” he is told in a tone a shade cooler than might be expected.

He pours a glass of wine. “Here, sweetheart.”

“I’ll just go put my coat away.”

He nods and turns back to stir the pasta.

You have not yet reported any response to your text, Jessica.

If Thomas intends to decline your invitation, why has he not done so?

But perhaps you are the one
who is concealing something.

You could believe that meeting Thomas is a necessary step for your continued participation in the study. Perhaps he withstood the temptation, but you are increasing the pressure. You could be stalling for time, hoping for an alternative outcome.

You, with your eagerness to please and your thinly veiled idolization, may not want to disappoint by providing the
wrong result.

The instant Thomas leaves, you will be telephoned and summoned to a meeting tomorrow morning. No excuses will be tolerated: Not illness, not a social engagement, not a BeautyBuzz job.

You
will
be honest with me, Jessica.

By the time Thomas is rejoined in the kitchen, the pasta has been drained and tossed with the seasoned vegetables.

Conversation is kept light. Wine
is sipped. Bright notes of the Vivaldi concerto fill the air. Both meals are picked at.

Perhaps Thomas is on edge, too.

Approximately fifteen minutes into the meal, the shrill peal of a cell phone cleaves through the room.

“It’s yours,” he says.

“Do you mind? I’m expecting a call from a client.”

This is only a partial fabrication.

“Of course,” he says.

The phone number
on the screen is yours.

It is imperative that my tone remains steady and professional. “This is Dr. Shields.”

“Hi, it’s Jessica . . . I’m feeling better. Thanks so much for the chicken soup.”

Thomas can’t discern any clues from my end of this conversation.

“My pleasure.”

You continue: “Also, I just wanted you to know that I heard back from that guy at the coffee shop. Thomas.”

The instinctive reaction that follows: a quick intake of breath as my eyes fly to Thomas.

Thomas is staring. It’s impossible to know what he is reading on my face.

“One moment, please,” you are told.

Quickly, the distance away from Thomas is increased. The cell phone is carried into the next room.

“Continue,” you are instructed.

Variations in tone, along with cadence, reliably
provide information about the contents of a conversation. Bad news is often delayed, while good news bubbles forth.

But your voice remains neutral.

It’s futile to attempt to prepare for what will follow.

“He said he’d like to meet. He’s going to call me tomorrow to make a plan when he figures out his schedule.”

Tuesday, December 18

I’ve lived in New York for years, but I never knew this tucked-away garden existed.

The West Village Conservatory sounded like a place that would be filled with people. And maybe it is, in the summertime. But as I wait for Thomas on a raw, gray afternoon, feeling the damp wood of the bench seep through my jeans, I’m surrounded only by
the husks of bushes and barren branches. They look like giant spiderwebs stretched across the bleak sky.

I thought I could trust Dr. Shields. But in the past forty-eight hours, I’ve learned she lied about so many things: Not only didn’t Ben transpose those phone numbers, but there isn’t even a study right now. Dr. Shields isn’t married to the bushy-haired man in the photo in her dining room;
she’s married to Thomas. And I’m not anything special to her. I’m just useful, like a warm cashmere shawl or a shiny object to be dangled in front of her husband.

What I want to learn today is why.

Don’t tell her anything,
Thomas instructed me.

But I’m not going to let him call the shots.

I have to stall Dr. Shields until I figure out what’s going on. So I told her Thomas replied
to my text and wanted to get together. But I didn’t say it would happen today; she thinks I’m still waiting to hear back from Thomas to confirm a time.

He appears on the path leading toward me at precisely four o’clock.

He looks much like he did when we first met at the museum and again at the bar: a tall, athletic-looking, thirty-something guy in a heavy blue overcoat and gray slacks.
A knit cap covers his hair.

I glance behind me, suddenly fearful that Dr. Shields may appear again, just as she did outside her town house when I was talking to Thomas on the phone. But the area around me is empty.

As Thomas approaches, a pair of mourning doves burst into the air, loudly flapping their wings. I flinch and put a hand to my chest.

He sits down next to me, leaving a foot
or so of space between us. It’s still a little closer than I would like.

“Why did my wife send you to follow me?” he asks immediately.

“I didn’t even know she was married to you,” I say.

“Did you tell her we slept together?” He looks even more scared than I feel about the possibility of Dr. Shields finding out.

I shake my head. “She’s been paying me to help her with her research.”

“Paying you?” He frowns. “Are you in her study?”

I’m not sure I like the fact that Thomas is asking all the questions, but at least it’s telling me how little he knows.

I exhale and watch my breath form a wisp of white. “That’s how it started. But now . . .” I don’t even know how to explain what I’m doing for Dr. Shields.

I switch gears: “That day at the museum, I didn’t realize
until I saw you at the diner that she must have wanted me to meet you. I never would have, uh, reached out to you had I known.”

He grinds the knuckles of his right hand into his forehead.

“I can’t get into Lydia’s warped mind,” he says. “I left her, you know. Or maybe you don’t.”

I think about the two coffee cups Dr. Shields cleared away the first time I went to her town house, and
the lightweight men’s jackets in her closet.

And there’s one more thing.

“You were with her just last night!” I blurt.

I could hear clanking noises in the background when I’d phoned Thomas yesterday, the rattle of pots and pans and the running of water. It sounded like someone was cooking. And there was something else that at first didn’t seem significant: classical music, but not
the somber, almost tense kind. It was . . . cheerful.