in.
The last client of the day, a man named Hugh, had departed my office only a few minutes before. People come to therapy for different reasons, but his never became clear. Hugh was an odd one, with his sharp features and nomadic existence.
Despite his wanderings, he fixated on things, he divulged early on.
Ending his sessions was difficult; he always wanted more.
Whenever he left, he lingered outside the door, his footsteps not beginning for a minute or two. His pungent scent could be detected in the waiting room even after he was gone, evidence of the time he’d spent there.
When the entire building went dark that night, even the lights outside the windows, it seemed natural to assume Hugh was involved.
The worst of humanity comes out in the shadows.
And Hugh had just been told that his therapy needed to be terminated.
Sirens began to wail in the distance. The noises and lack of illumination created a disorienting atmosphere.
To exit the building, it was necessary to take the stairs. It was seven P.M., late enough that all of the other offices appeared closed.
Although residents lived in the building, their apartments were only on floors five and six.
The sole light in the stairwell came from the screen of my phone, the only sound the tapping of my shoes against the steps.
Then a second pair of footsteps, much heavier ones, began to descend from somewhere above.
Symptoms of terror include a racing heart, light-headedness, and chest pain.
Breathing exercises can only help people through situations in which panic is not warranted.
Here, it was.
My presence would be announced by the glow of my phone. Running in complete darkness could lead to a fall. But these were necessary risks.
“Hello?” a man’s deep voice called.
It did not belong to Hugh.
“What’s going on? It must be a blackout,” the man continued. “Are you okay?”
His manner was soothing and kind. He stayed by my side for the next hour, during the trek from Midtown to the West Village, until we reached my residence.
In every lifetime, there are pivot points that shape and eventually cement one’s path.
Thomas Cooper’s materialization was one of these seismic moments.
A week after the blackout, we went to dinner.
Six months later, we were married.
Everyone who met Thomas liked him.
But loving him was something reserved only for me.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Tuesday, December 4
I have less than forty-eight hours to locate Taylor.
She is my sole fragile link to Dr. Shields. If I can track her down before my next session on Thursday at five P.M., I won’t be going into it blind.
After I leave the French restaurant, I find Taylor’s contact info in my phone and text her: Hi Taylor, It’s Jess from BeautyBuzz. Can you call me asap?
When I get home, I grab my laptop and try to glean more information about Dr. Shields. But my search yields only academic papers, reviews of the book she authored, her four-line NYU biography, and a website for her private practice. The website is sleek and elegant, like her office but, also like that space, it doesn’t contain a single real clue about the woman it represents.
I finally fall asleep after midnight, my phone by my side.
Wednesday, December 5
When I wake up at six A.M., my eyes heavy from my restless night, Taylor still hasn’t responded. I’m not really surprised; she probably thinks it’s bizarre that some makeup artist is trying to reach her.
Thirty-five hours left, I think.
Even though I want to skip my back-to-back appointments and continue to try to get answers, I have to go to work. Not only do I need the money, but BeautyBuzz has a policy that makeup artists must give a full day’s notice before canceling scheduled jobs. Three strikes in three months and you’re eliminated from their roster. Since I called in sick a few weeks ago, I already have one.
I feel like I’m on autopilot as I smooth foundation, blend shadows, and line lips. I ask about clients’ jobs, husbands, and kids, but I keep thinking about Dr. Shields. Especially about how little I know of her personally, and contrasting that with the deep secrets I’ve shared with her.
I’m persistently aware of my phone tucked inside my bag. The second I leave each appointment, I snatch it up and check the screen. But even though I leave Taylor another message, this one via voice mail at around noon, there is no response.
At seven P.M. I splurge on a taxi home, which burns through the tips from my last few jobs but gets me there faster. I drop my