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.”