turning away, it pings with a text. Shocked, I see that the message is from Damien Howe:
Can we meet? I need to see you.
11
When I wake the next day shortly before eight, I immediately regret my second-night-in-a-row late-night session on the couch. My stomach is queasy and my head hurts.
At least I’m here at home again. And I’m fully aware of who I am.
When I traipse into the great room, I discover Hugh already hard at work, coffee mug by his side and files and briefs strewn across the dining table.
“Morning,” he says, looking up with a smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Pretty good.”
“Is it going to be a problem if I hog the table today?”
“Not at all. It’s really nice to have you here.”
He glances back at his yellow legal pad, covered with carefully jotted notes, but then quickly looks up at me again.
“And you’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, definitely.” There’s no point in whining about my headache when I have only myself to blame. And I’m certainly not going to admit to nausea. There’s a chance that’s due to fatigue as well, but it could actually be tied to the dull pulse of guilt I’m feeling from my response to Damien last night. Hugh’s aware that Damien was more than a fling in my eyes, and he’d be annoyed—justifiably—to learn we were in contact, especially after the bizarre mystery of me turning up at Greenbacks. But I have to meet with Damien. I need to know if he has any clue why I arrived at his company out of the blue with my coat dripping wet and my brain on idle.
Okay, I’d texted back. When?
How about Tuesday? he’d said. Six o’clock?
Six o’clock always suggests cocktails to me, rather than, let’s say, coffee, and there’s no way I’m going down that road. I countered with Can you do five instead? and he’d agreed, saying he’d get back to me with a location.
There’s another reason for five o’clock. This way I’ll be home by around six, greatly limiting my chance of bumping into Hugh on his way into the building and thus having to deceive him about where I’m coming from.
Okay, so I won’t have to lie, but still, it will be a sin of omission—because when Hugh asks about my day, I won’t mention anything about the meeting. This isn’t really how we do things as a couple. We’re not in the habit of . . . I was about to tell myself we’re not in the habit of keeping secrets from each other but that’s untrue now, isn’t it? My whereabouts from Tuesday to Thursday morning before 8:05 are a total secret to both of us.
After a breakfast of plain toast and tea, I grab my laptop and peruse a few headlines, but my attention soon flags. I toy with the idea of hitting the gym—it’s been a week since I’ve worked out—but eventually decide against it. I’m scared, I realize, about heading outside on my own. So I spend the next hours velcroed to the sofa, chiding myself for being such a sloth. At one point I slip into the bedroom to phone my dad, and though there’s comfort in hearing his voice, it’s painful that I can’t tell him what’s happened.
I’m relieved when finally, late in the day, Hugh suggests we take a walk in Central Park. As we emerge from the building, the air is crisp, and it’s the first time since I left the hospital that I’m actually aware of the season. The trees in the park haven’t peaked in color yet, but there’s an autumn scent along the paths that triggers a slew of recollections for me—buying pumpkins as a girl at a farm stand near our home in Millerstown, watching a college boyfriend tear across a rugby field, driving through New England on a “girls’ trip” with my mother the year before she died. If those memories are all there in my mind, tucked safely away, surely the ones from the missing days must be, too. I have to find a way to unearth them.
Hugh and I walk arm in arm through the park and end up eating dinner at a Japanese restaurant we both like. I feel more connected to the world suddenly—to the kick of the wasabi paste, the smell of the soy sauce, the image of Hugh using his chopsticks so adeptly. Good, I think, Dr. Erling would be pleased. Certainly, this is the definition of present.