protect yourself. Lots of children do that, and it’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
Her tone is filled with assurance, and I nod in appreciation.
“By the way, I’ve already taken steps to update the police,” I say. “I called Roger last night after I remembered, and he’s going to talk to the police chief, whom he knows. I doubt that it will make any difference all these years later, but still, I want to get it off my chest.”
“That seems like a very reasonable next step.”
“Do you think it’s possible that discussing the murder in the sessions with you finally made the memory surface? And that the guilt and shame I’ve felt about lying were the reason I . . . I lost myself?”
“What do you think?”
“Maybe. And it could also be one of the things making me confused about the idea of having kids with Hugh.”
She holds it a beat.
“Why did you say with Hugh?”
“What?” I’m not following.
“You said, ‘the idea of having kids with Hugh.’ Do you feel conflicted about having children in general—or specifically with Hugh?”
“God, I’m sure that was simply a manner of speaking,” I say, taken aback. “I love Hugh. I do. I want things to return to normal.”
“I’m interested in hearing how things went with him this past weekend.”
A sigh escapes my lips involuntarily. I dread articulating what I’m feeling and possibly validating what she seems to be hinting at.
“Things are awkward between us at moments. Hugh’s been attentive, but sometimes I sense we’re like two strangers walking toward each other on the street and trying to anticipate which way the other is going to move so we don’t collide, but we keep getting it wrong.”
I elaborate: the weird silences at times during meals; the almost total lack of physical contact; Hugh’s preoccupation with his case; the fact that last night he wolfed down Chinese takeout for dinner and immediately resumed working again.
“Can you set aside time tonight to sit together and talk for a while?” she asks. “Hugh might be even more concerned about you than he’s expressing and needs help opening up.”
“Yes, I can probably make that happen. And you’re right, I know he’s been concerned. It turns out he was really freaked out believing that our fight triggered my fugue state, though I told him I have doubts about that.”
She cocks her head.
“Because?”
“The little information I do have suggests it began later the next day. For one thing, I sent out these totally coherent emails Tuesday morning.”
“Disconnecting from reality can sometimes be a gradual process. You might have felt like yourself Tuesday morning, but as the day wore on, you became more distressed about the fight.”
“But what about the tissues, then?”
“Tissues?” She glances down at her notes.
“The ones I found in my coat pocket—with dried blood?”
“Right, yes, we talked about that.”
“What I’m thinking,” I say, “is that the tissues are related to whatever incident caused me to dissociate. Something really stressful might have happened to me on Tuesday, and the stress ended up causing a nosebleed.”
Her lips part ever so slightly, and I wait for a comment. But instead she sits quietly, studying me with her deep brown eyes.
“I get your desire for immediate answers, Ally,” she says finally. “I also see why you wanted to speak to your brother. But it’s really essential for you to keep your stress level down and allow your brain to recover at its own pace. Let the detective work take place here in our sessions. That’s the best way to regain your footing completely and avoid triggering a relapse.”
“Okay, I understand,” I say, slightly chastened. “And do you think if I stop trying so hard, I will remember one day?”
“That’s definitely possible, yes. But not always the case. It’s important to recognize that memories can become so seriously fractured that they’re not retrievable. We’re out of time, but we can discuss this more when I see you Thursday.”
I glance quickly at my watch, thinking she must be mistaken. But we are out of time.
And I feel almost worse than when I arrived.
13
As soon as I return to the apartment, I head to the fridge, hesitate, and then finally pour myself a glass of pinot grigio from a bottle that Hugh’s already opened. I feel edgy as hell, and I know a few little yoga poses aren’t going to make a difference.
I was really counting on today’s session with Erling to move me forward, but it seems to have left me in even greater turmoil. I