I’m a personal finance journalist, I tell her. I write a monthly column, give talks, host a weekly podcast. I’m working on a book called … it’s tentatively called 25 Money Rules You Should Always Ignore. I spend part of the week in a communal work space, though I used to hold a key position at Greenbacks, the company I showed up at this morning. I grew up in Millerstown, New Jersey. My mother’s dead but my father, a retired pediatrician, is still alive. I have two half brothers, Quinn and Roger.
And I’m married to Hugh. Hugh Buckley. Loving husband, lawyer, runner, Civil War history buff, Monopoly champion, Boston born and raised, and Ivy League graduate—though there’s nothing entitled-seeming about him. Our wedding was three years ago, and we spent our honeymoon in the Seychelles.
My god, Hugh. Where is he?
“Do you know if they’ve made contact with my husband yet?” I say to Evelyn.
“I know they’ve been trying, but let me check again now.”
As soon as she departs, the tears that have been welling in my eyes spill over, wetting the paper scrubs. I have my life back.
Evelyn returns five minutes later. “We’ve reached your husband’s office,” she reports, “but he’s been out on business most of the morning, and they haven’t been able to get through to him yet.”
I squint, trying to remember what Hugh said about what he had planned for today. But I’m drawing a blank. In fact, I still don’t remember anything about the hours before showing up at Greenbacks—getting dressed, or saying good-bye to Hugh, or traveling downtown. And I still don’t have any clue why I went there.
What I need to do, I suddenly realize, is to split and sort this out with my own doctor and therapist, people I’m familiar with. Maybe I should even have further tests.
“Since you can’t reach my husband, it seems like the best idea is for me to head home on my own now,” I volunteer. “I don’t have keys, but our concierge can let me into the apartment.”
Evelyn’s eyes widen slightly.
“I know you’re eager to be home, Ally, but it’s essential for you to have someone accompany you. And it’s also important that you be examined by Dr. Agarwal. Let me see how long it will be before he can speak to you.”
So that’s the bottom line: there’s no way they’re giving me back my clothes and letting me out of here unless I’m accompanied.
“Okay,” I say pleasantly, realizing it’s in my best interest to act compliant.
Evelyn smiles and promises to be back soon, but it’s Dr. Agarwal who shows up instead. He’s carrying a clipboard of his own, thick with pages. He’s in his mid- to late forties and has wavy black hair and deep brown eyes.
“Ben Agarwal,” he says, shaking my hand. “So sorry for the delay, Ms. Linden. I’m sure this has been a harrowing day for you.”
“Ally, please. And yes, it was scary earlier, but fortunately I’m much better now.”
“Has anything like this ever happened to you before?”
“No, never. Not even close.”
“Ms. Capron said that things have been coming back to you. What have you begun to remember?”
“Pretty much everything.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Can you tell me your mother’s maiden name?”
“Hemmings.”
“And can you tell me what year it is and who the US president is?”
I rattle off the answers and throw in a few extra newsy facts as backup.
He smiles and thumbs through a couple of pages on the clipboard.
“You said pretty much everything came back. What’s still missing?”
“Just what happened very early this morning, really. I don’t recall getting up or leaving my apartment—or why I ended up at an office I haven’t worked at in five years.”
“Where would you ordinarily go first thing in the morning?”
“Generally to WorkSpace on West Fifty-Fifth Street. It’s a coworking setup where I have a small office. But lately I’ve been working at home a lot. I’m under deadline for a book I’m writing, and it’s quieter there.”
“What about last night? What do you recall about the evening?”
I look off, trying to summon the details.
“That part’s a little fuzzy actually,” I admit. “I know my husband and I had dinner at home. I’m sure he’ll be able to fill in the gaps when he arrives—though they seem to be having trouble finding him.”
“I have good news on that front. His office was able to reach him at his appointment a few minutes ago, and he’s headed here now from Connecticut.”
My sense of relief is diluted by frustration. Hugh must be at least an hour away, and so it’s up to me to take as much control of the situation as possible.
“I know I don’t have any obvious signs of a head injury,” I say. “But it seems that something along those lines must have happened to me. It was raining this morning—maybe I slipped and fell on the street.”
Agarwal purses his lips briefly, and I can tell he’s not buying it.
“A severe concussion can cause amnesia, but it usually involves forgetting events just prior to the injury—anywhere from a few minutes beforehand to a few days. In your case, you were missing big chunks of your identity. It seems what you actually experienced was what we call a dissociative state.”
“Dissociative?” I say, feeling myself frown in confusion. “What does that mean exactly?”
“In layman’s terms, it’s an involuntary escape from reality. It’s generally characterized by a disconnection between thoughts, identity, and memory—meaning you have difficulty recalling important information about who you are and events in your life.”
He’s reeled this off calmly enough, like he’s telling me I’ve slipped a disc or popped a blood vessel, but his words make my breath catch. How could something like this have happened to me?
“But that makes no sense,” I tell him. “I’ve never felt disconnected from my thoughts in any way.” Before I can chicken out, I ask him the terrifying question that’s been at the front of my mind. “Could—could it happen again?”
“Unfortunately, yes. A person can experience multiple episodes throughout his or her life. That’s why it’s key to determine the trigger.”
“Can something physical trigger it?” Please, I think, don’t let me have a brain tumor.
“Generally, not. The symptoms usually first develop as a response to trauma. It might be physical abuse or sexual abuse, or in certain cases, a military combat injury. It’s the brain’s way of keeping painful memories under control.”
My heart skips. I’ve never been abused or been to war, thankfully, so does that mean something traumatic has happened to me recently? Today, even?
“There’s nothing like that in my life. What—what if I were mugged on my way to work this morning?” I say, as the thought suddenly pops into my mind. “And—that would explain my purse being missing.”
“Do you think having your purse snatched would have been highly traumatic for you?”
“Well,” I respond, managing a smile. “I’m constantly advising people to be smart with their money and not let go of it stupidly—so that probably would have upset me.”
This provokes a chuckle, but his expression quickly turns serious again.
“Tell me again about last night,” he says. “Even if it’s a little fuzzy.”
“Uh, like I said, we ate at home. We’d ordered in. And we watched something on TV. A pretty typical weeknight evening these days.”
“What about earlier in the day? Do you recall anything upsetting or stressful? Something related to your job—or personal life?”
“I’ve been a little stressed about finishing the book I mentioned, but not anything I haven’t experienced before.”
Agarwal says nothing in response but instead studies me quietly, his kind eyes glistening. I can tell he’s waiting for me to elaborate. And then I realize he’s probably wondering if the trauma has to do with my husband, that he might be physically or emotionally abusive. But Hugh’s a great guy—and he’s never been abusive in any way.
“There is one thing that’s been on my mind,” I say. There’s no harm in mentioning it, I decide. “When my husband and I got engaged, we were on the same page about wanting kids one day, but lately I’ve … I’ve had second thoughts. I’m not totally sure anymore, and it’s been, well … it’s been a source of a little friction. But we’re hardly at any kind of crisis point.”
And we’re not.
“Where do things stand at the moment?” Agarwal asks.
“We agreed a few weeks ago to table the discussion for a while. With the pressure off, I feel it’ll be easier for me to make a rational decision. And I’ve started seeing a therapist, someone to talk it over with.
“So it’s stressful but hardly traumatic,” I add, shrugging. “It hardly seems like something that could make me disconnect from my identity.”
Agarwal nods, as if weighing my comment.
“The traumatic event doesn’t have to have happened recently,” he says. “It could be an episode from your past that’s rising to the surface again for some reason.”
I look off again, thinking. Suddenly my lips part as my brain pries something away, like I’m opening an orange or tangerine and the thin white membrane is tearing apart. No, this can’t really be what it’s all about, can it?
I glance back at Agarwal, and the alertness in his eyes intensifies. He knows he’s touched a nerve.
“Is there something that’s been troubling you lately, Ally?” he continues. “Something from your past?”
“Nothing I can think of,” I lie. “At least not off the top of my head.”
5
Agarwal’s expression gives nothing away this time, but I can sense anticipation morphing quickly into resignation below the surface. Though he seems caring and competent, this isn’t something I intend to discuss with him.
He studies me for another minute before speaking. “The therapist you’re seeing. How many sessions have you had so far?”
“Uh, I’ve seen her five or six times.”
“Do you know if your therapist does cognitive behavioral therapy? That’s what is most often recommended in these cases.”
“Um, yes, I remember seeing that in her bio.”
“If I have your permission, I’d like to speak with her in the next day or so and review what’s happened.”
“Sure.” That seemed to make sense. “Her name is Elaine Erling. I don’t have her number with me, obviously, but my husband can provide it or you can find it online. She’s got an office in the city and also one in Westchester County—in Larchmont.”
“When is your next appointment?”
“Wednesday. But I’ll try to get in to see her before then.
Tomorrow if possible.”
Hopefully Erling can squeeze me in, and with luck she’ll be working out of her Manhattan office. I’ve been to the Larchmont office just once—when I had a scheduling conflict—and a trip there is not something I could pull off under these circumstances.
“Yes, it’s important to see her as soon as possible. Now, why don’t you try to rest a little before your husband arrives.”
After he departs, I realize how bone-achingly tired I am, something I’ve been too wired and vigilant to notice until now. I finally allow myself to sink fully into the bed. Hugh is coming and he’ll take me home. I don’t have to fret anymore. Within seconds I’m drifting off to sleep.
When my eyes finally flutter open, I discover Evelyn standing along the side of my bed. Her fingers rest on my arm and she’s gently stirring me awake.
“Look who I’ve brought,” she says.
Hugh steps from behind her, his face pinched with worry.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says.
I project myself forward and we embrace, hugging tightly. His silky tie, the soft, rich cotton of his shirt, the feel of his fingers softly raking my hair—it all seems so real. My body pulses with relief. This whole horrible day—maybe it’s nothing more than a momentary blip in my life.
“I’m so glad you’re finally here,” I tell him.
“I’m sorry it took forever. Traffic from Connecticut was a mess, and there was one annoying delay after another.”
I glance at Evelyn. “I hope this means I can be released now.”
“Why don’t we have Dr. Agarwal weigh in on the timing?” she says. “He’ll be back shortly, I’m sure.”
“Oh god, Hugh. I’m so embarrassed about this,” I say as soon as she steps out of the room.
“Don’t be silly. But can you fill me in? They wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, only that you were being held in the ER for observation. I’ve been going out of my mind.”
You and me both, I almost say, but he’s probably not in the right mood for gallows humor. I explain about showing up at Greenbacks this morning, purseless and phoneless, passing out, remembering nothing, and then, almost all at once, everything flooding back. Despite how calmly he appears to take it, I can read the concern in his light brown eyes.
“Why Greenbacks?” he asks when I’m finished. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that’s his first question. He knows about my years there. And he knows, too, about my prior relationship with Damien.
“I have no idea. Maybe I was so disoriented, I lost track of where I actually work now.”
“Could you have had a concussion?”
“They don’t think so, but—”
I’m spared from recounting my psychiatric assessment by the return of Dr. Agarwal, who offers Hugh a recap of what he shared with me earlier. I have to hand it to my husband: as freaked out as he must be listening to Agarwal, especially when he brings up the fact that reoccurrences are common, Hugh appears to take it all in with perfect equanimity.
“How can I be of help to my wife?” he asks when Agarwal finishes.
“Just be as supportive as possible. Ally should do her absolute best to avoid stress. It’s possible her memory from this morning will return in time.”
Hugh is quiet for a moment. “Understood,” he says finally.
We soon discover that the only obstacle blocking my departure now is paperwork, and because several staffers don’t seem to know where the release forms are at the moment, it feels like I might never be discharged. Hugh springs into action, not in an aggressive, alpha-male way, but in that subtle lawyer style of his, sorting through the confusion, finding a person to take charge, and flashing me a conspiratorial grin when the designated hero finally appears, papers in hand.
I wonder again how distressed he really is. We’ve navigated our share of tough times in our four years together—his younger sister’s serious car accident, which thankfully she fully recovered from; my father’s heart attack this past summer; the stressful periods when Hugh’s smack in the middle of a big case and working nights and weekends with very little time for me. But this is a whole other ball of wax.
Once my clothes and watch have been returned to me and I’m dressed, Hugh squeezes my hand.
“You all set?” he asks.
“Yup.”
“You don’t have a coat?”
I glance down at my blouse and pants, wrinkled from being balled into a plastic bag, and my black kitten heels, still damp from the rain. I remember a coat—my black trench.
“Maybe it was left behind in the ambulance.”
“Why don’t I follow up on that later—let’s get you home now.”
Outside I see that the rain has stopped, though it’s left behind a bruised, swollen October sky. In the cab Hugh pulls me toward him and leaves his arm draped around me. My right cheek rests on the soft worsted wool of his suit. My friend Gabby once joked that Hugh probably showered in his suits, but I like them, especially seeing them lined up in his closet. To me they’re a reminder of how hard he’s worked, never taking anything for granted.
I’m sure he has a billion more questions but is saving them till we’re home and I’m feeling better. It’s a relief to not have to talk and yet at the same time I feel wired again, my limbs jittery.
Finally, we’re inside our building lobby, hurrying past the doorman and concierge—who probably note my disheveled appearance but would never betray their surprise—and riding the twenty-seven floors to our apartment.
“Would you like something to drink?” Hugh asks as we pass from the foyer into the great room, which serves as a combination living, dining, and kitchen area.
“A glass of sparkling water, if you don’t mind,” I tell him, taking in the clean open space as if I’m seeing it for the first time: the white couch and armchairs, the glass-topped dining table, the floor-to-ceiling windows with the city views spilling out below and beyond.
“What about something more nourishing? Like some soup?”
“Honey,” I say smiling, hoping to lighten the mood a little. “I’m sure we don’t have any soup. Unless you count the three old cubes of chicken bouillon that I brought along as part of my wedding dowry.”
He chuckles. “Right. How about takeout then? We can order from Pavone’s.”
“Um, sure, sounds good.” I’m not hungry, but I need to be sitting across from Hugh at our dining table, a regular nightly ritual for us.
As Hugh pours me a glass of Pellegrino water, I wander the length of the room.
“What’s the matter, Ally?” he asks, furrowing his brow.
“My purse. I was praying it might be here—along with my keys and my phone. Can you call my number?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s here. I would have heard your phone ringing before.” After handing me the glass, he slides his phone from his pants pocket and taps the screen.
I hold my breath, but there’s only silence.
“I still have my old iPhone, so I can use it with a new SIM card—but darn, all our credit cards. They have to be canceled.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. And you can use our spare key. I’ll have another one made for us.”
“I hate to dump this all on you.”
“I don’t mind, truly. I just want you to relax, take it easy tonight.”
I realize how achy I still am. “I think what I want most of all before dinner is a shower.”
“Of course. Can you handle it alone?”
“I think so. I don’t feel faint anymore, really.”
“I might hang in the bedroom while you’re showering.”
“Hugh, I appreciate the thought, but it’s really not necessary.”
He steps forward and encircles me with his arms. “You’ll have to forgive me if I glom on to you over the next few days. I want to be sure you’re okay.”
“I like the idea of you glomming on to me, but I’ll be fine showering.”
“Okay, I’ll order dinner and cancel the cards. How about chicken piccata? And a salad?”
“Sounds good.”
Leaving Hugh behind, I traipse down the long corridor to the master bedroom. After draining the water glass, I peel off my blouse, bra, pants, and underwear and stuff them all into the hamper, though I’m tempted to chuck them in the waste basket. There’s a sour, sweaty smell emanating from them, and they have a clammy feel, too, as if I’ve been in them for days.
After grabbing my robe, I search all around the space, and also in the alcove off the bedroom, which I use as a home office when I don’t go to WorkSpace. There’s no sign of my purse anywhere, but my laptop is here, in the middle of my desk—exactly where I always keep it when I’m home. I breathe a sigh of relief that I hadn’t had it with me today, because surely it would be missing now, too.
I open the laptop and click on “find my phone,” hoping for a miracle. But a miracle doesn’t happen. The response is phone not found. It was either turned off or ran out of battery in the general vicinity of my apartment building.
Next, I check the day’s calendar to see what light it can shed. The hours from 8:30 to 11:00 are blocked off with the notation “work on book,” and at 11:30, there’s a note to myself to “call Jackie,” a reference to my book agent. Obviously, that call never happened.
I’m not usually an early morning person, and I can’t figure out why in the world I’d gotten up and left the house by 7:15, which is when I must have departed to have arrived at Greenbacks by 8:05. Had I planned something I hadn’t noted on the calendar?
I rest my hands on the desk, one on each side of the computer, and try to picture myself here. Hugh generally leaves in the morning before I do—he’s recently been made a junior partner at his law firm and likes to be in his office most days by 7:30—and after he’s gone I like to take my coffee into the alcove. I scan through the Wall Street Journal online and review my schedule. But my efforts to recall this morning are futile. It feels as if I’m trying to light a match that’s been soaked in water.
I trudge to the bathroom, start the shower, and close my eyes as the warm water gushes over me. I soap my hair twice with shampoo, kneading my scalp with my fingers.
Once I’m finished, I dry off and settle onto the stool in the bathroom, finally sensing my body relax a little. I’ve always loved this room. It’s entirely white and spalike, with shelves holding impossibly thick bath towels, one of which I’ve swaddled myself in. At the end of a tough day, I’ll often light the room with candles and soak in the tub, feeling my tension melt away. Letting go of the silly need to do everything perfectly. Yet somehow, for a few hours this morning, I managed to forget that this room, this entire apartment, even existed.
What if it happens again? Me not knowing where I live or who my husband is or who I really am? I grip the edges of the stool, terrified at the thought.
I rise quickly from the stool and return to the alcove, where I type out an email to Dr. Erling.
Can you possibly squeeze me in for an extra appointment before Wednesday? Tomorrow would be best. Something really scary happened to me and I need to see you urgently.
A few minutes later, dressed in a long-sleeved tee and sweats, I find Hugh standing at the granite-topped island that separates the kitchen area from the rest of the great room, opening a bottle of Italian red wine. His tie’s off now, as well as his jacket, both draped over the back of one of the barstools along the island.
“I thought I’d have a glass of wine, but you probably shouldn’t, right? At least not tonight.”
“Right, I’d better not. Water is fine.”
“Let’s sit for a bit, okay?” he adds, pouring me another glass of sparkling water. “Dinner should be here soon.”
He’s dimmed the overhead lights, I notice, and switched on a few table lamps so that the lighting is soft and soothing. The city is sparkling outside the windows now. This is the kind of apartment I fantasized about during my early days in New York, and though we were able to buy it in large part because of Hugh’s generous salary, I contributed a nice chunk to the down payment thanks to the savings I’d dutifully squirreled away. I’ve always practiced what I preach as a personal finance reporter.
We settle onto the couch a foot or so apart. There’s something slightly awkward about our interaction, I notice. This can’t be easy for him.
“You must have been really worried when the hospital called you,” I say.
“Forget about me. I was just concerned about you … and not being able to get there fast enough. There was a brief moment when all I could think was, ‘How do I hire a freaking chopper?’”
I smile. “I don’t think that hospital has a helipad on the roof, though.” I take a long sip of water, realizing how thirsty I am. “They said they couldn’t reach you for a while.”
“Yeah, I’d gone to Westport to meet with that potential client—Ben Sachs—and two of his associates.”
“That’s what I guessed.”
“Unbeknownst to me, he’d decided to turn the office meeting we’d set up into brunch on his boat, and needless to say, the cell service sucked. Apparently, Melinda was trying to reach me for hours without any luck, so she ended up sending someone to the marina to wait for me.”
“Well, I’m just glad she finally got through.” I let my eyes roam the great room, hoping that clues will present themselves. “Hugh, I really need you to help me fill in a few blanks, okay? According to my calendar, I’d blocked off time this morning to work on my book, so why would I have left here so early? Did I mention anything to you about an appointment or last-minute meeting today?”