CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Thursday, December 13
There is no car service or wardrobe directions or written script for today’s assignment.
All I have is a destination and a time: the Dylan Alexander photography exhibit at the Met Breuer. I’m supposed to be there from eleven to eleven-thirty, then head directly to Dr. Shields’s office.
When Dr. Shields called me on Tuesday afternoon with the instructions, I asked: “What exactly do you need me to do?”
“I realize these assignments are a bit disconcerting,” she’d replied. “But it’s essential that you go into the scenarios blind so that your knowledge doesn’t affect the outcomes.”
She’d said only one more thing:
“Just be yourself, Jessica.”
That threw me.
I know how to play the various roles in my life: the hardworking professional makeup artist; the girl at the bar laughing with her friends; the dutiful daughter and big sister.
But the person Dr. Shields sees isn’t any of them. She knows the woman on the couch who reveals secrets and vulnerabilities. But surely that isn’t who I am supposed to be today.
I try to remember the compliments Dr. Shields has given me, the things that might have led her to say she felt as though I was more than just a subject to her. Maybe that’s the part of me I’m to reveal today. But I can’t recall a lot of specific praise, just that she likes my fashion sense and my forthrightness.
As I get dressed, I am aware my outfit is more for her than it is for the assignment. At the last minute I retrieve Dr. Shields’s taupe wrap. I tell myself it’s to ward off the December cold, but the truth is I’m nervous, and the scarf feels comforting. I inhale and imagine I can detect the faint smell of her spicy perfume, even though it surely must have worn off the fabric by now.
Before I make my way to the museum, I head to a diner to meet Lizzie for breakfast. I’d told her I had an important makeup appointment and needed to leave at ten o’clock sharp. I wanted to give myself an extra cushion, because even though midday in the city isn’t usually a busy travel time, you can never predict a subway delay or traffic jam or broken heel.
At breakfast, Lizzie talks about her adored youngest brother, Timmy, who is a sophomore in high school. I met him when I went home with her for a weekend last summer; he’s a sweet, good-looking kid. Apparently, he decided against trying out for the basketball team, something he has always loved. Now the whole family is in a tizzy; he is the first of the four brothers to not letter in the sport.
“So what does he want to do?” I ask.
“The robotics club,” Lizzie said.
“There’s probably more of a future for him in that than in basketball,” I say.
“Especially since he’s five five,” she agrees.
I tell her a little bit about Noah. I don’t get into the details of how we met, but I reveal we had a second date on Saturday night.
“A guy who offers to cook for you?” Lizzie asks. “Sounds sweet.”
“Yeah. I think he is.” I look down at my burgundy nails. It feels strange to be keeping so much from her. “I need to run. Talk soon?”
I reach the museum ten minutes early.
I’m walking toward the entrance when I hear tires screech and someone shouting, “Holy crap!”
I spin around. Just a dozen yards away, a white-haired woman is sprawled on the street in front of a taxi cab. The driver is getting out, and a few people are rushing toward the accident scene.
I hurry over in time to hear the driver say, “She walked right in front of me.”
By now there are five or six of us clustered around the woman, who is conscious but looks dazed.
A thirty-something couple standing next to me immediately takes charge; they have an air of calm competence around them.
“What’s your name?” the man asks, taking off his blue overcoat and laying it on top of the white-haired woman. She’s small and frail-looking underneath his large jacket.
“Marilyn.” Even that single word seems to rob her of her strength. She closes her eyes and grimaces.
“Someone call an ambulance,” the woman says, arranging the coat more securely around Marilyn.
“I’ve got it,” I say as I dial 911.
I give the dispatcher the address, then I sneak a quick glance at my watch. It’s 10:56.
A thought strikes me: Maybe this accident was staged. At the hotel bar, Dr. Shields used me to assess a stranger.
Today I could be the one being evaluated.
Perhaps this is the test.
The couple bent over Marilyn are both attractive and wear business clothes and glasses. Could they be a part of this?
I glance around, half expecting to glimpse Dr. Shields’s red hair and piercing blue eyes, as if she’s going to be standing just offstage in the wings, directing this scene.
I shake off the suspicion; it’s crazy to think she could have set this all up.
I bend down and say to Marilyn, “Is there anyone we can call for you?”
“My daughter,” she whispers.
She recites the phone number; it seems encouraging that she can remember it.
The man who gave her his coat quickly speaks into his cell.
“Your daughter is on her way,” he says as he hangs up. He looks at me. From behind his glasses, his eyes are concerned. “Good idea.”
I check my watch: 11:02 A.M.
If I head into the museum right now, I’ll only be a minute or two late for my assignment.
But what kind of person could walk away?
In the distance, I hear the wail of an ambulance. Help is coming.
Is it ethical for me to leave now?
If I wait any longer, I’ll have violated Dr. Shields’s explicit instructions. I feel perspiration prickle my back.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to the man who is shivering slightly now without his coat. “I have an assignment for work. I really need to go.”
“It’s okay, I’ve got this,” he says kindly, and the knot in my chest loosens a bit.
“You sure?”
He nods.
I look down at Marilyn. She’s wearing pink frosted lipstick that looks like the same CoverGirl brand my mom has worn for years, even though I used to give her expensive Bobbi Brown shades when I worked at that counter.
“Can you do me a favor?” I ask the man. I take out one of my BeautyBuzz business cards and scribble my cell number on it. I hand it to him. “Will you just let me know when you hear how she is?”
“Sure,” he says.
I really do want to make sure Marilyn is okay. Plus, now when I tell Dr. Shields about the accident, she won’t judge me for callously leaving the scene of the accident.
It’s six minutes after eleven by the time I rush through the doorway of the museum.
I take a final look back and see that the guy still holding my card isn’t looking toward the approaching ambulance. He’s watching me.
I give the woman at the ticket counter ten dollars, and she points me in the direction of the Dylan Alexander exhibit: up the narrow staircase to the second level, then left down the hallway.
As I hurry up the steps, I look at my phone to see if Dr. Shields has texted, like she did at the bar. A message has come in, but not from her:
Just checking in again. Coffee? Katrina, my old friend from the theater, wrote.
I shove my phone back into my pocket.
The Dylan Alexander exhibit is at the end of the hall, and I’m nearly gasping by the time I reach it.
I googled the artist right after Dr. Shields gave me the assignment, so the subject of his work doesn’t come as a surprise.
It’s a series of black-and-white photographs of motorcycles, unframed, on giant pieces of stretched canvas.
I look around for any clues to orient me.
Several people are lingering before the images—a docent leading a trio of tourists, a French-speaking couple holding hands, and a guy in a black bomber jacket. None of them seems to notice me.
By now the ambulance should be here, I think. Marilyn is probably being lifted up on a stretcher. She must be scared. I hope her daughter gets there fast.
I peer at the pictures, remembering again how I’d given an uninspired response when Dr. Shields had shown me the glass falcon. I now wonder if my assignment has to do with these images. I need something more profound to say about this exhibit in case she asks.
I know a little about motorcycles, but I know even less about art.
I stare at a photo of a Harley-Davidson, tilted so far to the side that the rider is almost parallel to the ground. It’s a powerful shot, life-size like the others, and practically bursting out of its frame. I am struggling to find the hidden meaning that artwork is supposed to contain, which, in turn, could give me a hint about Dr. Shields’s hidden meaning in sending me here. All I see is a big, hulking machine and a rider who seemed like he was risking his life unnecessarily.
If the real-life morality test isn’t in these photos, where could it be?
I can hardly concentrate on the photographs as I begin to wonder if the test already happened. The Met has a suggested fee of twenty-five dollars, but you don’t have to give anything. When I’d first arrived at the museum, there was a ticket counter with a sign that read THE AMOUNT YOU PAY IS UP TO YOU. PLEASE BE AS GENEROUS AS YOU CAN.
I was in a rush, and I was only going to be there for thirty minutes, I’d thought as I’d opened my wallet. I had a twenty and a ten. So I’d pulled out the ten, folding it in half before sliding it under the glass to the ticket agent.
Dr. Shields was probably planning on reimbursing me for the entrance fee. Maybe she’d assume I’d paid the full amount. I’d have to tell her the truth. I hope she didn’t think I was cheap.
I decide that when I go back down I’ll get change and donate another fifteen dollars.
I try to refocus on the art. Next to me, the couple is having an animated discussion in French as they point to one of the images.
Farther down, toward the beginning of the exhibit, the tall man in the black bomber jacket stares at a photograph.
I wait until he moves on to the next picture, then I approach him.
“Excuse me,” I say. “This is a dumb question, but I can’t figure out what it is about these photos that makes them so special.”
He turns and smiles. He is younger than I’d thought at first. Better looking, too, with his juxtaposition of classically handsome features and edgy clothes.
He pauses. “It seems to me the artist chose to use black-and-white because he wants the viewer to focus on the beautiful form. The lack of color really enables you to notice every detail. And see how he has carefully chosen the light here to enhance the handlebars and speedometer.”
I turn to look at the image from his perspective.
The motorcycles all appeared alike to me at first, a blur of metal and chrome, but now I realize they are quite distinct.
“I get what you mean,” I say. I still can’t figure out what this exhibit has to do with morality and ethics, though.
I move to the next photograph. This motorcycle isn’t in motion. It is shining and new and stands atop a mountain. Then, the man in the bomber jacket walks over to it, too.
“See the person reflected in the side mirror?” he asks. I hadn’t, but I nod anyway as I peer closer at the image.
The buzzer on my phone sounds, startling me. I give the man an apologetic smile in case the noise has broken his concentration, then I reach into my pocket to silence it.
I’d set the alarm on my way to the museum, wanting to make sure I followed Dr. Shields’s directions to leave at eleven-thirty sharp. I need to go.
“Thanks,” I tell the man, then I take the stairs down to the main level. Rather than waste more time getting change, I tuck the twenty into the donation box and hurry out the door.
As I exit the door, I see that Marilyn, the cabdriver, and the guy with the tortoiseshell glasses are all gone.
Cars are driving over the spot where she had lain; people are milling around the sidewalk, talking on their cell phones and eating hot dogs from a nearby vendor.
It’s like the accident never happened.