CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
Monday, December 17
I sit at a tiny wooden table wedged next to a holiday gift display, swirling the cardboard sleeve around my Starbucks cup and checking the door every time it swings open.
Ben was supposed to meet me here at five-thirty—his only availability today, he claimed. But he’s already fifteen minutes late, and I’m worried he won’t show up at all, given how reluctant he sounded on the phone.
I had to cancel my late-afternoon BeautyBuzz appointment to make it back to the Upper West Side. I didn’t lie to Dr. Shields about my job’s policy; the appointment coordinator let me know that if I missed another booking this month without the requisite notice, I’d be fired.
I glance at my phone in case Ben has tried to contact me, but all I see is another missed call from Thomas. It’s his fifth attempt to reach me today, but I’m not going to talk to him until I hear what Ben has to say.
A blast of freezing air hits me as the door is pushed open again.
This time it’s Ben.
His eyes find me immediately, even though the coffee shop is crowded.
He walks over, unwinding the tartan scarf from around his neck. He leaves his overcoat on. Instead of saying hello, he slides into the chair across from me and looks around the room, his gaze skimming over the other customers.
“I’ve only got ten minutes,” he says.
He looks the same as I remember: thin and preppy, with an air of fastidiousness. This comes as a relief; at least one thing in this whole study is consistent.
I pull out the list of questions I wrote down last night, after I saw the wedding photo Thomas sent and couldn’t fall asleep.
“Okay,” I begin. “Um, you know I am one of Dr. Shields’s subjects. And I guess things are getting a little weird.”
He just looks at me. He’s not making this any easier.
“You’re her research assistant, right?”
He folds his arms. “Not anymore. My position was eliminated when the study was terminated.”
I jerk back in my chair, feeling the unyielding wood hit the middle of my spine.
“What do you mean, ‘terminated’?” I cry. “I’m part of the study. It’s still going on.”
Ben frowns. “That’s not the information I was given.”
“But just the other night you looked up the phone numbers for some of Dr. Shields’s former subjects. I had to do their makeup,” I splutter.
He stares at me, confused: “What are you talking about?”
I try to collect myself, but my mind is swimming. A baby a few tables over begins to cry, a high, piercing sound. The barista flips on a giant electric grinder and it loudly chews through beans. I need to get Ben to help me, but I can’t focus.
“Dr. Shields told me you transposed the numbers for one of the women who was involved in a past study, and then when I went to see her I wound up in the wrong place. I ended up in some drug addicts’ apartment.” My voice sounds high and rushed. The woman next to us turns to stare.
Ben leans in closer. “I haven’t spoken to Dr. Shields in weeks,” he says, his voice low. The way he’s looking at me, I can’t tell if he believes a word I’ve said.
I think back to the yellow legal pad with the five telephone numbers. They were all in Dr. Shields’s neat cursive.
She did say Ben transposed the numbers, didn’t she? Maybe she meant he made the error when he originally took down the information for the study.
But why would she let him go if she were still conducting her research with other young women?
Ben pointedly glances at his watch.
I scan my questions, but if Ben isn’t aware of the ethical tests Dr. Shields is conducting on me, none of them can help.
“You don’t know anything about what she’s doing now?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
I suddenly feel chilled to the bone.
“I signed a nondisclosure agreement,” he says. “I’m finishing up my master’s and she could make trouble for me at the school. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
He picks a piece of lint off his coat sleeve. His eyes survey the occupants of the coffee shop once more. Then he pushes back his chair.
“Please!” The word comes out sounding like a strangled cry.
Ben lowers his voice when he speaks again, and I can barely make out his words over the hum of conversation and the baby’s crying.
“Find the file with your name on it,” he says.
I gape at him. “What’s in it?”
“She had me gather background information on all of her subjects. But she wanted more about you. Then she removed it from the cabinet that held all the other subjects’ folders.”
He turns to go.
“Wait!” I call. “You can’t just leave.”
He takes a step toward the door.
“Am I in danger?”
He hesitates, his body twisted away from me. Then he briefly turns back.
“I can’t answer that, Jess,” he says, just before he walks away.
The manilla folder sat on Dr. Shields’s desk during our early sessions. What could be in it?
After Ben leaves, I sit there for a while, staring into space. Then I finally call Thomas.
He answers on the first ring: “Why haven’t you been responding to my calls or texts? Did you see the picture I sent?”
“I saw it, I say.
I hear running water in the background, then a metallic clanking sound.
“I can’t talk now,” he says, sounding almost frantic. “I’ve got dinner plans. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow. Don’t tell her anything,” he warns me again, just before he hangs up.
It’s dark by the time I leave the coffee shop.
As I walk home, huddled against the cold bite of the wind, I try to imagine the contents of the folder Dr. Shields keeps on me. Don’t most therapists take notes during their sessions? It probably contains a transcript of every conversation we’ve had, but why would Ben urge me to find that?
Then I realize I haven’t seen that file in weeks.
I remember it in the center of Dr. Shields’s meticulous desk, and attempt to visualize the typewritten letters on the tab. I never saw them clearly, but I’m now certain they spelled my name: Farris, Jessica.
Dr. Shields only ever called me Subject 52 and then, later, Jessica.
But the last thing Ben did in the coffee shop was call me “Jess.”
When I finally reach my apartment building, I see the front door is ajar. I feel a flare of annoyance at the careless neighbor who failed to pull it closed tightly, and for the super who can’t seem to permanently fix it.
I climb the frayed gray carpet on the stairs, passing Mrs. Klein’s apartment one floor below mine and inhaling the aroma of curry.
I stop at the end of my hallway. There’s something in front of my door.
When I draw closer, I see it’s a plain brown paper bag.
I hesitate, then pick it up.
The smell is rich and familiar, but I can’t identify it.
Inside is a container of chicken noodle soup. It’s still warm.
There’s no note in the bag.
But there’s only one person who thinks I’m not feeling well.