CHAPTER
FORTY-FIVE
Wednesday, December 19
Thomas told me to behave normally; to proceed as I have been all along so Dr. Shields won’t suspect anything.
“We’ll figure out a way to get you out of this safely,” he said as we left the park. When we exited the gardens, he climbed onto a motorcycle, strapped on his helmet, and roared off.
But in the twenty-four hours since we parted, the uneasy feeling that crept over me in the Conservatory has ebbed.
When I got home last night, I couldn’t stop wondering about Subject 5. I took a long, hot shower and shared some leftover spaghetti and meatballs with Leo. But the more I thought about it, the less sense it made. Was I really supposed to believe an esteemed psychiatrist and NYU professor pushed someone to suicide, and that she could do the same to me?
Probably that girl had issues all along, like Thomas said. Her death had nothing to do with Dr. Shields and the study.
Hearing from Noah also helped. He texted: Free for dinner Friday night? A friend of mine has a great restaurant called Peachtree Grill if you like Southern food. I replied immediately: I’m in!
It doesn’t matter if Dr. Shields needs me that night. I’ll tell her I’m busy.
By the time I put on my coziest pajamas, my conversation with Thomas has begun to grow faint and distant, almost like a dream. My anxiety is being replaced by something more solid and welcome: anger.
Before I crawl into bed, I restock my beauty kit in preparation for a busy day tomorrow. I hesitate when my hand closes around the half-empty bottle of burgundy nail polish. Then I pitch it into my trash can.
As I draw my comforter up to my neck, feeling Leo nestle by my side, I listen to the jangle of my across-the-hall neighbor’s keys and think about how Dr. Shields suggested she might help find a job for my dad. But it seems as if she’s forgotten all about that. And while the money has been good, the turbulence Dr. Shields has injected into my life isn’t worth a few thousand dollars.
I sleep hard for seven hours.
When I wake up, I realize how simple the solution is: I’m done.
Before I leave for work, I dial her number. For the first time, I’m the one who is reaching out to request a meeting.
“Could I stop by tonight?” I ask. “I was hoping to get my most recent check . . . I could use the money.”
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, but the instant I hear her modulated voice, I stand up.
“How nice to hear from you, Jessica,” Dr. Shields says. “I can see you at six.”
Can it possibly be this simple? I think.
I feel a twinge of deja vu. I had the exact same thought when I successfully snuck into the study.
The clouds are thick and heavy in the sky when I leave my apartment a few minutes later and head to the first of my half dozen clients. In nine hours, this will be finished, I tell myself.
I spend the day working on a businesswoman who needs a head shot for her company website, an author who is being interviewed on New York One, and a trio of friends going to a holiday party at Cipriani. I also duck home in the early afternoon to take Leo for a walk. I feel like I am easing back into my old life, anchored by the comforting weight of predictability.
I arrive at Dr. Shields’s town house a few minutes early, but I wait until six on the dot to press the buzzer. I know exactly what I’m going to say. I’m not even going to take off my coat.
Dr. Shields comes to the door quickly, but instead of greeting me, she holds up an index finger. Her cell phone is pressed to her ear.
“Mmm-hmm,” she says into it as she gestures for me to come inside.
She leads me into the library. What can I do but follow?
I look around the room while she continues listening to whoever is on the other end of the line. Atop a Steinway piano is a bouquet of white flowers. One petal has fallen onto the glossy black lid. Dr. Shields follows my gaze and walks over to pluck it off.
She smooths it between her fingertips, her other hand still holding the phone.
Then I see the bronze sculpture of a motorcycle. I jerk my eyes away before Dr. Shields notices me staring at it.
“Thank you for your assistance,” Dr. Shields says as she briefly exits the room. I glance around, looking for more clues, but there are only a few paintings, a built-in bookshelf lined with hardbacks, and a glass bowl filled with bright oranges on the coffee table.
When she returns, Dr. Shields isn’t holding the petal or her phone.
“I have your check, Jessica,” she says. But she doesn’t give it to me. Instead, she stretches out her arms. For a frozen moment I think she’s trying to hug me. Then she says, “Let me take your coat.”
“Oh, I can’t stay long,” I say. I clear my throat. “I know this is sort of abrupt and it wasn’t an easy decision, but with all that is going on with my family I think I need to go home. I’m heading there on Friday and I’m going to stay through the holidays.”
Dr. Shields doesn’t react.
I keep babbling: “You know, they’re not even going to Florida this year. Things are really hard for them. I’ve given it a lot of thought and I may even need to move back for a bit. I wanted to thank you in person for everything.”
“I see.” Dr. Shields sits down on the sofa and gestures to the seat next to her. “That is a big decision. I know how hard you’re trying to build a life here.”
It’s a struggle to remain standing.
“I’m sorry, I’m meeting someone, so . . .”
“Oh,” Dr. Shields says. The silver in her voice hardens into steel: “A date?”
“No, no.” I shake my head. “Just Lizzie.”
Why am I telling her this? It’s like I can’t break the pattern of revealing myself to her.
My phone rings, startling me.
I don’t reach into my pocket to answer; I’ll be out of here in two minutes and can call whoever it is back. Then the thought strikes me that it could be Thomas.
It rings again, the shrill peal cutting through the silence.
“Answer it,” Dr. Shields says easily.
My stomach clenches. If I pull it out, will she be able to see the screen or hear the conversation?
It rings a third time.
“We don’t have any secrets, Jessica. Do we?”
It’s like I’m mesmerized by her; I’m unable to summon the will to disobey. My hand is shaking when I pull it out of my jacket pocket.
I see the little picture of my mother on the screen and I can’t help it; I sink into the chair opposite Dr. Shields.
“Mom,” I say, my voice almost a croak.
It feels like I’m being pinned down by Dr. Shields’s stare. My limbs are leaden.
“I can’t believe it!” my mother cries.
In the background, I hear Becky yell: “Florida! We’re going to the ocean!”
“What?” I gasp.
The corners of Dr. Shields’s lips curve into a smile.
“A messenger just delivered the package from the travel agency a few minutes ago! Oh, Jess, your boss is so wonderful to do this! What a surprise!”
I can’t form the words to answer. My mind feels too sluggish to keep up with the events whirling around me.
“I didn’t know about it. What was in the package?” I finally ask.
“Three airplane tickets to Florida and a brochure for the resort where we’ll be staying,” my mom gushes. “It looks so beautiful!”
Three tickets. Not four.
Dr. Shields reaches out and picks an orange from the bowl on the coffee table between us. She inhales the scent.
I can’t stop staring at her.
“I’m so sorry you won’t be joining us,” my mom says. “Your boss wrote us such a nice note explaining that you need to work, but that she’ll make sure you won’t be alone on Christmas Day, that you’ll be going to her home to celebrate.”
My throat tightens. It’s difficult to breathe.
“She’s obviously so fond of you,” my mom says over the sound of Becky’s happy laughter. “I’m really proud you’ve found such a great new job.”
“It’s a pity you’ll be needed here over the holidays,” Dr. Shields says softly.
I can barely choke out the words. “I’ve got to run, Mom. But I love you.”
Dr. Shields sets down the orange. She reaches into her pocket.
I lower my phone and stare at her.
“Their flight leaves tomorrow night,” Dr. Shields says. Her voice is so precise; each word is like a musical chime. “I guess you won’t be going home on Friday after all.”
You can’t just leave someone like her, Thomas had said in the frozen park.
“Jessica?” Dr. Shields pulls her hand out of her pocket. “Your check.”
Without thinking, I take it.
I pull my eyes away from her probing gaze. They land on the bowl of bright fruit.
Then I realize the oranges are the same kind I used to sell every December for our high school’s annual fund-raiser: Navel oranges. From Florida.