On Borrowed Time (8 page)

“Do we know anything else about her, or her husband?”

She shook her head. “Not yet; let me scout around online. See what I can find out.”

It didn’t make sense to me that some woman I didn’t know would have a reason to fear a phone call from me, but Allie seemed to have a strong instinct about it, so I was fine with her following up on it.

Certainly I wasn’t doing any better; all of the calls I was making were benign and seemed to have nothing to do with either a story I might be working on or Jen’s disappearance.

For example, I apparently had called a wine shop on Madison Avenue in Manhattan, though I am much more of a beer drinker. And I had placed two calls to Jefferson Auto Parts, a dealership near Damariscotta, Maine. They didn’t have any record of me buying anything from them, and didn’t seem to care much one way or the other. Not exactly suspicious stuff.

Allie came over, having finished with her own calls, and watched me make the rest of mine. As I always did, I took meticulous notes as I did so.

“What are you writing?” she asked, trying to read them over my shoulder. My handwriting is indecipherable to anyone but me, so she didn’t have a chance.

“Nothing important, I’m afraid.”

“So why the notes?”

“I’m a journalist. That’s what we do; we write everything down, and then we write about what we wrote.”

My last call was to a 212 area code, which meant it was located in Manhattan. An answering machine picked up.

“This is Dr. Philip Garber. If you are calling between the hours of nine
A.M.
and five
P.M.
, I am likely in session and unable to come to the phone.”

The message then went on to list numbers to call if it was an emergency, and then an invitation to leave a message for a return call. I left my name and number, and hung up.

I didn’t have that much to base it on, but based on the tone of voice, the reference to a possible emergency, and the use of the word “session,” I had a hunch that I had reached a psychotherapist’s phone, which was intriguing.

All I had to do was Google Dr. Garber’s name to know that I was right. Not only was he a shrink, but he was apparently a shrink of some stature: the head of a psychoanalytic institute. There were also a bunch of articles about him being the keynote speaker at some international conference of shrinkdom.

By this point it came as no surprise to me that I had no recollection of ever talking to, or even hearing of, Dr. Garber. It had already become crystal clear that I only remembered those things that did not happen, while completely blocking out everything that did.

Nothing else eventful came out of the phone numbers, which was a disappointment to me. I guess I was hoping to reach a number where a receptionist would answer with the perky message,
Welcome to the Explanation Institute. Please hold for a counselor who will explain all the insanely bizarre things that have been happening to you
.

Allie had a decidedly different point of view about the day’s events. “I really feel like we’re getting somewhere,” she said.

It was good for me to have someone with that level of irrationality around. Ever since Jen disappeared, I’d been the lunatic in whichever room I’ve been in. Comments like Allie’s gave me the opportunity to play the cynical realist, which certainly helped me widen my range.

“Where might we be getting?” I asked.

“If Julie was with you all that time, then you’re the key. We need to know what happened to you. And now I think we’ve got some leads.”

“We do?”

She nodded vigorously. “Susan Donovan and that shrink, Garber.”

“You realize that they could have nothing to do with this?”

She looked at me like I was nuts; it’s a look I’d come to recognize. “What good does it do for us to spend time and energy thinking like that?”

I didn’t have a good answer for that, so I didn’t offer one. Instead, I asked, “Do you need help checking into Susan Donovan?”

She shook her head. “Not right now. I’ll get started looking online right away. I’m really good on a computer.”

“Okay; find out why Susan Donovan is afraid of me. You want to grab an early dinner?”

“You don’t have to babysit me, Richard. I’m not here to take over your life.”

“Is that a no?”

She smiled. “Of course not. I just don’t want to become a burden.”

“That doesn’t seem to be a clear and present danger.”

“Good,” she said. “So where’s all this great Italian food I hear New York has?”

I took her to Peppino’s, a terrific Italian restaurant down on Hudson Street in the West Village. It is one of hundreds, if not thousands, of New York restaurants that are simultaneously popular and undiscovered. By that I mean that most New Yorkers have never heard of them, yet they’re always crowded.

We arrived without a reservation at five-thirty, a time when no self-respecting New Yorker would be having dinner. That’s why we were able to get in, though we were told that there was a reservation for our table at seven-thirty, so we had to be out by then.

The waiter came over to the table to tell us the specials. It turned out to be a five-minute recitation of at least fifteen dishes, mentioning every ingredient in each dish. His memorization of it was fairly amazing; I kept looking around to see if there was a hidden teleprompter.

We decided when we sat down that we would try to talk about something other than the person missing from our lives, but that vow lasted less time than it took to recite the specials. Neither of us could think about anything else, so it was only natural that we talk about it.

We didn’t figure anything out, of course, but it was still the most pleasant evening I had spent in a while. Allie was fun to be with, upbeat but not venturing into the dreaded “perky-land,” and whip-smart. She reminded me so much of Jen, yet surprisingly being with her didn’t increase my pain.

After dinner, we took a cab back uptown and I dropped her off at her hotel before heading home. On the way, she looked out the window at the busy streets and endless lights and said, “Someday I’m going to love this city.”

I knew exactly what she meant. Now was not the time that she was free to love anything, not with the constant pain and emptiness we were both feeling.

When I got back to my apartment, the message light on my phone was flashing
3
, but the first one was the only one I cared about.

“Richard, this is Philip Garber. I’m very glad you called. Please call me back at any hour, or if you prefer, I have an opening tomorrow at eleven
A.M.
, so I could see you in my office. I hope you’re well.”

I played the message back four times, taking in every nuance. He called me Richard, which indicated to me that he knew me from more than my phone call. He referred to himself as “Philip” rather than “Mr.” or “Dr.” Garber, which felt like another sign of familiarity.

More importantly, he seemed very pleased to hear from me and anxious to speak with me, which certainly came as a surprise. The fact that he was leaving time open to see me also felt significant, as was the fact that he didn’t bother to give his office address.

Maybe I’d been there before, even though I didn’t know it. Maybe he’d been my shrink for twenty years. Maybe he was my cousin or brother.

Maybe Philip Garber would know what was going on with my life.

The Lexington Institute for Psychoanalytic Training was located in a four-story brownstone on East Sixty-eighth Street, not surprisingly just off Lexington Avenue. It was the kind of building that very, very rich people might call home, and was probably worth many millions, even in a down market. Training shrinks must be profitable.

I did have a vague feeling that the building was familiar to me, though I had no recollection of ever being there. I considered it possible that there was a memory that was repressed but near the surface. Maybe I could get in touch with it.

Or maybe not.

The receptionist told me that Dr. Garber’s office was on the third floor, and that I could either take the spiral staircase or the elevator. The elevator was so small that I figured I couldn’t inhale on the ride up, so I took the stairs. Another receptionist-type person was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, and she brought me directly to Garber’s office.

Philip Garber was younger than I expected, probably no older than forty. He greeted me with a handshake and a smile that seemed meant to be soothing. “Richard, thanks for coming in. Nice to see you again,” said the man I had never seen before in my life.

In the hallway right near his office was a coffee machine, and he walked toward it. “Still black with one sugar?” he asked, and I nodded. He definitely knew me.

I hadn’t really thought about how honest to be with him, but in the moment I decided to lay it all out there. I mean, the guy was a shrink, so he was used to interacting with psychos. Besides, he obviously already had an idea what he was dealing with, from some previous meeting we apparently had.

“I’ve got to be honest with you, Dr. Garber. I have no recollection of ever meeting you before. Or drinking your coffee. Or being in this building.”

If he was shocked to hear this, his face didn’t show it. “I see,” was all he said. “That must be very disconcerting for you.”

“I can think of stronger words,” I said, and he smiled. “Was I here?”

He nodded. “Yes, you were. Three times. For one hour each time.”

He said it with no particular affect, yet it felt like I was punched in the face. “Three times,” I repeated, because at the moment I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He pointed to a chair I had probably been in three times before; it was probably my favorite chair, and I sat in it.

I was a little nervous about what I was going to hear, so I opted for a pathetic attempt at small talk. There was a picture on Garber’s desk of him in the cockpit of a small plane, waving to the camera, so I said, “You fly?”

He smiled. “It’s a passion of mine which I indulge far too often. But let’s focus on you. Please start at the beginning.” He then opened a notepad and held a pen at the ready, and took a few notes during our talk.

“This is the beginning for me. So if you don’t mind, please tell me what we talked about when we met. Was I here as a patient?”

“You were, and we talked about some things you were feeling.”

I felt a quick flash of anger; my life was down the tubes and he was using bland shrink-talk on me. “Any chance you could be more specific? Did I talk about a woman named Jen?”

“Yes. And I should tell you that I read your article in the magazine. I considered contacting you, but decided that if you wanted to talk, you would reach out.”

“What did I say about her when I was here?”

Garber paused for a few moments, as if measuring what he should say. It made me realize that as unique as this experience was for me, it was not an everyday occurrence for him either. “You were having fantasies about her, and it was frightening you.”

“What kind of fantasies?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“You were having moments, extended moments, when you believed that she was real.”

“Was she real?”

He shook his head sadly, as if in sympathy. “No, Richard, she was not real, or at least I saw no evidence that she was. You knew that then, and that’s what you told me. You were frightened by your fantasies about her.”

His words were devastating to me, and I’m sure he could see it. “Why don’t you tell me everything?” he said. “Perhaps I can help you.”

I wasn’t looking for help; it was too late for that. I was looking for truth. “I’m insane; is that what you’re saying?”

He shook his head. “You’re not insane, Richard. You’re troubled, and you’re in pain, but there’s a way back from this. So let’s get started, shall we? How did you come to call me, if you have no recollection of having met me?”

I told him about the cell phone bill, and then I told him all about Jennifer, starting at the beginning. I was able to give him an abbreviated version, since he had read the magazine piece, but I went on to talk at length about Allie and her missing sister. He listened without saying a word.

When I finished, he asked me a few questions, mostly about how I was dealing with all this.

“Look,” I said, “I’m sure this is standard procedure. The patient talks, and you listen, and you make observations. I’m sure that’s how it went in the three sessions that I don’t remember. But that’s not why I’m here, not today. I’m here for information.”

He nodded. “If I have it, it’s yours.”

“Did I talk to you about a story I was working on?”

He thought for a while, trying to remember, then started skimming through his notepad. “Yes, though not in much detail. It was in the context of your saying that these fantasies were getting in the way of a story you were pursuing, affecting your concentration.”

“Did I say what the story was?”

He was reading from the pad now; none of this was from memory. “You mentioned a man named Lassiter. At least I had the sense it was a man; I’m not sure if you actually said that. You made a comment about returning to your journalistic roots, but you didn’t explain what you meant.”

I knew exactly what I would have meant by that. Sean Lassiter was the indirect subject of the first major story I ever worked on, though it was left to other writers to really bring it to fruition. My piece was an intimate study of a young woman who had taken a prescription medication for a kidney infection.

Within three weeks she was paralyzed, and she and her family were positive that the drug was at fault, though they did not have the resources to fully explore their legal options. We had a friend in common, so when I heard about her I wrote about her plight, and I thought that would be that.

That wasn’t that. It created a mini-stir, and set other, more experienced reporters on to the story. A scandal was uncovered, and bribery was alleged between the small, very successful biochemical company that developed the drug, and the FDA. Nothing was ever proven, but high-level people at the FDA resigned from their jobs, and the biochemical company shut down.