An Anonymous Girl (20 page)

It begins with a call to Thomas’s cell phone right before we are supposed to meet.

“Lydia,” he says, pleasure lacing his voice. What would it be like to live the rest of my life without hearing it in all of its incarnations, slightly scratchy when he wakes up in the morning, soft and tender during intimate moments, and masculine and passionate when he cheers for the Giants?

Thomas confirms that he is at the Met Breuer, waiting for my arrival.

However, the pleasure in
his tone disappears when he learns a work emergency will require cancelation of our plans to view one of his favorite photographer’s exhibits.

But he can hardly complain. He called off a date just over a week ago.

The exhibit will only be there through the weekend; Thomas won’t want to miss it.

“You can tell me about it at dinner on Saturday,” Thomas is told.

Now you are both in
place, set on a collision course.

All that remains is the waiting.

The condition of waiting is universal: We wait for traffic lights to change from red to green, for the grocery store line to advance, for the results of a medical test.

But the wait for you to arrive and relay what happened at the museum, Jessica, isn’t measurable by any standard unit of time.

Often the most effective
psychological studies are rooted in deception. For example, a subject can be led to believe he or she is being evaluated for one behavior when, in fact, the psychologist has engineered this decoy to measure something else entirely.

Take the Asch Conformity Study: College students thought they were participating in a simple perceptual task with other students when, in actuality, they were placed
one at a time in a group along with actors. The students were shown a card with a vertical line on it, then another card with three more lines. When asked to say out loud which lines matched in length, the students consistently provided the same answer as the actors, even when the actors picked one of the clearly incorrect lines. The student subjects believed they were being tested on perception,
but what was actually being assessed was adherence to conformity.

You assume you are visiting the Met Breuer to look at photographs. But your opinion of the exhibit is of no concern.

It is 11:17
A.M.

That particular exhibit will be uncrowded at this time of day; only a few people should be viewing the artwork.

You will have seen Thomas by now. And he, you.

Sitting down is an
impossibility.

A hand is run along the row of books filling the white wood built-in shelf, even though the spines are already perfectly aligned.

The single legal-size folder on the desk is moved slightly to the right, centering it more precisely.

The tissues on the table beside the couch are replenished.

The clock is checked again and again.

Finally, 11:30. It is over.

The length of the office is sixteen steps, back and forth.

11:39.

The far window affords a view over the entranceway; it is checked with every pass by that corner.

11:43.

You should be here by now.

A check in the mirror, a reapplication of lipstick. The edges of the sink are cold and hard. The reflection in the mirror confirms the facade is in place. You will suspect nothing.

11:47.

The buzzer sounds.

You are finally here.

A slow, measured breath. Then another.

You smile as the inner door to the office is opened. Your cheeks are flushed from the cold, and your hair is windblown. You radiate the full bloom of youth. Your presence serves as a reminder of time’s inexorable cruelty. Someday you, too, will be pulled toward its cusp.

What did he think
when he encountered you instead of me?

“It’s like we’re twins,” you say.

You touch your cashmere wrap by way of explanation.

My laugh is forced. “I see . . . it’s perfect for such a blustery day.”

You settle into the love seat, now your preferred spot.

“Jessica, tell me about your experience at the museum.”

The prompt is delivered matter-of-factly. There can be no research
bias. Your report needs to be unpolluted.

You begin: “Well, I have to tell you I was a few minutes late.”

You glance down, avoiding my eyes. “There was a woman who was hit by a cab and I stopped to help her. But I called an ambulance and these other people took over and I rushed to the exhibit. For a second I wondered if she was part of the test.” You give an awkward little laugh, then
blunder on: “It was hard to tell where I was supposed to start, so I just went to the first picture that caught my eye.”

You are speaking too quickly; you are summarizing.

“Take it more slowly, Jessica.”

Your posture slumps.

“I’m sorry, it just threw me. I didn’t see the accident, but I saw her lying on the street right after . . .”

Your anxiety must be indulged. “How upsetting,”
you are told. “It was good of you to help.”

You nod; some of the tension eases from your rigid posture.

“Why don’t you just take a deep breath, then we can proceed.”

You unwind the wrap and place it on the seat next to you.

“I’m okay,” you say. Your tone is tempered now.

“Describe what happened in chronological order after you entered the exhibit. Don’t leave out any detail,
no matter how inconsequential it may seem,” you are told.

You speak of the French couple, the docent and her tourists, and your impression of Alexander’s decision to photograph in black-and-white to emphasize the form of the vehicles.

You pause.

“To be honest, I really didn’t understand what made the photographs special. So I asked this guy who seemed really into them why he liked
them.”

A hitch in the pulse. An almost uncontrollable surge of queries.

“I see. And what did he say?”

You recount the exchange.

It is as though Thomas’s deep voice is reverberating through the office, mingling with your higher tones. When you spoke, did he notice the rounded cupid’s bow on your upper lip? The smoky sweep of your eyelashes?

A slight ache forms in my hand. My
grasp on the pen is eased.

The next question must be chosen with exquisite care.

“And then did your conversation with him continue?”

“Yeah, he was nice.”

A brief, involuntary smile alights on your face. The memory now gripping you is a pleasurable one.

“He came up to me a minute later when I was looking at the next photograph.”

There were only two possible outcomes in this
scenario. The first was that Thomas would pay no attention to you. The second, that he would.

Although the latter was repeatedly envisioned, its power is nevertheless devastating.

Thomas, with his sandy hair and the smile that starts in his eyes, the one that promises everything will be okay, could not resist you.

Our marriage dwelled within a lie; it was built on a foundation of quicksand.

The swelling rage and deep disappointment do not reveal themselves. Not yet.

You continue to describe the conversation about the reflection of the rider in the motorcycle mirror. You are stopped when you begin to detail how the alarm on your phone sounded.

You are jumping ahead to your exit from the museum. You must be led backward, to the room where you and Thomas met.

The question
has to be asked, even though it seems a foregone conclusion that Thomas found you attractive, that he sought a way to prolong your contact.

You have been trained to be honest in this space. Your foundational sessions have led us to this pivotal moment.

“The sandy-haired man . . . Would you—”

You are shaking your head.

“Huh?” you interject. “You mean the man I was talking to about
the photographs?”

It is imperative that any confusion be eliminated.

“Yes,” you are told. “The one in the bomber jacket.”

Your expression grows perplexed. You shake your head again.

Your next words send the room spinning.

Something has gone deeply wrong.

“His hair wasn’t light,” you say. “It was dark brown. Almost black, really.”

You never met Thomas at the museum.
The man you encountered was someone else entirely.

Friday, December 14

On the surface, it’s business as usual: the Germ-X, the Altoids, my arrival five minutes before the appointed time.

It’s Friday night, and I have two clients left before I wrap up work. But neither of these appointments was scheduled by BeautyBuzz.

These are women Dr. Shields has selected, as part of her study.

When I went to her
office yesterday after the museum, Dr. Shields seemed a little confused about my conversation with the guy in the bomber jacket. Then she excused herself to go the ladies’ room. When she came back a few minutes later, I tried to tell her about the rest of my visit, how I put more money in the collection box and saw no sign of the accident when I left the exhibit.

But Dr. Shields cut me off;
she only wanted to focus on this new experiment.

She explained again that these women had been subjects in an earlier morality survey and had signed a waiver agreeing to a broad range of possible follow-up trials. But they don’t know why I’m really going to show up at their homes.

At least I do, or I think I do. This is the first time I’ve been told what is being evaluated before I go
into an experiment.

I’m relieved I’m not going in blind, but it still feels strange. Maybe that’s because the stakes seem so small. Dr. Shields wants to know if these clients will tip me more generously since the service is free. I’m to collect some basic demographic data on them—their ages, their marital status, their occupations—for her to include when she writes a paper on her research,
or whatever it is she’s using the information for.

I wonder why she needs me to confirm these details. Wouldn’t she or her assistant, Ben, have gotten it prior to letting them into the study, like they did with me?

Before I enter the Chelsea apartment building and take the elevator to the twelfth floor, I reach into my pocket for my phone.

Dr. Shields has stressed the importance of
one more instruction.

I press the button to dial her number.

The call is connected.

“Hi, I’m about to go in,” I say.

“I’m going to mute myself now, Jessica,” she says.

A moment later I don’t hear anything, not even her breathing.

I press
Speaker.

When Reyna opens the door to her apartment, my first thought is that she is pretty much what I expected when I envisioned
the other women in Dr. Shields’s study: early thirties, with shiny dark hair in a blunt cut at her collarbone. Her apartment is furnished with an artistic flair—a giant, swirling stack of books serves as an end table, the walls are a rich maroon, and a funky menorah that looks like an antique rests on the windowsill.

For the next forty-five minutes, I try to weave all the questions Dr. Shields
needs me to ask. I learn Reyna is thirty-four, originally from Austin, and that she’s a jewelry designer. She points to a few of the pieces she is wearing as I select a dove-gray eyeshadow, including the eternity ring she designed for her wedding to her partner.

“Eleanor and I have matching ones,” she says. She’d already told me that they’re attending a friend’s thirty-fifth birthday party
tonight.

Reyna is so easy to talk to I almost forget this isn’t one of my usual jobs.

We chat a little more, then she goes to check her reflection in a mirror.

When she comes back, she hands me two twenties. “I can’t believe I won this,” she says. “Which company do you work for again?”

I hesitate. “One of the big ones, but I’ve been thinking about going freelance.”

“I’ll definitely
call you again,” Reyna says. “I still have your number.”

But that number is to the phone Dr. Shields had me use. I just smile and pack up quickly. When I’m back on the sidewalk, I immediately take Dr. Shields off speakerphone and put my cell phone to my ear.

“She gave me forty dollars,” I say. “Most clients only tip ten.”

“Wonderful,” Dr. Shields says. “How long until you’re at the
next appointment?”

I check the address. It’s just a quick cab ride up the West Side Highway.

“It’s in Hell’s Kitchen,” I say. I’m shivering; the temperature has plummeted in the past hour. “So I should be there by around seven-thirty.”

“Perfect,” she says. “Call me when you arrive.”

The second woman is unlike any other client I’ve worked on. It’s hard to imagine how she would have
gotten into Dr. Shields’s study.

Tiffani has bleached blond hair and is rail thin, but not like the fancy Upper East Side moms.

She starts chattering the minute I wheel my case into her tiny entryway. It’s a studio with a minuscule kitchen and a couch pulled out into a bed. Bottles of liquor line the kitchen cabinet and the sink is full of dirty dishes. The television is blaring. I glance
over and see Jimmy Stewart on the screen in
It’s a Wonderful Life.
It’s the only sign of the holidays in this dark, dreary apartment.

“I’ve never won anything!” Tiffani says. Her voice is high and almost shrill. “Not even a stuffed animal at the fair!”

I’m about to ask about her plans for the night when another voice comes from the rumpled covers on the sofa bed: “I fucking love this movie!”

I start, then look over to see a guy lounging against the cushions.

Tiffani follows my gaze: “My boyfriend,” she says, but she doesn’t introduce me. The guy doesn’t even look over, and the blue light from the screen that washes over his face blurs his features.

“Going anywhere special tonight?” I ask.

“I’m not sure, maybe a bar,” Tiffani says.

I open my case on the floor; there’s
nowhere to spread out. Already I know I don’t want to spend any longer here than I need to.

“Can we turn on a light?” I ask Tiffani.

She reaches for a switch and her boyfriend reacts instantly, throwing a hand over his eyes. I catch a glimpse of sharp limbs and a tattoo sleeve. “Can’t you guys do that in the bathroom?”