An Anonymous Girl (39 page)

I reach into my purse and pull out the funeral program that Mrs. Voss gave me, the one bearing April’s name and the sketch of the dove.

I slowly unfold it, smoothing out the paper.

There’s one vital difference between it and the scene on the bench just a few feet away from me.

It’s like when I was sent to the bar at the Sussex Hotel and I talked to
two men: The detail that distinguished them, the wedding ring, was the one that really mattered.

The quote on the bench is different from the quote on the funeral program.

I read it on the program again, even though I know the line from the Beatles song by heart:

And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.

If Thomas had sung those words on the night he and
April had met, she wouldn’t have asked her mother about the line’s origin. She would have known they were lyrics from a song.

But if she had merely seen the quote on his coffee mug, as I had, her curiosity might have been piqued.

I close my eyes and try to remember the exact layout of Thomas’s office. It contained a few chairs. But no matter which one a visitor claimed, they would have
a clear view of his desk.

April
had
been in Thomas’s office, the one just blocks away from Insomnia Cookies.

But she didn’t go there to stalk him.

There’s only one other reason that could explain it, and also answer the question of why Thomas went to such lengths to conceal their one-night stand. Why he’s still so terrified of anyone finding out.

Mrs. Voss told me that April had
been in and out of counseling.

April didn’t meet Thomas for the first time at a bar.

April met Thomas when she went to see him for therapy, as a client.

Monday, December 24

On the ninety-minute car ride back to Manhattan, sleep is feigned to avoid conversation with Thomas.

Perhaps he welcomes this: Instead of turning on the radio, he drives in silence, his stare fixed straight ahead. His hands grip the steering wheel. Thomas’s rigid posture is atypical, too. During long rides, he usually sings along to the
music and taps out the beat on his thigh.

When he pulls up in front of the town house, my awakening is simulated; a blinking of the eyes, a quiet yawn.

There is no discussion about the sleeping arrangements for tonight. By mutual, unspoken agreement, Thomas will stay at his rental apartment.

Brief good-byes are exchanged, along with a perfunctory kiss.

The hum of his engine fades
as his car moves farther and farther away.

Then there is only a deep, desolate silence in the town house.

The new deadbolt requires a key to unlock the door from the outside.

But from the inside, a turn of the oval knob is all that is required to engage the lock.

One year ago, Christmas Eve unfolded so differently: After our return from Litchfield, Thomas built a fire in the hearth
and insisted that we each open a gift. He was like a young boy, his eyes shining, as he selected the perfect package to place in my hands.

His wrapping was elaborate but messy, with too much Scotch tape and ribbons.

His presents were always heartfelt.

This one was a first edition of my favorite Edith Wharton book.

Three nights ago, after you reported that Thomas had rebuffed your
advances at Deco Bar, hope swelled; it seemed this sweet ritual could continue. An original photograph of the Beatles by Ron Galella had been purchased, framed, and carefully encased in layers of tissues and bright paper for Thomas.

Now it sits by the white poinsettia in the living room.

The holidays are the most wrenching time to be alone.

A wife regards the flat, rectangular present
that will not be unwrapped tonight after all.

A mother stares at the stocking bearing the name Danielle that will never be opened by her daughter.

And a different mother experiences her first Christmas without her only child, the daughter who took her life six months ago.

Regret feels more pronounced in the stillness.

All it takes is a few taps of my fingertips against the computer’s
keyboard. Then, a text is sent to Mrs. Voss:

In honor of April’s memory, a holiday donation has been made to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Thinking of you. Sincerely, Dr. Shields.

The gift isn’t meant to appease Mrs. Voss, who is desperate to see the file labeled
KATHERINE APRIL VOSS
. The contribution is merely a spontaneous gesture.

April’s mother is not alone in
craving the story of what happened in April’s final hours: An investigator has formally requested my records, and threatened the possibility of a subpoena. Thomas, too, exhibited excessive curiosity about April’s file after he was informed that the Voss family had hired a private detective.

Because the absence of notes from our last encounter would be suspicious, a truncated version of them
was created. They held the truth; this was critical, given the slim possibility that April might have called or texted a friend just before her death, but the accounting of our interaction was much softer, and less detailed:

You disappointed me deeply, Katherine April Voss. You were invited in . . . Then you made the revelation that shattered everything, that put you in a completely different
light:
I made a mistake. I slept with a married man . . .
You were told you would never be welcomed into the town house again . . . The conversation continued. At the conclusion of it, you were given a farewell hug . . .

The substitute notes were created immediately after Subject 5’s funeral service.

It is understandable that her mother covets them.

But no one will ever be able to
view the true recording of what happened that evening.

Just like April, those notes no longer exist.

A single, lit match devoured those pages from my yellow legal pad. Flames greedily consumed my words, lapping at the blue-inked cursive.

Before those notes turned to ash, here is what they contained:

SUBJECT 5/ June 8, 7:36
P
.
M
.

April knocks on the door of the town house six
minutes after the appointed time.

This is not uncharacteristic; she has a relaxed approach to punctuality.

Chablis, a cluster of purple grapes, and a wedge of Brie are offered in the kitchen.

April perches on a stool, eager to discuss her upcoming interview at a small public relations firm. She gives me a printout of her résumé and requests advice about how to explain her somewhat
checkered job history.

After a few minutes of encouraging conversation, my slim gold bangle, the one April has repeatedly admired, is slid onto her wrist. “For confidence,” she is told. “Keep it.

The tenor of the evening abruptly changes.

April breaks eye contact. She stares down at her lap.

At first it seems she is overcome with positive emotion.

But her voice wobbles: “I
feel like this job will give me a fresh start.”

“You deserve one,” she is told. Her wineglass is topped off.

She slides the bangle up and down on her forearm. “You’re so good to me.” But her tone doesn’t contain gratitude; instead something more nuanced infuses it.

Something not immediately identifiable.

Before it can be discerned, April drops her face into her hands and begins
to sob.

“I’m sorry,” she says through her tears. “It’s that guy I told you about . . .”

She is obviously referring to the older man she brought home from a bar weeks ago, and grew obsessed with. April’s unhealthy fixation has already been managed through hours of informal counseling; her regression is disappointing.

My impatience has to be hidden: “I thought you were through with all
of that.”

“I was,” April says, her tear-streaked face still lowered.

There must be some unresolved detail that is keeping her from moving on; it is time to unearth it. “Let’s go back to the beginning and get you over this man once and for all. You walked into a bar and saw him sitting there, right?” she is prompted. “What happened next?”

April’s foot begins to twirl like a propeller.
“The thing is . . . I didn’t tell you everything,” she begins haltingly. She takes a long sip of wine. “I actually met him for the first time when I went to his office for a consult. He’s a therapist. I didn’t end up seeing him again for counseling, though, it was just that one session.”

This is utterly shocking.

A therapist who sleeps with a client, however briefly April was under his
care, should lose his license. Clearly, this morally bereft man took advantage of an emotionally fragile young woman who came to him for help.

April looks at my hands, which are clenched into fists. “It was partly my fault,” she says quickly. “I pursued him.”

April’s arm is touched. “No, it was not your fault,” she is emphatically told.

She will need more help to recover from her belief
that she is to blame. There was an imbalance of power; she was sexually exploited. But for now she is allowed to continue with the story that weighs so heavily on her.

“And I didn’t just bump into him at a bar like I said,” she admits. “I had a big crush on him after that initial session. So I . . . I followed him one night after he left his office.”

The rest of her description of her
encounter with the therapist matches her original telling: She saw him sitting alone at a table for two in a hotel bar; she approached. They ended the evening in bed at her apartment. She phoned and texted him the next day, but he didn’t reply for twenty- four hours. When he finally did, it was clear he was no longer interested. She persisted with more phone calls, texts, and invitations to meet.
He was polite but never wavered.

April recounts her story choppily, with pauses in between her sentences, as if she is choosing each word with great care.

“He is an abhorrent person,” April is told. “It doesn’t matter who initiated things. He took advantage of you and violated your trust. What he did bordered on criminal.”

April shakes her head. No,” she whispers. “I also messed up.”

She can barely choke out her words. “Please don’t be mad at me. I never admitted this to you. I was too ashamed. But . . . he’s actually married.”

A sharp intake of breath accompanies the terrible revelation:
She’s a liar.

The very first thing April did, before we even met in person, was promise to be honest. She signed an agreement to that effect when she became Subject 5.

“You
should have revealed this to me much earlier, April.”

The counseling April received was predicated on the assumption that the man who spurned her after she brought him home to her bed was single. So many hours, wasted. Had she been forthcoming about the origin of their relationship, and his marital status, the situation would have been handled very differently.

April isn’t the victim,
as was believed only moments ago. She shares culpability.

“I didn’t exactly lie to you, I just left that part out,” she protests. Incredibly, April sounds defensive now. She is shunning responsibility for her actions.

There are crumbs beneath April’s stool; she must have been aware that when she bit into a cracker, she scattered them. But she just left them, another one of her messes,
for someone else to clean up.

My finger is placed beneath April’s chin and gentle pressure is applied so that her head is lifted and eye contact established. “That was a serious omission,” she is told. “I am deeply disappointed.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” April blurts. She begins crying again and wipes her nose on her sleeve. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long . . . I didn’t know how much
I’d like you.”

A frisson ot alarm sends a jolt through my body.

Her words are not logical.

Her anticipated feelings for me should not have dictated what she revealed about the man she slept with. There should have been no connection at all.

The nickname Thomas gave me years ago, the falcon, is significant now.

You can pick up on a seemingly throwaway comment by a client and
trace it all the way back to the source of why they came in for therapy, even if they don’t realize it themselves,
he said once, admiration ringing through his voice.
It’s like you have X-ray vision. You see through people.

A falcon homes in on the slightest undulation in a field of grass; that is the signal it is time to swoop in.

April’s discordant words are the slight ripple in a verdant
landscape.

She is considered more closely. What is she hiding?

If she is frightened, she will shut down. She must be coaxed into the illusion of safety.

My tone is gentle now; my utterance deliberately echoes hers: “I didn’t know how much I’d like you, either.”

Her wineglass is topped off again. “I’m sorry if I sounded harsh. This information just came as a surprise. Now, tell
me more about him,” she is encouraged.

“He was really kind and handsome,” she begins. Her shoulders rise as she takes in a breath. “He had, um, red hair . . .”

The first clue emerges: She is lying about his appearance.

A common misconception, perpetuated in movies and television shows, is that individuals engaged in a falsehood reliably exhibit certain tics: They look up and to the
left as they try to conjure a story. When they speak, they either avoid eye contact, or engage in it excessively. They bite their nails, or literally cover their mouths as a subconscious symptom of their unease. But these tells are not universal.

April’s giveaways are more subtle. They begin with a change in her respiration. Her shoulders visibly rise, signaling that she is taking deeper inhalations,
and her voice grows slightly shallow. This is because her heart rate and blood flow change; she is literally out of breath due to these physiological alterations. She has exhibited these signs before: once, when she tried to pretend her father’s frequent travel and general absence from her life wasn’t painful, and again when she claimed that it no longer bothered her that she had been
shunned by the popular girls in high school, even though she was so traumatized by her ostracization that she swallowed pills in a suicide attempt during her junior year.