Page 58 of Someone Knows

“It was never clear what exactly had occurred.Your neighbor heard yelling and found you in the hallway, screaming at a man. He chased him away with a baseball bat.”

I shake my head.God.I don’t remember that, either.

Dr. Sterling continues. “We gave you some benzodiazepines to help you sleep. The hospital kept you on a psychiatric hold for a few days. But once we determined you weren’t a threat to yourself or others, we had no legal basis to keep you. You came to one follow-up appointment here at the office, but didn’t continue treatment after that.”

“Did I tell you anything at the appointment?”

“You shared that you’d once had a relationship with an older man. And that he . . . used to make you kneel. Apparently, the night your neighbor intervened, you’d had a date who tried to make you . . . pleasure him from that position, and you got upset. It triggered you.”

An instant headache forms, and I rub at my temple.I told someone about Mr. Sawyer?“Did I say anything else about the older man?”

Dr. Sterling shakes her head. “I got the feeling there was more to that relationship than you cared to discuss. But you didn’t want to talk about it, or anything related to growing up in Louisiana, or your time in Florida before moving to New York.”

“My . . . time in Florida?”

She nods. “You said you’d spent a few weeks there before coming to the city.”

Jesus.A period of my life is blacked out. I guess that’s why I thought Jocelyn went to Florida. I suppose she did . . . I take a minute, trying to absorb everything—all the new pieces of the puzzle.

After a while, Dr. Sterling sets the file on her lap back on the table and leans forward. “Has something specific happened recently that brought you in today? Or have your memory issues just gotten worse?”

I’m torn on how to answer. I don’t want toreveal too much, but I also need to understand what’s going on in my head. Vague is best here. “Recently I was reminded of something bad that happened to a friend of mine two decades ago. At leastI thoughtit happened to her. Except now . . . I’m not sure the friend exists. Sheneverexisted. I’m pretty sure it happened . . . to me.”

Dr. Sterling nods. “Our brains are very protective of us. After a trauma, we can sometimes suppress memories, or even create false ones. It’s called dissociative amnesia.”

She tries to get me to talk more about the traumatic event, but I keep redirecting and asking questions about what she’s called dissociative amnesia.Will everything come back at some point? Is there a way to speed that up? Does having it once mean it could happen again?By the time the soft buzzer on the clock on the table between us goes off, I’m drained. Not that I wasn’t before, but now it feels like I might not be able to get off this couch.

Dr. Sterling stops the alarm and lifts her notepad. “I know this was a lot to take in this morning. How are you feeling right now?”

“Like I wish I was a polar bear and could go into hibernation for a few months.”

She smiles. “I’d love to set up another appointment. I think we could work through some of the issues we’ve touched upon today.”

“Can I think about it?”

She nods and stands. “Of course.”

I extend my hand. “Thank you for making time to see me.”

“I will always see a patient in crisis. But I hope this isn’t goodbye, Elizabeth. I really do think I can help.”

I smile politely. I’m sure she could. The problem is, who would she help . . . Elizabeth or Jocelyn?

CHAPTER

28

The days start to blur, one after another—climbing out of bed after a restless night, chugging coffee to garner enough energy to shower, slathering on layers of makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Even if I’m in shambles on the inside, I have to force a few bites of food—I’ve lost eight pounds and counting—have to make my way to work and answer emails, teach classes, grade papers.

I may not know what’s real and what’s not, but I willnotlose my job. At least today is a Tuesday, which means basic English all day. I can do that in my sleep. Three classes in a giant lecture hall, all freshmen ignoring me while I teach the basics of composition. I blow out a breath, adjust my glasses, drink my fourth coffee of the morning, and stare out my office window. I watch the campus below, the students walking to and fro. One stops, looks down at his phone, then up at the building I’m in—right at me, actually. I go still, suck in a breath. Is he looking for me?

Of course not.He’s about nineteen. Lost. Like they all are freshman year.

I catch the time on the clock hanging on my wall and realize I’m going to be late for my last class if I don’t get a move on. So I grab my notes, a pen, and my laptop and hurry out of my office. I try to focus on the lesson I’ll be teachingtoday as I head toward the lecture hall, think about how I can make the fundamentals of editing interesting in some way. But my mind drifts, circles back to the same place it’s gone for days.

I’m Jocelyn.

The words echo in my head, take my breath away.

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