Chapter 7 Now

Another month alone. My new normal, as my therapist calls it.

I'm coping, I guess. But coping well? Well enough to fool Dr. Alexander. At least I think I am. But my new normal has its routine. The early morning walk for coffee. The wait for Gabriel, because despite what I told Dr. Alexander, I can't help following him. Gabriel goes to the storage unit nearly every day. And today, like every other day lately, I walk past, turn right at the little alleyway a few buildings down, and sip my coffee, scribbling in my notebook, contemplating Gabriel's secret to happiness.

After twenty minutes at the storage place, he'll head to work, and I'll take off on my newest pursuit—finding his family. Finding where their bodies are buried. I've been to ten cemeteries in the past month. Sometimes I ask an attendant and get a quick no. Other times I wander for hours, seeking out the shiny, new granite headstones, spots where the grass hasn't yet filled in as much. I could go online; there are databases of burial locations now. But I don't, and I'm not even sure why. Instead, I walk through fields of the dead, reading gravestone after gravestone until I'm sure I've examined them all. It's oddly soothing, being among the dead. Often it feels like I belong there with them, yet I'm somehow trapped in the world of the living.

I check my watch, then take one last drag of coffee in the alley. He's late today. He never takes this long at the storage stop. Twenty minutes, no more, no less, and it's been forty now. While I wait, I take out my notebook. I've already jotted down all of my normal stuff:

Walked down 23rd Street at 9 a.m.

Regular coffee stand. Same order as yesterday. Small coffee, corn muffin.

No cigarettes again today.

Did he stop smoking? Maybe the ones I saw him buy were for someone else?

Stopped at storage unit.

I flip the page and begin writing things I need from the grocery store. My appetite has come back. I suppose it should've a long time ago with the miles of walking every day.

Cheese.

Cucumbers.

Almonds.

I'm not exactly eating well-balanced meals, but at least I'm no longer living off coffee and wine, though there's still a good amount of both in my diet.

Another watch check—forty-five minutes now. Maybe I missed him? Maybe I checked my phone, read that text from my brother as Gabriel strolled by. Or maybe for once he went straight home. But it's not a holiday or between semesters. He has class today.

I sigh. Ten more minutes. I'll wait ten more minutes, then go on my way. I found a new cemetery to check, one with plots still available for purchase—maybe that's why I haven't found his family yet. Because they hadn't expected to die. Didn't have a place nearby to be buried. Or maybe he had them cremated?

Though something about cremating a child seems wrong. I can't be sure I've ever heard of such a thing. I chew the end of my pen and flip the notebook pages back to some of my early research notes.

Ellen and Rose Wright. Their names are underlined twice. Ellen had been a teacher, too, but at the local high school—English. Something they shared in common. She also coached the girls' soccer team in spring. A graduate of the University of Virginia, but originally from Rhode Island. The single picture of Rose the papers had printed was taken alongside her mother as they volunteered at a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving. Of course. Of course they were good people.

I snap the notebook shut and tuck it away. Grab my coffee cup off the ground, though it's coated in alley sludge now, brown muck dripping from the bottom. It's time to go. I must've missed him, or he went a different route, or perhaps he headed home. Pulling my purse up to my shoulder, I stride toward the sidewalk and take a left, back toward the subway.

I don't even see him before it happens.

A head-on collision—not unlike you and his wife and child—and there's no time to react. No time to stop it. I bounce off his body, lose my footing, and then I'm falling—

"Whoa, careful." A strong arm grips my elbow. My descent toward the cold concrete halts, and I look up with dread and anticipation filling my body in equal parts. Our eyes meet, and I can't stop blinking.

Gabriel Wright's lips curl in curious interest. "Are you all right?"

"No. I mean—I mean, yes." I still can't stop blinking. But at least my self-protection mechanism kicks in, and I turn my head toward the ground, shielding my face. "Excuse me. I didn't see you—"

"What were you doing in the alley?" His voice comes out bright, teasing. I have the self-awareness to feel heat rising to my cheeks, to follow his glance down the dark alleyway between two brick buildings, to see it as he must—dirty and dank and probably full of rats. My hideout for weeks now, and it never quite occurred to me to consider these aspects. I was so focused on him. And now, well, here he is.

"I'm late—but are you okay?" he asks when I don't respond. His concern sounds genuine.

"I'm fine. Thank you."

Just as fast as it happened, he's gone. I tremble with nervous energy until he disappears around the next corner. I squeeze my eyes shut—I know the route he'll take. Where he'll cross the street, where he'll stop for a quick coffee if he needs another caffeine fix. The building he'll walk inside, the exact room he lectures in. My heart pounds in my chest, and I force myself to take a few deep breaths.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Slow.

Steady.

He didn't recognize me.

Of course he wouldn't. The only opportunity he'd have had to see me was the hospital that day. And a random woman was the least of his worries when his whole family was dead. I've always been careful as I follow him. Never once has he caught sight of me. But now, after literally colliding with him, he will remember me.

A chill runs up my spine. While this must have felt like a random run-in with a complete stranger to him, it was anything but. After all, I know he orders salad frequently for lunch, probably quit smoking, and is missing the bottom button on his lightweight coat. And I know the faces of the three women he frequently grabs lunch or an intimate dinner with—

Shit.

I'm still shaking. My body hums with the need to run down the block, catch up to him, but I can't. He's seen me. This needs to stop. Here and now. I can't follow him anymore. I can't search for his wife's and child's graves, sit outside under the big oak at Columbia, wait for him to return home every evening. What I can do… is go home. So I turn on my heel and walk back the way I came, all plans abandoned. Half a block later, the hair on my arms registers the sound before I do. Footsteps. I whirl, expecting to see Gabriel behind me, expecting him to be running after me, realizing who I am. Who you are.

But no one's there. It must have been the echo of my own footsteps. Though I could've sworn otherwise. I search the sidewalk one last time. Unless he ducked down another alley, it's all in my head—like "The Tell-Tale Heart," except the stalker hears her imaginary stalker.

I go home. Straight home, don't even stop for a salad or a bagel or another coffee. I'm too freaked-out to eat. I need to hide. But when I arrive, I realize I've lost my apartment key. Not my key, actually. My husband's. My heart sinks. The one on the keychain I had made. The one I gave you the night we decided to start a family. The one that reminds me of hope and dreams and the man you were… before. I've been using it ever since… Thankfully, I still have mine on my office key ring, which is somewhere at the bottom of my purse. A useless set of keys I still carry. At least they have purpose today. So I dig them out, my hand still shaking.

Inside, I tuck myself into the spare bed—I haven't slept in our room alone yet. It still smells of Connor. I lie on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling for hours, until an alarm on my phone alerts me to the fact that if I don't get moving, I'll miss my appointment with Dr. Alexander this evening.

And then he'll have to report that to the medical board.

And then I'll never get out of this mess.

Though maybe I don't care. I don't need money. Our apartment is paid off, and I can shoplift for food and the necessities. Imagine that? No, actually, I can't. Maybe I would teach if I lost my license for good. I could work at Columbia. Dye my hair platinum blond—Gabriel seems to have a penchant for that look. Then we could grab lunch and laugh together over salads.

Lord, I'm losing it.

It's the awareness that I have to pee that eventually gets me up. And while I'm standing, I might as well put shoes on. Wash my face. Draw my coat over my shoulders. It's literally a forced, step-by-step process to get myself back out of the house when it's time to leave for my appointment. I take the train two stops, count the stairs up from the subway while climbing them, weave through the maze of people. I'm exhausted, mentally and physically, by the time I arrive. Too much thinking, too much stressing, causes potentially toxic by-products to build up in the prefrontal cortex. I've explained it to patients with paranoia a hundred times. Though I'm not the doctor today.

"Meredith, a pleasure, as always. Come in, come in." Dr. Alexander's typical greeting. But his usual polite smile wilts as he lays eyes on me. His brow furrows. "What's going on today? You seem…" He searches for a word that won't offend me.

I never judge a patient's appearance or make assumptions about their mental state of being. Better they tell me those things. But he's misstepped, and I let him struggle through it.

"A little off?" he finally finishes.

"I am." And because I have nothing left to lose, I am honest with him for the first time since our initial session. "I've been following Gabriel still. I lied to you." I tell him about the storage unit Gabriel goes to every day. The intimate meals with women. My quest to find the graves of his family. Gabriel's smiles, his laughter, the collision at the alley today.

"I just have to see it," I say.

"See what?"

"The hurt. The pain. I know it's under there somewhere. Under his smile."

Dr. Alexander's eyes roam my face. "You don't believe it's possible for him to be happy? That he could have healed. Like we've talked about."

"How could he be healed? And what's in the storage unit? Why would anyone go to a storage unit every day? You can't house live animals in them. So why?" I finish my sentence and have to take a moment to catch my breath.

"Meredith, I would like to consider why this matters. He is not your concern. What he does with his time is not your concern. So why does it matter why he goes there or what's inside?"

I open my mouth, rapidly formulating a response. "Because…" But even in my own head it sounds weak, though I say it anyway. "I have to know. I need to know."

"Know what?"

I sigh, exasperated. "I don't know."

He waits, gives me time to think, add to my response. When I don't, he shifts in his seat. "Humor me for a moment. What if Mr. Wright is happy and has moved on with his life? How would that make you feel?"

"I would be thrilled for him, of course. But he can't possibly—"

Dr. Alexander holds up a hand. "One moment, please. Let's see this through. If Mr. Wright could move on, wouldn't that help you move on?"

"I suppose…"

"Do you feel like you deserve to move on, Meredith?"

Of course not. How could I? But I see what he's trying to get at. He thinks I'm refusing to accept that Gabriel is happy as some sort of self-punishment.

After a long bout of silence, he smiles. "I'm going to answer my own question here. You do deserve to be happy, and I think this is a topic we need to discuss more in the future. For now, perhaps we can consider the consequences of your actions for a moment. How did it feel to almost get caught today?"

"It scared the living hell out of me. But also…" There had been something else, too. He hadn't recognized me, and I was glad for that, but some part of me had been disappointed. I don't tell Dr. Alexander that. "It felt like the high you get from gambling," I finally say. "Like it could go either way."

"Hmm…"

That was the wrong answer. Not what a mentally stable person would say. I know that. But it's the truth.

"I'm concerned that without more going on in your life, you're designing risky games to play. Sure, it's not drinking or drug use, but it's no less dangerous. Do you want to get caught, Meredith? Get in more trouble than you already are?"

"Of course not."

"Are you sure?"

I keep my eyes trained down. That's not what I'm doing, is it? I don't want to get caught, do I? Thoughts swirl inside my head. None of them makes sense. I have more questions than answers. But I don't want to ask Dr. Alexander any of them.

Eventually, he shifts in his seat. "Meredith?"

Our eyes meet. "Yes?"

He tilts his head. "You said you've been looking for Gabriel's family's graves?"

I nod.

"Why?"

I look away, shaking my head. "I'm not sure."

"I have to imagine it would be very upsetting to run across them. To read the short number of years a young child lived from her headstone?"

My eyes well up even thinking about it. "Of course."

"Is that the reason, Meredith? You're looking to punish yourself more? I'm not a magician. I don't know what is going on in your head without you sharing with me. But I'm concerned that your actions are very self-destructive."

Tears streak down my cheeks. Dr. Alexander picks up a box of Kleenex and leans forward.

I pluck a few tissues out and wipe my face with a sniffle. "Thank you."

After a long bout of silence, Dr. Alexander clears his throat. "Do you have a daily routine?"

"Um, yes. I mean… sort of."

"Tell me about it. What do you do each morning?"

I blow out a breath and tell him how I start my day. My schedule that revolves around Gabriel.

"Okay, tomorrow, instead of following him, I want you to come here. I want you to sit in my lobby and write in your journal. Do that every day for the next week. Get your head out of the current pattern."

I nod and take a deep breath. "Okay." I can do that. I can get my coffee and come here instead. It will be better than following Gabriel. Than risking discovery. Risking losing even more than I already have. "I joined a gym," I say, as though that will somehow redeem me.

"Good. Come here and journal. Go there and use a treadmill to do the mileage you've been walking while following him. Let's break the cycle, create a new routine."

I meet his eyes and force a smile. Try to look confident, and as though this has given me hope. But I still can't shake it. The need to see it. The need to see Gabriel Wright's pain. Which I caused.