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“Yes, hi. Thank you.” I’m not sure what to say next, because I have no idea who this doctor is to me.Ifshe’s even someone to me. I pick up the appointment card lying on the counter, the one I found in the bottom of the box with the yearbook. A date is scribbled in blue ink, the year nearly two decades ago. The edges are tattered and worn, like it spent time in a wallet. For all I know, the card belongs to someone else. My name isn’t written on it, just a date and time and an office address here in the city.
“Did you . . . need to make an appointment?” the woman says after I’m quiet for too long.
“Oh. Yes, please.”
“Can you confirm the last four numbers of your Social Security number for me? I just want to make sure I have the right patient.”
“Sure. It’s five, four, six, four.”
“Great, thank you.” I hear some clacking on a keyboard, and then . . . “Has any of your information changed since the last time you were here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What’s your address andtelephone number?”
I rattle off my information from twenty years ago and hold my breath, waiting.
“Great. Let me check what we have for the next available appointment.”
She found me. I am a patient.
My heart races.I’ve been to a psychiatrist.And I don’t remember.
“How is next Thursday at two?”
I can’t possibly wait that long. I’ll die of sleep deprivation. Is that even possible? Do people die of lack of sleep? It certainly feels like I could. “Is there any way I can come in sooner?”
“Are you in crisis?”
If this isn’t a crisis, I’m not sure what is. “Yes. I can’t sleep. Can’t eat . . .”
“Okay. How about tomorrow morning? I can add you to the schedule before Dr. Sterling’s day starts. She’s busy at the moment, but I know she won’t have a problem with that.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. “That would be great. Thank you. The sooner the better.”
The following morning, I arrive at the address on the card at six thirty. The building is nondescript, typical of many skyscrapers here in the city. I can’t swear I’ve been here before. It doesn’t jostle anything inside of me. Not a feeling. Not a memory. Since I’m early, I walk to a coffee shop a few doors down and grab a double espresso. I slept a little last night—two hours in one shot. But my body is dragging, even if my mind is spinning a million miles an hour.
At 6:50, I ride the elevator up to the eleventh floor and find suite 1111. Still, nothing rings a bell. But when I open the door and see the small waiting room, I’m certain I’ve been here. The woman at the window smiles warmly.
“Hi.Elizabeth?”
I nod.
She passes a clipboard with some papers through the small opening in the glass. “If you could, please fill these out. It’s been a while since we’ve seen you.”
“Of course.” I take a seat, fill in the blanks on the forms—insurance carrier, current medications, hospital admissions. But between each question, my eyes dart around the office—I’m trying to remember something,anything, just being here even. I’m on the last question when the door to my left opens.
“Elizabeth?”
I turn, and my heart stops.I remember her.A younger version, but I’ve definitely met this woman. A memory flashes in my head.
A locked room.
Me banging on the door.
A hospital?
A mental ward?