The Unraveling: A Novel

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For Kennedy,

who believed in this book before I did.

CHAPTER 1

Now

We used to look at each other like that. Before you went and messed everything up.

The man wraps a scarf around the smiling woman’s neck, then leans in and kisses the tip of her nose. I force my eyes from the store window and keep walking. Maybe another mile will do it—will clear my head so I can think properly. Figure out what to do with the rest of my day. The rest of my life.

Another block, then two. I stop behind a dozen people at the crosswalk. A woman checks the time on her phone, a child sways under the weight of his backpack full of books, a businessman in a five-thousand-dollar suit spews into his phone about some deal gone bad.

He’s angry. Probably needs therapy. Most of us do. Myself included.

Myself especially.

A teenage girl smokes a joint as she bops along to the buds in her ears. A twentysomething wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt pretends he’s not freezing his ass off.

One thing stands out that makes them different from me—they all seem to have somewhere to go.

Then again, I probably look like I do, too. I’m good at pretending these days, aren’t I?

But soon they’ll be home with their families or their dog or their video game, and I’ll still be out here walking. Searching for something, though I don’t know what. I still have my wits enough to know that means I might never find it.

Maybe I should get a dog. That would at least give me a purpose for all this walking. Of course, I’d have to feed it. Drag myself out of bed early every morning to take it outside so it doesn’t ruin the carpets. Give it love and affection.

I swallow a lump in my throat. I’m not capable of committing to any of those things. Especially the last one.

The light changes, the wave of people surges forward, and I let it carry me across the street. I turn a corner at random, and seconds later I’m among brownstones. I slow my pace, and another walker brushes against me, hurrying. Another person with a place to be.

A breeze ruffles through the leaves, and the yellow and orange colors of a ginkgo tree rain down around me. We almost lived here in Gramercy Park, in one of these very brownstones. With a foyer painted in sky blue and an office window facing the city. If we’d chosen this home, instead of the apartment, would things have been different? Would that one choice have made ripples through our lives, and you’d be standing next to me right now?

I let myself imagine it. It’s the sort of neighborhood where people raise families. Maybe we’d have a baby by now. Maybe I’d have taken a year off. Maybe I’d have paid more attention and noticed how bad things with you really were. If you were still here, you’d probably be on the road right now—off playing a game in Michigan or Canada. My practice would be thriving, instead of crumbling. Maybe we’d have hired an au pair. Maybe… just maybe.

That breeze comes again, slicing through my open overcoat. I yank it closed, tie the belt tighter. I’ve been out for hours, and I should go home. But why?

Tree branches sway, and a fresh tide of leaves skims over my shoes. A rogue yellow one blows up and tangles into my hair. I reach up to pull it out and a cab rushes by mere inches away, creating wind that slaps me in the face. Shoot. I didn’t even see that red light. I step backward to the curb and bump into a person behind me, nearly falling.

Ma’am? Are you okay?

A twentysomething in a Burberry trench, a two-year-old on her hip in a matching jacket and pigtails, and another little one tucked into a vintage pram sucking her thumb.

A ripple, a glimpse of what could have been. What will never be anymore because of you.

I reach into my coat pocket and rub my keychain. Your keychain. The one that reminds me of all our hopes and dreams. It soothes me. As much as I can be soothed these days.

Ma’am? The woman I already forgot about steps closer. Are you all right?

I look away, her little family too close to my imaginings for comfort. Fine. Thanks.

I go back the way I came, walking faster now. Fleeing. Fleeing what? It doesn’t matter. I stare down at the gray concrete, then up at the gray sky. A shop window reflects back at me—a pale, narrow face, too much cheekbone, too much chin. Hollow eyes, once bright green, have gone dull. They look gray, too. I should get highlights, perk up my dishwater-blond hair.

A bell jangles over the next shop door, pulling my attention. A young couple sits in the window, all sheepish smiles and hands wrapped around paper coffee cups. I duck in, file into line, lost in the anonymity of the city once more.

I blink around. I’ve never been here, on this corner, in this coffee shop. Or maybe it’s new. The world has been changing around me over the last year, and I haven’t taken notice.

The line moves forward, and I let it pull me along. You would have hated this place. The overly bright lighting, the din of thirty or so people chatting, the hiss of a barista foaming milk, the whirr of the grinder. Paying seven bucks for a coffee.

Good afternoon. What can I get you? A woman with a gummy smile and a blond ponytail is a little too eager to take my order.

Coffee. Black, please. I hand over cash, accept change, and shuffle down the line, eyes lingering over a cranberry-orange scone. I try to remember if I’ve eaten today.

Meredith? Coffee, black, a voice rings out.

I pull off a glove to pick up the paper cup and let the warmth seep in through my skin as I scan the room for an open table. There’s only one, near the front of the shop, looking outside. It gives me something to focus on, at least. People swarm the sidewalks, tourists gaping up at the tall buildings with shopping bags in hands and locals grumbling as they’re forced to weave through them. Hundreds of people come and go in only minutes. It’s a sea of ambiguity, face after face after face, until they all start to blur.

But then… there’s a flash of familiarity. A face I know in the crowd.

I lean forward, ignoring the table digging into my ribs as I stare at the man. My hand comes to my chest when recognition turns to dismay. And my heart gallops off wildly.

It can’t be him.

Can it?

Olive skin, dark beard, lean build. He smiles—lips curled up as he talks into his phone. Then laughter, the sort that rocks his whole chest as he tilts his head up, smiling at the sky. This man wouldn’t laugh—couldn’t laugh. After all, he’s been through worse than I have.

I squeeze my cup too hard and coffee sloshes over the edges, scalding my hand. Pain radiates across my skin, and I look down at my pink flesh.

It feels good. The sting floods me with an odd sense of relief.

It’s not a normal response. I’ll probably spend hours overanalyzing it at some point. But right now… my attention is back to the window. He’s way more interesting.

I’m out of my chair, dumping my barely touched coffee into the nearest garbage, and through the jangling door in seconds. The man strides down the sidewalk, walking between gaps in pedestrians, making it easy to track him. Easy to—I jolt forward—follow him.

It’s akin to following a ghost.

Except he’s not the one who died.

They are.

We are stuck here. In limbo.

Me. And him.

Gabriel Wright. The last time I saw him, I felt almost exactly as I do now. Numb. Distant. Unbelieving. That night.

I slip my hand into my pocket again, reaching for your keychain to help shake away the bad memories. But there’s no time to soothe myself now because I’m falling behind. So I speed up, give chase. Gabriel turns a corner, hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s leaving Gramercy, heading south toward the East Village. We’re not the only two striding this way. I step behind three women, oversize shopping bags hung over elbows like trophies they’re bringing back from a hunt. Tourists. They’re the perfect blind for my own hunt.

I want to know what he’s doing, where he’s going. Why he’s here of all places, and most of all—I flash back to his face, laughing, smiling—is he really happy? Happy enough to laugh. To feel joy, after what you did.

Gabriel stops at a newsstand up ahead. A rush of suited office workers flood the sidewalk coming out of a building. It’s after seven now. I’ve been outside since noon, wandering. I should go home. Order in some food, find a way to spend my time—

But I can’t force myself away from him. I press my phone to my ear to block my face as he scans the sidewalk, waiting for his turn. He holds up a hand, uses his phone to pay for a pack of cigarettes—some brand in a white package—and shoves them into a pocket.

An urge to get closer hits me. He probably wouldn’t recognize me. We never met, not formally anyway. No. We just went through hell together, several rooms apart.

You in one room.

His wife and child in another.

I swallow the acid rising in my throat, the consequence of coffee on an empty stomach and stressing while speed-walking down the sidewalk after a man I should steer clear of.

Gabriel stays at the newsstand a moment longer. Smiling again. Chatting up the man who works behind the counter.

I step back, lean against the brick of a building, and pull out a tiny notebook, the one I keep my to-do list in. I haven’t written in it in weeks, maybe months. No point in a to-do list when there’s nothing to do. But now, I scribble.

Gabriel Wright.

I double-check the time on my phone like it’s a critical piece of information and go back to writing.

Thursday, 7:13 p.m.

Walking on East 15th Street. Stops at newsstand on corner.

Smoker.

Laughing. Smiling. Happy?

That last word gives me pause. These days, the idea of happiness is like a fable or a fairy tale. A dream every little girl growing up in a screwed-up house wants to be a part of, but knows deep in her heart is just make-believe.

Gabriel offers a warm smile to the newsstand man and turns his back to saunter off in a loose amble, like he hasn’t a care in the world. I want to grab him and scream, Are you really happy? or maybe, "I know you’re pretending. You’re just better at it than me. It’s not possible you’re whole again. Not after what we did to you."

It doesn’t make sense.

He doesn’t make sense.

My breath catches in my throat as his strides quicken. I have to keep following. No, I need to keep following. I’m suddenly driven by purpose for the first time in months. A craving opens up wide inside me, something that could swallow me whole. How? Why?

I glance behind me as I step back into the crowd and lock eyes with a young woman with long blond hair and an armful of books. She looks like she’s going to say something, but then I realize she’s probably just hoping I’ll get the hell out of her way. Like everyone else except me in this city, she’s in a hurry. Though now I have purpose, too.

For the first time since you.

I don’t know where I’m going, or what happens when I get there.

But I know I must follow him.

CHAPTER 2

Then

I almost forgot—I have a surprise for you." I slipped out of bed and pulled open my dresser drawer.

Get back here. Connor’s voice was gruff. Playful. "I want to give you a surprise, too. A big one."

I chuckled and tucked my surprise into my palm, hands behind my back. I know how upset you were when you lost your Gretzky jersey keychain a few weeks ago.

My coach gave that to me on my sixth birthday. I showed it to Wayne himself when I met him the night I was drafted into the pros. He told me someday, people would be carrying around keychains with my number on a jersey.

I smiled and brought my hands from behind my back, opening my fist. Well, Mr. Gretzky is a smart man.

Connor sat up in bed. Holy shit. Where’d you get that?

I had it made.

My husband’s eyes welled up. He took the tiny replica of his blue and red New York Steel jersey, lucky number seventeen, and ran his finger over it.

I pointed. There’s a tiny mistake. See on the bottom, how the red paint bled too high into the blue section? I’m going to ask him to remake it, but I couldn’t wait to give it to you.

Connor smiled. That’s not paint. That’s my opponent’s blood. Don’t have it remade. I love it just the way it is.

"There’s more to the surprise. The guy who made it wants to license the rights to distribute them. I gave him your agent’s number, and they’re already negotiating a contract. He would make a half million to start. Imagine all the six-year-old boys walking around with this keychain, with dreams of being you someday."

Connor pulled me to him, cupping my cheek. I love it. Thank you.

I rubbed my nose with his. You’re welcome.

I have something I want to give you, too, Mer.

I smirked and playfully rolled my eyes. Been there. Done that.

Oh yeah? Is that so? Without warning, I was lifted off the bed and hoisted into the air. I yelped and Connor settled me back down on his lap, my legs straddling him. Do you remember what I said when I proposed? he asked.

What?

I said that my entire life, I’d only ever wanted one thing: to win a hockey championship. But since the day I met you, it wasn’t enough anymore. I needed three things: You. A championship. And a family. I was lucky enough to get you to marry me. Six months ago, my dream of winning the championship came true. All I need now, for my life to be complete, is a family. I want to have a baby. I know I travel a lot for games, but I’ll be all-hands-on-deck whenever I’m home. I promise. Will you have my baby, Mer?

I covered my mouth with my hand. Really?

He nodded. Really. I know you just built your practice to where you want it. So if you want to wait, I’ll understand. But I’m ready when you are, babe. I’m more than ready.

Connor was right. I’d busted my ass the last few years since going out on my own. Working at two hospitals and the psych center, picking up the worst on-call shifts just to get patient referrals. It wouldn’t be easy to take a step back now. But was there ever a good time to have a baby?

I can find a part-time psychiatrist to help out. Maybe another mom who wants to go back to work but can only do half days or something. I nodded. I’ll make it work. We’ll make it work.

Connor’s lips curved to a giant, boyish smile. We’re gonna have a baby, he whispered.

The thought left me a little breathless. I swallowed. We’re gonna have a baby.

I want a boy first. Then a girl. Then maybe three or four more boys.

Uh… slow down there, big guy. That’s five or six kids. How about we try one and see how it goes? It’s going to mean a lot of change for us.

Whatever you want, beautiful. He pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. It’ll be a good change. I see nothing but happy days ahead, for the rest of our lives.

CHAPTER 3

Now

Walking in the first time is the worst part.

Weaving through the hallway of closed doors—people like me hiding behind them, ready to diagnose what’s wrong with someone who was a complete stranger only an hour ago. MD, PsyD, PhD, all sorts of fancy-sounding letters tacked on after names. I knew coming in was intimidating for my patients, but I don’t think I comprehended just how bad it could be. Until now. When the doctor became the patient.

I ride the elevator up to the third floor. It’s like every office building—cheap, rough carpet, neutral walls, heavy fire-resistant doors, and too much silence. I stop outside my destination, 302b. As I contemplate going in, my cell rings. Jake flashes on the screen. My brother. I hit ignore, telling myself I’ll call him back later. Though I know I probably won’t. He wants to make sure I’m doing okay, like everyone else who checks in on me occasionally. Except my brother knows me too well. So I try to answer on the good days, when it’s most believable that I’m happy. Though lately those are few and far between.

I take a deep breath and tuck my phone into my coat pocket, going back to staring at my new therapist’s office door. Inside waits a man I’ve never met. A stranger I’m supposed to tell how I’m feeling. Keith Alexander, PhD. Nausea works its way from my stomach to my throat, and I haven’t even opened the door yet. My hands are damp and sweaty. I wipe them on my jeans, wishing the turbulence of my thoughts would slow down, just slow down already.

Yesterday my thoughts were slow. Painfully snail-like. It took me twenty minutes to fix a cup of tea, an hour to get ready to leave the apartment. Even putting on my shoes was an effort. And now I’m buzzing like I’ve downed a dozen cups of coffee.

Gabriel. I saw Gabriel Wright.

And he was happy.

But I can’t think about that now. I need to be somewhat normal for this man. He’ll scribble in his notebook and say, Uh-huh, and, Let’s talk about that. I can see him now—fifties or sixties, gray hair, playing the part.

My hand touches the doorknob—a polished chrome, not original to the dingy building. It’s cold. I hesitate, my stomach gurgling. I’m hungry.

I can’t remember the last time I felt much of anything, much less hunger. Until yesterday.

I push through the door, and a midtwenties or early thirtysomething man looks up. He’s no older than me. Dark blond hair, tanned skin, and a welcoming, open smile. It must be dress-casual Friday, because he’s in jeans and a blue T-shirt that fits him well enough that it’s hard not to notice it fits him well. A notebook lies open on his broad desk, appointments by the look of it. He must be Dr. Alexander’s assistant.

Hello. I have a six thirty appointment.

You must be Meredith Fitzgerald.

Meredith McCall, I correct him. I’m using my maiden name, but it wasn’t changed when… I let my voice trail off. If Dr. Alexander’s assistant doesn’t know the details, I’m not going to be the one to provide them… when I made the appointment," I conclude.

Ah. He straightens, offers a kind smile. Well, Dr. McCall, come right in, then.

It’s not until I step past him and into the inner office that I realize no one sits behind the desk in the corner. Dr. Alexander is not perched on the leather couch or the matching armchair. Because the young man I mistook for an assistant is Dr. Keith Alexander. Heat works its way up to my face.

How many times had I been mistaken for an assistant because I was young and attractive? Too many to count. Furthermore, he is not what I was expecting. How am I supposed to talk to him about the crushing guilt I feel or how much I miss my husband while simultaneously wishing I’d never met him?

I blow out a breath, sitting tentatively on the edge of the couch. Instead of the creamy white walls my office has, his are alternating blue and gray. A modern white-and-wood coffee table sits atop a Persian rug. A frosted-glass window calls my attention from a few feet away. During the day, it must bathe his patients in sunlight.

I’m Dr. Keith Alexander. I’m glad to see you this evening. He sits across from me and crosses one leg over the other, hands folded in his lap.

Dr. Alexander gives me an open, welcoming smile, but I’m not seeing him—I’m seeing myself, doing the exact same thing with my own patients. Except I don’t get to do that anymore. Not after what happened. For the time being, my office goes on without me.

He clears his throat, snapping me back to the moment. Can I offer you herbal tea? Water?

No, thank you. I set my purse beside me and work my jacket off my shoulders. I find the clock behind him. 6:32 p.m. Only fifty-eight minutes to go. I press my lips into a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. Oh, before I forget. I unzip my bag and pull out the paper I’d folded in half. I have this for you to sign.

He leans forward and takes it. What is it?

It’s for the Office of Professional Misconduct. You enter the date I’ve started therapy and sign. I’m required to start by next week, so I guess this just tells them I’ve complied with their punishment.

Dr. Alexander takes a pen from the end table next to him. He pushes his glasses down his nose and reads the document over before scribbling today’s date and his name at the bottom.

Here you go. He hands it back to me and smiles. And I’m sorry you think of coming here as punishment. I promise to do my best not to make it feel that way.

I… I didn’t mean…

He waves me off. It’s fine. I understand. I’d probably feel the same way if I was mandated to do something instead of coming voluntarily.

Thanks for saying that. But I really didn’t mean to use the word I did.

It’s fine. Let’s move on.

Okay.

We stare at each other for a long time. It’s definitely not a comfortable silence.

So… this is awkward, isn’t it? I say. A therapist getting therapy.

Not at all. I’m of the opinion that all therapists should go to therapy, at least occasionally. Just like we get a physical checkup once a year, we should get a mental one, too. He taps his head. How’s your day going?

I force another nervous smile. Fine. Yours?

Very good, thanks. Any weekend plans?

I hold back a sigh. He’s making small talk. Trying to make me comfortable before he jumps into the real stuff.

No, I say. It’s hard to… Do anything after what happened. Plan a life without my husband. Get out of bed before noon. … make plans these days, I finish.

I see. In my peripheral vision, he shifts, then switches tacks. Well, I’ll get right to it, then. How are you doing following the tragedy you endured seven months ago?

My tragedy. Like my life is a Shakespeare tale instead of the train wreck