Chapter 5
Early December
This is the diary of Josie Cavendish, British expat in New York, living in some kind of parallel universe/alternate timeline of her own life.
I’m starting this journal to document the extraordinary events that seem to be happening to me.
I say “seem” because I’m aware this will sound crazy to anybody other than myself.
And perhaps I am crazy — in which case, this journal could be useful to the nice people in white coats when they come to cart me off.
But there are only two people this is intended to be read by, and they’re both me. Me, and the woman whose life this is, who is also me. The Other Me.
I realized something last night. The reason I want to start documenting is because, if She exists as a separate person from me, and if we’ve switched lives, it’s also feasible we might switch back one day.
If so, she’ll need to know what went down while I was living her life.
Or maybe I’ve somehow shifted into an alternate version of my life, but there’s only one me. Or I could just be nuts.
As I write this, it’s 7 a.m. on Dec 8, 2017, and I’m in the guest bedroom of the apartment owned by Rob Billing and Josie Cavendish, on Union Square in Manhattan, New York. I guess the only way to start is from the beginning.
It happened on November 30, 2017, my 36th birthday. I was riding my bike to meet my friends for dinner when . . .
I spend the next hour propped up in bed, documenting the extraordinary events of the past few days.
I get almost up to date when, twisting to find a back-pain-free position, I close the journal.
It’s a beautiful notebook, with a lavish green-and-copper cover.
I probably shouldn’t be defacing its pristine pages with my scrawl.
It isn’t really mine to write in. It’s hers.
Uncomfortable with both that thought and the too-hard mattress, I decide to get up, like a normal person.
It’s 8.15 when I finally enter the living room in my robe. Rob is there, dressed in a well-cut suit, drinking coffee at the kitchen island. He starts when he sees me.
“What’s this? Josie up before 9 a.m. when she doesn’t have to work? We really have slipped into a parallel universe.”
He’s trying to make me laugh, but the joke grates.
“Too soon?” he asks, seeing my expression.
“A bit,” I say with a half-smile. He really is very nice. “I’m having a hard time with my mattress. It’s a bit firmer than I’m used to.”
“Has your back pain returned? I figured it might, in that bed. It’s only been better since we got our fancy mattress. I’d switch them, except yours is only a king, not a super-king.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got painkillers. Plus it’s only a problem if I’m lying awake in bed for ages, so I’ll have to start getting up at a reasonable hour, I guess. I have an appointment with that consultant Dr. Weinstein today, although not until after lunch.”
Rob nods, moving to the espresso machine. “Sit down, I’ll make you coffee.”
I perch at a bar stool as he makes me a latte with the skim milk. “Have you eaten breakfast yet?” I ask him. “I bought eggs, thought I’d scramble some. Even if it is a weekday.”
He checks the kitchen clock, hesitates. “Thanks, but . . .” He stops again. “Yeah. Eggs would be great.”
“Good. I’ll do the eggs, you do the toast.”
“I’ve only eaten toast with my eggs since I met you.” He’s smiling as he puts thick slices of bread in the toaster while I reach into the fridge for the carton. “It’s you who hasn’t been eating much bread. You cut out most of your carbs.”
“Right.” That explains a lot. I crack eggs into a large bowl and whisk them with a fork. “I guess I must’ve lost a fair bit of weight since we met.”
“You wanted to, just a little, for the wedding. But then, after Hawaii, after David, you lost a lot more. Since then, I guess you figured you may as well stay slimmer. But I miss the delicious enjoyment of food you used to have. Still, it seems you’ve gotten that back since your accident.”
“I’m not sure I was meant to be this slim.” I watch the butter sizzle in the hot pan and stir the eggs. “I want to eat toast, goddammit.”
“Then you shall eat toast,” Rob laughs. “And here, Madame, is your toast.”
As he leaves for work, we’ve had such an amicable breakfast, it’s almost weird he doesn’t kiss me on the forehead. There’s a moment I think he’s going to, as he pauses, but then remembers. He turns away.
“Back around six. Good luck with your appointment. Call if you need me.”
“Thanks. Good luck with the penthouse buyer.”
The huge apartment seems very empty with Rob gone.
I’m glad of the appointment that will keep me busy.
After showering and dressing in the same burgundy blazer and gray pants I came back from the hospital in a week ago, I decide to leave several hours early and walk most of the fifty-six-block journey to the doctor’s office.
I head out into the cold, sunny day. “Okay, boots, let’s see if you were made for walkin’. ”
My boots and I make it almost thirty blocks to Grand Central Station, which I think is quite impressive, before my feet are hot and aching.
I realize Rob’s office is nearby, and my stomach repeats its weird flutter, which I ignore.
It’s still way too early for the appointment, so I step inside Grand Central and spend time enjoying the cavernous space, imagining couples waltzing to some unheard music as the sunshine streams through the vast windows.
A scene from The Fisher King. I buy a soda and pastrami sandwich from a vendor and sit people-watching, then read The New York Times for a while.
This feels good. This feels normal.
With twenty minutes until my appointment time, having read the entire paper, I take the subway a few stops to 68th Street. The consultant’s office is on the ground floor of an imposing Fifth Avenue building overlooking Central Park.
I stop outside, suddenly panicking. What am I going to say to this doctor? How can I tell him the truth? But what’s the alternative? Lie, and tell him I don’t remember anything from the past three years? Why in the world didn’t I come up with a plan before now?
It’s 12.58, and my appointment’s at 1, so there’s no time to worry about it now.
“Yes?” The woman at reception is flicking through a binder. She doesn’t even look up.
“Josie Cavendish for Dr. Weinstein,” I reply, with a warmer smile than she deserves.
“Take a seat at the end of the corridor.”
“Thank you so much.” I give her another brilliant, but rather pointless, smile as she still has her head down.
The corridor opens up into a seating area with a view of a lush patio. I have just managed to take off my trench when a door with a gold name plate reading “Dr. Abraham Weinstein” opens. A short man with curly hair and glasses steps out.
“Ms. Cavendish?”
“That’s me.” He gestures me inside, then follows me in.
“Welcome.” Dr. Weinstein crosses the room to his desk, picks up a file, opening it. He lowers himself into a leather desk chair. “Please, sit.”
I sit on the couch, wondering how many of his patients lie down. Or is that a myth?
“So, Ms. Cavendish—”
“Josie, please.”
“Josie. I understand you had a cycling accident and you’ve been having some trouble accessing some memories. That you have some,” he hesitates, “replacement memories. Is that accurate?” He peers at me over his glasses.
I smile. “That’s about it.”
“Fine. I’m a neuropsychiatrist, I help patients with psychological problems associated with damage to the brain or nervous system. The Bellevue referred you to me since I have also worked with amnesiac patients.”
“Sounds good.”
“Why don’t you tell me in your own words what you feel has happened over the past week?”
He’s going to think I’m crazy.
I describe what I remember about the bike accident, and the first few moments in the hospital, how I didn’t recognize Rob.
“It was weird, though,” I add, thinking on my feet, trying to come up with a story that seems plausible.
“Instead of simply not remembering my husband, or where I lived, or worked, for the past three years, it was like I had been someone else during that time. Someone who wasn’t married, who lived in Brooklyn, and worked at a radio station.
But . . . that’s all fading now. I mean, I still don’t remember Rob, our home, or my job at the real estate brokerage.
But the memory of my other life is fading. It seems more like a dream now.”
That’s not even a lie — not really. My old life is already starting to feel distant.
“I see.” Dr. Weinstein taps his pen against the desk.
“Perhaps your brain, attempting to fill in lost memories caused by your amnesia, has latched onto some other ideas, maybe experienced by you in a dream or fantasy, or created by your subconscious. And it’s made those memories seem more real than your actual reality.
Especially as the last version of yourself you can remember was unmarried.
That would make more sense to you than the reality of being married.
And your brother was alive three years ago, so it would be understandable that you want to believe he is alive somewhere. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, it does.”
It really does.
Fuck.
Is that what is happening? Is my old life a trick of the mind, filling in the gaps caused by genuine, plain-old amnesia? Is this world my real life?
Dr. Weinstein asks me more questions and I answer, but my voice sounds like it’s far away, and I’m on autopilot. After another half-hour, he is done.
“There was no visible trauma to the brain on your MRI,” he concludes, “so we can only hope your memories will return. They don’t always, but for most people they do. We’ll pick this up again in a month and see how you’re doing. Please make an appointment with Marie on your way out.”
“Thank you.” We both stand, and my legs are like jelly. He holds open the door, and I walk unsteadily out of the office, past reception, ignoring the instructions to book a follow-up.