A Clean Slate by Laura Caldwell

nervous and nauseous and slightly claustrophobic.
    It occurred to me that the claustrophobia might be partially due to the closed drapes and the dust hanging in the air, and so I decided to tidy the place. I threw the drapes open, letting in the bright fall sun, then dusted, vacuumed and scrubbed the apartment clean. Along the way, I came across nothing particularly alarming. No cryptic notes or receipts for odd purchases. The apartment seemed more like a way station, a place where a human being had merely subsisted for a few months. One of the most disheartening realizations was that there were no new outfits in the closets or drawers. No new clothes for five months!
    I went searching for my date book, something I used to carry with me at all times. Unlike the rest of the analysts at Bartley Brothers, I’d never used a Palm Pilot or other electronic calendar. I liked turning the pages of my date book and seeing my weeks spread out before me, reading the notes on what I’d done in the past, looking through the upcoming appointments to remind me what shape my future would take.
    When I found it in the top drawer of my nightstand, it was all but empty for the last five months. There were none of the usual notations such as, “Drinks with Laney, 9:00,” or “Work out, 5:30.” Instead, I saw only one appointment listed over and over—“Ellen Geiger, 2:00.” It appeared thatI went to see her every Monday and Thursday at the same time. So Laney had been right. I’d been keeping my psychiatrist in business.
    I looked at my watch. It was four o’clock on Monday afternoon. Was I supposed to have been at Ellen’s office a few hours ago?
    I left the bedroom and went back to the kitchen. The answering machine next to the fridge was blinking. When I hit the button, the voice that rang out of the machine was Laney’s. She was just checking on me, she said. She hoped I would get out today and get some fresh air. The automated woman who came on at the end of the message told me that Laney had left the message Saturday morning, probably right about the time I was in Lincoln Park, trying to pick up my nonexistent dry cleaning.
    No one else had called me the rest of the weekend, which struck me as sad. I used to be one of those people who had too many messages—from Ben, Laney, Jess, friends from work, Dee, my mom. I used to get irritated by the number of calls I had to return, trying to squeeze them in on my cell phone as I hurried about town.
    There was one more call on the machine, though. It had been left today, and as I expected, it was from Ellen Geiger.
    â€œKelly,” she said in a soothing voice, “you were scheduled for two o’clock as usual, and it’s two-thirty now. Please call me and let me know you’re all right.”
    She did sound a little worried, which made me feel guilty, so I picked up the phone and hit the speed dial for her number.
    I could picture Ellen’s elegant office from the few times I’d been there last winter. I could see her perfect ash-blond hair pulled away from her face by a headband, her hands holding a thick ink pen, gently jotting a few notes as I talked. She was perfectly nice, and I’m sure perfectly competent,but after a few sessions I didn’t see how paying her more than a hundred dollars an hour would help me get over Dee’s death. I wasn’t in denial about it; I was just heartbroken and angry.
    But if I stopped seeing her after my sister died, what had made me go back this summer?
    As Ellen answered, I sat on one of the bar stools in the kitchen.
    â€œOh, Kelly,” she said. “Is everything okay?”
    â€œGreat.” I swiveled back and forth on the stool, wondering if I should explain the weekend, my whole memory loss. The problem was that I didn’t remember seeing her twice a week for the last few months, so the thought of confiding in her felt somewhat awkward.
    â€œMmm-hmm,”