A Clean Slate by Laura Caldwell Page A

she said, and I remembered that murmur she uttered when she was thinking, that frequent “Mmm-hmming.” “What happened with this afternoon?” she said. “Why didn’t you show up?”
    â€œWell…I forgot my appointment.” There. That was true enough.
    â€œYou forgot?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œMmm-hmm. Do you want to reschedule for tomorrow?”
    â€œNo. And I won’t need to come in Thursday, either.” I opened my date book on the counter and crossed out Thursday’s appointment.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œActually, I don’t think I need to see you for a while.” I felt as if I was breaking up with her and should try to let her down easy. “I appreciate all your help.”
    â€œMmm-hmm. Kelly, are you having suicidal thoughts?”
    â€œWhat?” I stood up from the stool.
    â€œAre you having thoughts about suicide?”
    â€œNo! Why would you ask that?”
    â€œWell, you’ve been depressed, as you know, for sometime, and now you call me, sounding like you’re putting your affairs in order, so to speak.”
    I laughed. I really did. It struck me as ludicrous and funny. “Ellen, look. I can promise you that I’ve never had a suicidal thought in my life.” I stopped for a moment, wondering if that was true. Had I had any inklings over the last five months? No, no matter how depressed I’d gotten, I knew, somewhere down deep, that I would never think of taking my own life. “The thing is,” I continued, “I’ve had a bit of a memory loss, but I feel fantastic. I really do, and so I don’t think I need to see you anymore.”
    â€œMmm-hmm. What do you mean by memory loss?”
    How could I explain in a short and easy fashion? I gave her a brief rundown of my weekend, ending with how wonderful I was feeling, and reasserting again that I didn’t need to see her.
    â€œI have to insist that you come for at least one more session. Amnesia is nothing to be taken lightly, and it can be the cause of other psychological or physical damage. What about tomorrow? I can fit you in at the end of the day. Say seven-thirty?”
    I was about to protest. I didn’t want to spend money on therapy, when for all practical purposes I was feeling better than ever. And despite the tentative snooping I’d done around my own apartment that day, I was truly scared to remember the months I’d lost. Wouldn’t those memories bounce me back to that depression? It was as if I was finally standing on solid ground, but could sense an abyss only a few footfalls away.
    Despite my fear of that abyss, though, I was more and more curious about why I couldn’t remember, about what had caused this whole strange episode in my life. Maybe Ellen could shed some light on that.
    I opened my date book again and flipped to tomorrow’s date, then wrote in, “Ellen Geiger, 7:30.”
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    I met Laney for drinks near her office in the Loop, and we joined the masses of people looking for alcoholic sustenance before their train rides home. We found a tall, high table in a corner of a bar, and I ordered a beer, but barely sipped it since I wanted to be fresh for my interview. I hadn’t been on an interview since the one for Bartley Brothers eight years ago, right after college graduation. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I had my Nikon in my camera bag with me, along with a small portfolio of my stuff, and I’d flipped through my multitude of photography magazines, which I’d located in my apartment. What else to do, I wasn’t sure, and “Cole,” whoever he was, hadn’t been much more explicit.
    â€œI have to tell you that I’m jealous,” Laney said, after she listened to what I’d done with my day. She took a sip of her margarita and cocked her head at me.
    â€œWhy would you be jealous?”
    â€œWell, maybe not jealous—that’s too harsh—but