Hello Stranger(37)

That was true. “Joe the man-whore,” I said, trying on the idea for size.

“I don’t like that word,” Sue said, picking up her phone to pause our FaceTime and research it. She loved looking things up midconversation. “There’s got to be a better word.”

“Joe the libertine?” I offered.

But she’d found a good website now. “How about seducer?”

“Not harsh enough.”

“Player?”

“Too complimentary.”

“If we were in England, we could call him a shag bandit.”

I thought about that.

“Ooh, here’s an archaic one,” Sue said. “Mutton monger.”

But I shook my head with a shiver. “That’s the worst one so far.”

“How about just keep it simple and go with a classic? Womanizer.”

I nodded. Don’t overthink it. “Joe the Womanizer.”

“I like it,” Sue said.

And with that, it was settled. Joe of the bowling jacket was sleeping with half the women in my building, mocking them in elevators the next day, and possibly extorting them for money.

What other explanation could there be?



* * *



DR. NICOLE, HOWEVER, did not agree. “Please don’t call the cops on that poor man,” she responded after I spent a whole session telling her all about it.

“The evidence is pretty damning,” I said.

“What evidence? There’s no evidence. You’re talking about one overheard phone call and a few sightings in the hallway—sightings where you mostly darted into the shadows so he wouldn’t see you watching him.”

I shrugged. “I know what I know. A lot of things don’t add up.”

“Yes. But that’s not him. That’s you.”

“I’m not the person who filmed a sleeping woman in my bed and then made fun of her.”

“But you are the person who just had brain surgery.”

“Are you saying I’m mentally defective?”

“I’m saying you’re in an adjustment period.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Go easy on poor Joe. And go easy on yourself. You can’t entirely trust yourself right now. Your senses are out of whack. Your brain has a lot going on.”

“No argument there.”

“You’re going to make mistakes for a while until you adjust.”

“What kinds of mistakes?”

“Things like not recognizing your sister—”

“Stepsister,” I corrected.

“And not knowing familiar voices. And falling in love at first sight with your veterinarian.”

“I don’t think we can call meeting the love of my life a mistake, but okay.”

But I wondered.

Was Dr. Nicole right? Could I not trust myself?

It was a strange thought. Who on earth could you trust if not yourself?

“Be patient with yourself,” she kept saying.

What did that even mean?

Everybody kept telling me to wait, let the edema resolve, get some rest, see what happened. But I didn’t have that kind of time. I had to get my portrait painted for the show. I couldn’t just watch my whole life fall apart and not try to do something about it.

Then she glanced at her watch, so I glanced at my phone. We had two minutes left in the session. Time to wrap it up. “The point is,” Dr. Nicole said, “you’re still adjusting. You have to allow for confirmation bias.”

“What’s confirmation bias?”

Dr. Nicole paused for a good definition. “It means that we tend to think what we think we’re going to think.”

I added all those words up. “So … if you expect to think a thing is true, you’re more likely to think it’s true?”

“Exactly,” she said, looking pleased. “Basically we tend to decide on what the world is and who people are and how things are—and then we look for evidence that supports what we’ve already decided. And we ignore everything that doesn’t fit.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” I said.

“Everybody does it,” Dr. Nicole said with a shrug. “It’s a normal human foible. But you’re doing it a little extra right now.”

“I am?”

She nodded. “Because your senses are off. It’s harder for you to collect solid information about the world around you. And because you’ve experienced trauma, you’re on high alert for danger.”

No argument there.

“So,” I said. “If I think everything is terrible, then everything will be terrible?”

She nodded, like, Bingo.

“But I do think everything is terrible.”

“In the wake of a difficult time,” Dr. Nicole said then, sounding more than ever like the calm voice of reason, “as you try to readjust to a new normal—”

“I don’t want a new normal!” I interrupted. “I want the old normal.”

“The trick,” Dr. Nicole continued, not letting me throw her off, “is to look for the good stuff.”

“Fine,” I said, thinking about it. “I’ll try.” Then I added, “And I won’t call the cops on the Weasel. Yet.”