Free On Borrowed Time by David Rosenfelt Page A

always crowded.
    We arrived without a reservation at five-thirty, a time when no self-respecting New Yorker would be having dinner. That’s why we were able to get in, though we were told that there was a reservation for our table at seven-thirty, so we had to be out by then.
    The waiter came over to the table to tell us the specials. It turned out to be a five-minute recitation of at least fifteen dishes, mentioning every ingredient in each dish. His memorization of it was fairly amazing; I kept looking around to see if there was a hidden teleprompter.
    We decided when we sat down that we would try to talk about something other than the person missing from our lives, but that vow lasted less time than it took to recite the specials. Neither of us could think about anything else, so it was only natural that we talk about it.
    We didn’t figure anything out, of course, but it was still the most pleasant evening I had spent in a while. Allie was fun to be with, upbeat but not venturing into the dreaded “perky-land,” and whip-smart. She reminded me so much of Jen, yet surprisingly being with her didn’t increase my pain.
    After dinner, we took a cab back uptown and I dropped her off at her hotel before heading home. On the way, she looked out the window at the busy streets and endless lights and said, “Someday I’m going to love this city.”
    I knew exactly what she meant. Now was not the time that she was free to love anything, not with the constant pain and emptiness we were both feeling.
    When I got back to my apartment, the message light on my phone was flashing 3 , but the first one was the only one I cared about.
    “Richard, this is Philip Garber. I’m very glad you called. Please call me back at any hour, or if you prefer, I have an opening tomorrow at eleven A.M. , so I could see you in my office. I hope you’re well.”
    I played the message back four times, taking in every nuance. He called me Richard, which indicated to me that he knew me from more than my phone call. He referred to himself as “Philip” rather than “Mr.” or “Dr.” Garber, which felt like another sign of familiarity.
    More importantly, he seemed very pleased to hear from me and anxious to speak with me, which certainly came as a surprise. The fact that he was leaving time open to see me also felt significant, as was the fact that he didn’t bother to give his office address.
    Maybe I’d been there before, even though I didn’t know it. Maybe he’d been my shrink for twenty years. Maybe he was my cousin or brother.
    Maybe Philip Garber would know what was going on with my life.

 
    The Lexington Institute for Psychoanalytic Training was located in a four-story brownstone on East Sixty-eighth Street, not surprisingly just off Lexington Avenue. It was the kind of building that very, very rich people might call home, and was probably worth many millions, even in a down market. Training shrinks must be profitable.
    I did have a vague feeling that the building was familiar to me, though I had no recollection of ever being there. I considered it possible that there was a memory that was repressed but near the surface. Maybe I could get in touch with it.
    Or maybe not.
    The receptionist told me that Dr. Garber’s office was on the third floor, and that I could either take the spiral staircase or the elevator. The elevator was so small that I figured I couldn’t inhale on the ride up, so I took the stairs. Another receptionist-type person was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, and she brought me directly to Garber’s office.
    Philip Garber was younger than I expected, probably no older than forty. He greeted me with a handshake and a smile that seemed meant to be soothing. “Richard, thanks for coming in. Nice to see you again,” said the man I had never seen before in my life.
    In the hallway right near his office was a coffee machine, and he walked toward it. “Still black with one sugar?” he asked, and I nodded. He