Frankie parked in the underground garage of her building in the Tenderloin. It was late, and she was alone. She walked to the elevator with her head down and her hands tightly gripping her elbows, as if she could hold herself up that way. When she got home, her condominium was dark. She uncorked an open bottle of wine in the refrigerator and poured herself a glass, which she carried up the stairs to their bedroom. Jason was asleep. She stood at the end of the bed and drank her wine and stared at her husband. When the wine was gone, which didn’t take long, she cupped the glass in her palm.

Eventually, as he shifted, he became aware of her presence. He pushed himself up in bed. “Frankie?”

“Yes.”

Silence lingered between them.

“Are you coming to bed?” he asked.

She didn’t answer, and he leaned over to turn on the lamp on his nightstand. A yellow glow illuminated them.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Frankie turned away and went to the windows. She put the toe of her heels against the wall and rested her forehead and palms on the glass. It was like flying. The long fall to the street stretched out below her. “Something happened to me tonight,” she said.

Jason got out of bed. “What is it? Was it Newman? Did he do something to you?”

“No, it’s not that,” she said.

“Then what?”

“I had what I’m pretty sure was a psychogenic seizure.”

Jason folded his arms on his chest. He looked clinical. “How bad?”

“Bad enough. Muscle spasms. Panic. Sweating.”

“Has this ever happened to you before? Have there been previous episodes?”

“No, this was the first.”

He sat back down on the bed. “We should have you tested to make sure there wasn’t a physical cause.”

“That’s not necessary,” Frankie replied. “I know what this was.”

They stared at each other. She could see the truth in his face. He knew where this conversation was going. She should have guessed it much earlier, but she’d written off the mental clues to stress and grief. Doctors made the worst patients.

She turned around and leaned back against the window. Part of her hoped it would give way and let her fall.

“We both know what caused this, don’t we?” she asked him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Do you remember the patient I told you about three years ago?” Frankie asked. “He was involved in an attempted mugging in Los Angeles. He had a concealed handgun, which he used to shoot the assailant. Then he tried to give CPR, but the mugger died of the gunshot wound. The man was tormented by what he’d done, regardless of the justification. He came to me because he wanted his memory of the event completely erased.”

“I remember,” Jason said.