The Break-Up Retreat(18)

“Good ,” my dad said, and he squished me into his side, a sudden joviality in his voice. “I’m proud of you, princess .”

Despite it all, the words felt warm, and provoked a swelling of pride in me.

“And if you get scared, you can make the scary go away ,” he continued. “Just breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth. Close your eyes really tight, and do that until you’re not scared, anymore .”

I finally gathered the courage to look up at him. He was happy, now, the skin around his pale blue eyes crinkling, and that made me happy.

“Is that what you do when you’re scared ?” I asked him, and when he laughed, it was with genuine amusement.

He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.

“I’m never scared, princess ,” he told me.

I believed him, then.

It dawns on me that I’m holding my breath, grinding my teeth together, and I let out the air I’ve been holding in, easing the pain in my chest.

I wonder if it was true, what he said. If he believed it, as he said it.

Maybe my father really was never scared, even when he was out there, early in his career, tailing soldiers in Lebanon and Sri Lanka. Maybe he wasn’t even scared when he went undercover, gathering information for the in-depth investigative articles that would eventually propel him to fame. Maybe that was the key to his success; someone who never looks inward can’t see his own inherent vulnerability, the frailty of the facade.

Maybe that’s why he got away with the lies, for so long. That lack of fear. The earliest evidence that was brought up in the trial was from 1991, the year I was born; a number thrown out mid-article, exaggerated way beyond what the sources actually said, for shock and dramatic value.

“He was testing the waters ,” the prosecutor said, at the time. “And the more he got away with, the more confident he became .”

And I think she might have been right. At least partially; he probably was testing the waters, the young, hotshot journalist, wanting the attention that reporting mere reality could not get him.

Had he been born later, my father probably would have shied away from investigative reporting and pivoted, instead, to the life of a political pundit. No need to stick to the facts, there.

But I think she was wrong, too. I don’t think my father became more confident, over time. I think he was born that way. In the end, he had very little imagination. Enough to exaggerate and embellish; not enough to imagine what might happen the day he was caught.

Imagination is required to be truly afraid.

So maybe that is what really separates me from my father. He never saw monsters in the shadows. He never thought himself the small, frail creature, hiding under the blankets.

I swing my feet off the bed, the bare floor strikingly cold against my skin, and stand up. Walk over to the door. The air in the cabin is stuffy, heavy with humidity.

When I’m about to open the door, something at the bottom of it catches my eye. I did not see it from the bed; but here, standing above it, the faint light of the moon through the window bounces off the white paper, creating its own luminescence.

Quietly, slowly, as though I’m still dreaming, hearing nothing but the ticking of my own heartbeat in my ears, I reach down and grasp the paper someone has pushed under the door.

That was what woke me up , I think. Footsteps by the door .

It’s a neat square of printer paper, folded perfectly in half. I open it.

GO HOME. THERE IS NOTHING FOR YOU HERE.

IT’S TOO LATE.





Chapter 10


I wake to the sun rising sharp and judgmental at 5:30, light blaring in through the windows and skewering the gossamer-thin curtains.

The note is resting next to me on the pillow, the very opposite of a comforting companion.

Some part of me had hoped that it was yet another bad dream.

Even as I get out of bed, take a quick, cold shower, hoping it will clear my mind, brush my teeth and pull the jeans from yesterday on, my mind is racing.

Who would have done that?

It seems almost laughable, in a way. Like something out of a bad movie. It would be funny were I not so unsettled.

My first thought was of Martina, but it can’t be her. If she wanted me out, she could kick me out. She is owner, CEO, and God-Empress of Himlafall; her word is clearly law. If Doctor Martina had decided, at two in the morning, that she wanted me gone, I’m sure I would have been in my car with my things packed by 2:05.

Is it one of the other patients? But what reason would they have to want me out? I’ve barely met them, so far. Sure, a couple of them seemed hostile, but that hostility seemed more directed at the world at large than at me, specifically.

Maybe one of the other staff members?

I slide down onto the floor and pull out my recorderfrom under the bed, again. Clicking the button, I begin to narrate: “First morning at Himlafall. Something . . . ridiculous happened last night.

“I woke up last night to footsteps outside my door, and when I went to check, I found an anonymous note under my door. Someone is telling me to leave here, to get out, and saying that it’s too late . I’m not sure what they are referring to, but, if nothing else, it seems like proof that there really is something going on at the Himlafall Clinic.

“It must have to do with Susannah Wallin. I asked the staff members about her last night, and one of them, the physical therapist, had a visible reaction to her name.