The Break-Up Retreat(25)
“I don’t know why you would even be thinking about that,” Clara butts in. “How would you even get hurt in a place like this?”
Leyla slowly raises her eyebrows.
“There are lots of ways to get hurt,” she suggests. “It’s only realistic to be prepared for it.”
“Jesus,” Clara mutters.
“Seriously.” Leyla turns back to Anna. “If someone was to get hurt, how long would it take for an ambulance to get here? Or a police car?”
Anna sputters.
“I . . . well, I don’t—not very long, I’m sure.”
“Stop bullying her!” Clara bursts out. “What does it matter? No one is going to get hurt!”
Leyla makes eye contact with me, and smirks, for a moment.
I feel a tugging sensation under my ribs, and I force myself to swallow, look relaxed, like nothing about this conversation is out of the ordinary. Just a spat between two fellow “patients.”
There are lots of ways to get hurt.
What did she mean by that?
Leyla relents and shrugs at Anna and Clara.
“I’m just saying. Doesn’t seem very safe.”
Anna’s eyebrows twitch, for a second; I see her take a deep breath before plastering the now-familiar Himlafall smile on her face.
It’s funny; in a way, we’re not so different, the Himlafall staff and I.
We’re all acting.
The only difference is that they’re putting on a face in order to maintain the illusion, and I’m putting one on hoping to shatter it.
“Well,” Anna says, “if we’re done worrying about that, I have your schedules for the afternoon. You’ve all got individual therapy, and physical therapy as a group. Other than that, it’s free time until dinner.”
She clears her throat.
“We recommend you use that time to take a walk, or journal, or simply process. Together or apart.”
She collects a stack of papers from the tote bag next to her chair and reaches over the table to give them to me.
“Take one and pass them on,” she says.
I grab the top page and hand the rest of them to Leyla.
02:00 p.m.—Leyla Demir, Individual Counseling
03:00 p.m.—Clara af Sperling, Individual Counseling
04:00 p.m.—Isobel Anderssen, Individual Counseling
04:00 p.m.—All, Physical Therapy
05:00 p.m.—Pernilla Boman, Individual Counselling
06:00 p.m.—Katarina Karlsson, Individual Counselling
07:00 p.m.—Dinner
“Well, looks like I better get a move on,” Leyla says, pushing her chair away from the table and standing up. “I guess I’ll see you all in physical therapy.”
“Have fun,” Clara chirps. “Enjoy getting healthier and happier.” She shoots Leyla a poisonous glance.
Leyla grins at her.
“I will.” Her voice is sugary sweet. “Thank you so much for wishing me well.”
I look closer at the schedule.
“Anna.” I look at her. “Why is my therapy at the same time as the exercise?”
Anna blinks.
“You’ve been exempt from the physical therapy,” she responds. “Because of your injury.”
“What injury?” I ask.
“The doctor told me you had problems with your knees,” she says. “So when we were making the schedule, we put you as exempt.”
“Wa-wait, n—no, I—I don’t . . .” I stutter.
“Do I need to be exempt, too?” Katarina asks. “I have an old ankle thing from a marathon.”
“Ellen has been informed of your limitations, and she’s altered some of the exercises for you,” Anna hurries to reassure her.
“No, wait. I don’t have problems with my knees.” My voice is too high, too pitchy, but the surprise has thrown me for a loop.
Anna raises her eyebrows.
“But . . .” Her eyes are wide. “But it was in your file?”
“I don’t know why it was in my file, but it’s not true,” I insist. “I want physical therapy. For . . . the full experience of the treatment. It says in the materials that it’s important. I don’t want to miss out on part of the journey.”
I can’t miss physical therapy. I need to speak to Ellen; need to ask her about Susannah Wallin-look her in the eyes as I’m doing it-for any clues to what she might know. Whether or not she was the one who slid that note under my door.
I haven’t seen her at either breakfast or lunch; haven’t seen her since last night, in fact.
It’s enough to make me think it might be on purpose.
That she might have left that note, and that she’s avoiding seeing me on purpose.
“Gosh, I’m really sorry, Isobel.” Anna looks bereft. “There must have been some mistake. Is there any way you accidentally checked the box in your application?”
“No,” I start to say, but even as I’m speaking, I begin to question myself.
There were so many fucking boxes to check and uncheck in that application form. Pages and pages of probing questions. Is it possible I ticked a box, tired and trigger-happy and just wanting to be done with all the paperwork?