The Break-Up Retreat(4)
“Some deeply vulnerable things are processed at the Himlafall Clinic, and that is built on a level of trust that is incredibly precious to me. I want to do my best to honor that.”
So when my car rolls up to the gates, I, like all the other patients to have ever arrived at the Himlafall Clinic, am seeing it for the first time.
From a distance, it looks like a farm. Low buildings, close to the ground, half-covered in ivy; all painted white, with small windows and tiled roofs, all in a row on the near side of a small, picturesque pond.
The road is blocked off with a pretty, ornate cast-iron fence. It’s low enough that a woman of average height would be able to climb it, as long as her pants were stretchy and she wasn’t wearing heels, but I can’t drive through the gates. Instead, I have to stop my rental car and get out of the driver’s seat.
It’s colder than I expected, but the air is pleasantly crisp, as opposed to biting; the pale white sun in the sky holds more warmth than I would have thought.
The aesthetic of the fence is somewhat ruined by the massive, clunky intercom on the left-hand side. There’s only one button; I press it and step back as the voice of a young woman comes through, as clear as if she was standing right in front of me.
“Welcome to Himlafall Clinic. How can I help you today?”
For a moment, I wonder if it’s Martina Hastings herself, but I quickly reject the notion. Martina is the owner, founder, and face of the operation. Surely she’s much too important to man the intercom.
Whoever it is I’m talking to must be one of the employees. Her voice sounds breathy and ethereal. I resist the urge to ask if she has to talk like that, and instead say:
“Hi, yeah, this is Isobel . . . Anderssen.” I correct myself at the last minute; my real last name almost slips out. Pure muscle memory.
“I’m supposed to check in today? I think I’m a bit early.”
“No problem at all, Isobel,” the voice responds, in a tone that suggests she’s delighted by my early arrival, and by the sound of my voice, and, indeed, by my very existence. “I’ll open the gates. Did you arrive here by car?”
“Yes, I did,” I say.
“The parking lot is on your left-hand side. Belinda will come and greet you.”
A brief pause, and then she adds, with an extra helping of warmth:
“We’re truly so happy you’re here, Isobel. I look forward to getting to know you.”
The intercom beeps, and after a few short seconds, the gates start opening inward.
I get back into the driver’s seat and start up the road.
As I get closer, little details begin to come into view. The wildflowers peeking out through the moss on both sides of the driveway; the blueberry bushes crowded beneath the windowsills of the buildings, little white buds just starting to form on their spiky branches.
I can see three small, neat cabins from over here, and two larger houses on the other side of what looks to be the main building.
If Armin was here with me, he’d make a joke about it. He’d say something like, “That big one at the end is probably where they do their satanic rituals .”
I feel a pang in my chest. For a second, I turn back in my seat, but the gates have already closed behind me.
It feels like my chest is constricting.
Don’t panic, Isobel. It’s going to be fine. You’ve been planning this for months. You can leave whenever you want.
The road branches off to my left, and, just as described, I see a small parking lot under a corrugated steel roof. There are seven cars parked there, and three spaces still open.
I ease the car into one of the free spaces, terrified of scratching the electric BMW parked next to it; the Toyota Camry is bigger than what I’m used to driving, which would be an electric scooter. I could barely cover the cost of the two weeks for the rental. If I dent someone’s luxury car, I’ll have to run away in the dark of night and pray they don’t try to find me.
Once I manage to ease the car into the space, I try to exhale, but some of the air still feels like it’s stuck in there. My ribs hurt, and I try to tell myself it’s from the seat belt and the five-hour drive.
I close my eyes, breathe in deep through my nostrils.
Then I force myself to think of every job interview I’ve been to in the last seven years. Every gray, worn out-looking elder journalist who’s peered at my resumé through bifocals, lines etched around their eyes, stress pulling the corners of their mouths down before they look up to meet my pathetically hopeful gaze.
The sympathy is always the worst part. That, and the explanations.
Hiring freeze, right now . . . Really looking for someone with more of an established following . . . Is there any chance you speak German? Or Mandarin? No?
Maybe try to build up your portfolio. Do some more freelance work.
Have you thought about applying for an internship?
I’ve been in so many of those sad little conference rooms over the years. Borrowed so many ill-fitting nice blazers from friends. Poured over my resumé for hours, trying to find the right wording, attempting to tweak it to perfection. Written and rewritten my work samples, hoping that a single sentence might break through the fog, show someone, anyone, that despite the shitty economy, despite my lack of on-the-job experience, and despite the cratering newspaper industry, I’m worth taking a chance on.
When I started studying journalism, everyone told me not to. My mother cried when I insisted that this was the path I wanted to take.