The Break-Up Retreat(41)

I decide that Pernilla’s choice was a good one; I, too, can’t take having breakfast with Leyla and Clara today.

I stand up from the table.

Leyla looks up at me.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“I’m not feeling so good,” I tell her, putting my hand on my stomach for effect. “Cramps.”

“You poor thing,” Clara says. “I have a visualization exercise for menstrual pains that’s really good. It’s all about picturing how your body is ridding itself of toxicity, and—”

“—or I’ve got some paracetamol, if you want some,” Leyla cuts in.

“No, I’m good, I’m just going to go lay down for a second,” I say.

“See you in therapy!” Clara says, and I wave at her before going outside.

The sunlight is too sharp; it feels as though it’s actually cutting into my skull through my eyes, worsening the burgeoning headache I can feel pounding behind my eyebrows.

But as I walk out of the dining hall, I stop in my tracks.

There is a beaten-up green Prius parked next to my flashy rental.

A car I know well.

Sandra is finally here.





Chapter 23


“Sandra!”

I run up to her and throw my arms around her, tilting her momentarily off-balance.

She smells like herself, like mint, and cheap soap, and aggressive deodorant; I have never recognized what a comforting mix of scents that is, before.

Sandra wiggles out of my grip almost immediately.

“Jesus, Isobel,” she hisses at me. “Not here.”

She tosses a glance over at the main building.

“Sorry.” I take a step back. “I’m just . . . I’m really happy to see you.”

Sandra’s short, golden blond hair is pulled back into a bristly ponytail at the nape of her neck, and she is wearing an Adidas tracksuit that pulls over her broad shoulders; it looks as though she might have taken Andrea’s, by mistake. Andrea takes after her mom more than her dad, with the same short stature and sturdy, muscular build, but she doesn’t have Sandra’s thirty-plus years of athletic pursuits to fill out her frame yet.

Sandra is still looking around, a haunted look in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Not here,” Sandra mutters. “Come on, get in the passenger seat. Before anyone sees you.”

Wordlessly, I follow her instructions, climbing into the car and shutting the door behind me. There is a crumpled-up McDonald’s bag on the floor, and a half-empty off-brand sport’s drink in the cupholder; the radio is still softly playing the maudlin old Swedish classics Sandra always denies liking, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

Sandra pulls the door shut behind her.

“Is everything okay?” I ask her. “Is Andrea all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Sandra waves me off. “She’s with her dad, she’s doing fine. I think she just wanted me around for a few days longer, to tell the truth.”

“Of course she did,” I say. “You’re her mom.”

Sandra rolls her eyes.

“Thanks. More mom guilt is exactly what I needed right now.”

“Sorry,” I respond, instantly humbled.

Sandra locks the doors before turning to me.

“We can’t talk for long. I don’t want them seeing us together.”

“No, I get that,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be an idiot about it.”

Sandra drums her fingers on the steering wheel. Her eyes are locked on the trees beyond the fence.

“Listen,” she says. “I’ll keep this quick, before anyone catches us. I reached out to someone who used to work here. The other psychologist who got let go last year. I was thinking she might be up for being quoted in your article.”

“I thought you said no one would be willing to talk?” The surprise makes my voice hitch and climb.

“Listen, Isobel.” Sandra draws a deep breath.

I recognize that tone of voice; I’ve heard it so many times before. The slight lowering, the downcast eyes.

Bad news.

“I don’t want to freak you out,” she begins. “I’m trying not to freak out, myself. But I almost. . . . I nearly called and just quit, yesterday. I wasn’t sure I could come back.”

When she turns to look at me, I notice the fine, red veins spiderwebbing across the whites of her eyes, the lack of color in her cheeks.

As long as I’ve known her, Sandra has always been spiky and energetic. A fundamentally content person in a way that has always confused me.

Full of piss and vinegar, that one was the way my dad would describe her when we were kids, with a note to his voice I would only later come to recognize as dislike. He never did like people with a strong sense of self, my father; they were less likely to be swayed to his sense of reality.

“What happened?” I ask her.

“I got a hold of Doctor Nina,” she says. “I thought about it, and I figured that out of all the people who’ve come through this place, she was the one most likely to talk.”

“Who is Doctor Nina?” I’ve never heard the name before.

“She was the other psychologist here. You know, the one who took over when Martina was down in Stockholm, doing press and living it up. Like how Ellen and I trade off every two weeks, or how the caretakers cycle in and out. I didn’t think about her before, because we never worked together all that much, but she popped into my head a few weeks ago. I had a hard time getting hold of her. I only managed to find her a couple of days ago.”