The Break-Up Retreat(45)

“She didn’t use that power,” Clara pipes up. “Because it wasn’t real.”

She leans forward in her chair, eyes locked on me.

“The sense of power was fake,” she says. “It was just a comforting story you told yourself so that you wouldn’t have to do the work of choosing yourself. As long as you could keep telling yourself you were in charge, you could blind yourself to the fact that you kept giving up your true power to mediocre men who meant nothing to you.”

She smiles at me. I don’t know if I imagine the slight challenge in her eyes. As though daring me to speak up, defend myself.

Martina nods to her, and says, with a cool, clear voice:

“Very good, Clara.”

Then her head snaps around, and she’s looking at me again.

“Do you recognize that, Isobel? Does that sound familiar?”

I want to protest, want to give in to the boiling anger that tastes like bitter coal on my tongue, but I swallow it down.

I refuse to end up today like I did yesterday. Yesterday, I wasn’t prepared for the intensity of all of this, how quickly it would get under my skin.

But now, the stakes have become clearer than ever. I have Sandra here, with me, again, and we’re about to get things moving. If everything goes as it should, we’ll have actual proof by tonight.

All I have to do until then is be Isobel Anderssen.

I let my head hang down, and draw a deep, theatrical breath.

“Yes.” If I give in to it, they might move on.

“So tell us,” Martina says.

When I look up, I see that she has walked into the circle; that she has crouched down on the floor, in front of me.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell us that you allowed yourself to be taken advantage of,” Martina purrs. “Tell us that you let yourself play into a false narrative in order to not have to make yourself vulnerable.”

Martina has lowered her voice until it’s almost a whisper, like a twisted form of intimacy.

“Don’t tell me because you think it’s what I want to hear,” she says. “I need to see that you understand that it’s true. I need to see that you believe it. That is the only way you can change.”

“This is a bit much.” Leyla has sat up in her chair.

Martina rises to her feet with admirable quickness and dexterity; she’s got at least ten years on me, but my knees would have sounded like pop rocks if I’d tried the same move.

“What do you mean, Leyla?”

She doesn’t sound angry. She sounds curious.

But I can feel the sudden charge in the room, all the same; I think we all can.

“You’re putting words in her mouth,” Leyla shoots back. “That’s not how therapy is supposed to work.”

She looks over at Clara.

“I know we’re supposed to help each other progress, or whatever, but right now it just feels like you’re getting us to gang up on Isobel,” she continues, now aimed at Clara. “That didn’t feel like support. It just felt like bullying.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Clara’s voice becomes a squeak. “I wasn’t—I wouldn’t—”

She turns to Martina.

“She’s disrupting the process!” Clara exclaims, pointing at Leyla.

“Now, wait.” Martina puts her hand on Clara’s shoulder to soothe her, like a mother shushing her child.

“I want to hear what Leyla has to say.”

She smiles at Leyla.

“Go on,” she says. “This is a safe space.”

“It doesn’t feel like a safe space. It feels more like you’re encouraging us to gang up on each other. This doesn’t feel like therapy, it feels like you’re trying to get us to break down and cry so that we will feel like we’ve had some major breakthrough. It’s manipulative.” Leyla crosses her arms across her chest and looks steadily at Martina.

“Okay.” Martina says, removing her hand from Clara’s shoulder and nodding slowly. “So what does therapy feel like, then?”

“I mean, in my experience, therapy usually means recounting your experiences and then having the therapist help you untangle them.” Leyla raises her eyebrows. “Give some perspective. But you’re just telling us what to say and then expecting us to agree with you. That’s not therapy, that’s a . . . sermon.”

Martina stops in front of Leyla and clasps her hands in front of her.

“You’ve done therapy before, I take it.” Martina smiles at Leyla.

Looking from one to the other, I’m struck by an urge to warn Leyla.

Stop. It’s a trap.

“Yes,” Leyla responds. “Of course I have. That’s basically a requirement to be a functional adult.”

“And how has that worked out for you?” Martina immediately asks, quick as a flash. Like a snake, striking faster than the eye can see.

Leyla wavers.

“Well,” she begins, slowly. “It let me work through some stuff. Made me healthy and functional and able to deal with life.”

“And yet, you’re here,” Martina says.

“Because my mom wanted me to,” Leyla shoots back, pouncing on the opportunity.

“And why did your mom want you to come here?” Martina’s voice is soft and slippery as silk.