The Break-Up Retreat(5)

She told me it was a job without any security, that I’d be better off going into something more stable, something with some promise. Like law, or finance, or computer programming.

She told me I had nothing to prove.

She told me that I was just trying to fix history, and that I would be better served to just move on.

But I insisted, and she let me go.

She wanted me to burn the past and look forward, like she had. She couldn’t understand that that was never an option for me.

My fingers go to the pendant resting between my collar bones. I almost left it behind; but just as I’ve almost thrown it out, hundreds of times, I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it.

My father gave it to me on my fourteenth birthday. A silver rose, small and exquisite. A little inside joke, since his name was Rosenwald . The name I bore, as well.

I could sever myself from the ruined family name. But I couldn’t cut off the half of me that had grown in tainted soil.

I can only try to cleanse it. Prove myself different. Show the world, and everyone who had doubted me, that they were wrong to do so.

And now, I might have a story. I might have the kind of story that’s good enough, juicy enough, important enough that it’ll get syndicated. That it will spread like wildfire through the world and make it clear, once and for all, that I am someone to be counted on.

This is my shot. Himlafall Clinic is my shot.

All I have to do is not fuck it up.

The knock on the window makes me yelp and open my eyes.

A smiling, beautiful face peers in at me. A quick impression of very white, very even teeth and the kind of freckles influencers spend hours trying to fake with liquid bronzer.

“Hi!” the woman says and waves at me through the window, her voice ever so slightly muted by the glass. “You must be Isobel!”

I nod.

“I’m Belinda,” she says, still smiling. “If you’re all ready to go, I’m here to bring you to Martina.”





Chapter 3


As Belinda leads me into the main building, making pleasant chitchat most likely meant to soothe and welcome me, I can feel my mouth growing ever drier. I take in vague snapshots of the pleasant surroundings—the well-groomed graveled path, the white paint still gleaming on the wooden walls, the smooth rocks scattered artfully along the road. When I look closer at them, I see that they have self-help aphorisms written on them.

You contain the world.

The door will open when you are ready.

Dear God.

Belinda opens the door for me when we reach the end of the path and seems to notice my half a second of hesitation.

She leans in and puts her hand on my shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. The gentle pressure and soft warmth of her palm does calm me down.

I wonder if they have to practice that squeeze. If it’s part of the training the employees go through.

“It’s okay,” Belinda encourages me, with a small, gentle smile on her lips. She’s about my height, and she’s wearing a white T-shirt tucked into black pants. She doesn’t look like a nurse—with her clean-faced good looks and smooth, elegant voice, she might as well have been a mixologist at a molecular cocktail bar too upscale for my empty wallet.

“You’ve made a really brave decision, coming here. I understand it must be scary.”

If you only knew.

“What’s she like?” I ask her. “Martina?”

Belinda’s smile remains fixed on her perfect lips. No part of her face moves.

“Well, I’ll let you get your own impression of Doctor Martina,” she says. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

There is a reception right in front of the door, a low, smooth desk in light, polished wood. Another woman is sitting behind it; she looks to be in her early thirties, her white-blond locks in a high ponytail, not a hair out of place. There is a small name tag on her white linen shirt that says Anna , and she smiles at me before nodding at Belinda.

“Is this Isobel?” she asks Belinda, who turns to me and smiles encouragingly.

I feel like a kindergartener, like my mother is trying to get me to practice introducing myself to new people.

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “Hi.”

“So lovely to have you here,” Anna says to me, all sunshine and sincerity, and then, she continues, to Belinda, “Doctor Martina is ready for her.”

Belinda turns to me.

“Right this way,” she says, leading me to the left, down the hallway.

There is no art on the walls, no photographs, just large, potted plants with wide, sharp, deep-green leaves standing sturdily on the floor, and small, neat signs outside every door.

GROUP THERAPY OFFICE 2

PHYSICAL THERAPY ROOM 1

Belinda stops outside the last door on the left and raises her hand to knock, when something suddenly occurs to me, and I stop her.

“Wait,” I blurt out. “I left my bags in my car.”

Belinda, her hand still held high, looks at me and says:

“Yes, that’s perfectly normal. I will go get them for you and take them to your cabin while you’re having your talk with Doctor Martina.”

She smiles again, like an afterthought.

“But . . .”

Belinda lowers her hand. She reaches out and clasps my fingers in her own.

“I know you’re probably the kind of person who is used to having to take care of everything themselves,” she says, quietly. “But part of this journey is learning to let yourself be taken care of. Can you trust that, if you let go just a little bit, we will make sure it gets done?”