The Break-Up Retreat(53)

Chapter 29


I see Clara leaving her cabin right before seven, heading to the dining hall; Katarina follows behind her, and then Leyla, and Pernilla. They turn from women into silhouettes, painted golden by the sinking sun, and then finally into shadows who disappear into the dining hall, one by one.

The doors close behind them, and then all is still.

I wait a few more minutes before slinking out the door.

I decided to wear relaxed clothes, fit for exercise; I figure that if I get caught going to or coming from the main building, I can say I’ve gone for a walk, to try to ease the pain.

Still, my heart is fluttering in my chest. The cold, brisk air feels good against my face. The feelings from the group therapy session linger in my body, stretching lazily under my skin like tentacles.

Again, I wonder if feelings are all they are. Or if it’s something more. Drugs building in my brain, to make me pliable, to render me vulnerable.

The thought lights a small, burning ember of anger under my ribs.

Well, if that’s the game she’s playing, I’m about to find out.

The main building is dark and looks abandoned. I’ve prepared a story, just in case someone stayed behind in the reception; I’m almost certain everyone should be at dinner except for Sandra and Martina, but if someone decided to stay behind, I’m going to tell them I feel anxious. That I need someone to talk to.

When I glance over at the staff quarters, I see one of the rooms lit up, the outline of a person moving, and I have to fight the urge to duck.

My father once told me to never give in to the urge to hide. People recognize hiding; it looks suspicious. If you pretend like you have every right to do what you’re doing, they won’t even take notice of you .

I guess he’d know.

So instead, I stroll, slowly but purposefully, up to the door to the main building, and I open it already posed to ask Anna or Belinda if they have time.

But they are not there.

The reception is, indeed, empty.

I step inside and close the door, tasting the small thrill of being somewhere I’m not supposed to on my tongue. The lights are still on, the air humming with silence.

Still, I call out:

“Hello? Is anybody here?”

Loud enough to be heard through the corridor but quiet enough so that it won’t be noticed from outside. I hope.

It feels different, being here on my own, walking down the corridor without someone shadowing me. Without the soft voices of staff whispering in my ear, the beautiful, shiny surface suddenly seems to dissipate.

No longer a luxurious, curated space designed for healing, no. Now, the plants look placed at random, and the wear and tear of the floor looks obvious. It looks like an office building, or a government facility.

It’s like the spell has worn off.

I stop outside of Martina’s office. The sign by the door catches my eye.

dr. martina hastings, phd

“You don’t need to say you’re a doctor twice,” I mutter to myself, and then I push the door handle down and step in.

The office is dusky, lit only by the dying light from the window. It takes me a moment to orient myself; I look around, catching the eyes of the two-dimensional Martina looking at me from a book cover, her flat eyes seeming to follow me around the room.

When I turn away from the bookshelf, I see the cabinet hiding behind the desk. It’s low to the ground, dark, polished wood, with two deep drawers.

I consider saying Bingo to myself but decide it’s too much of a cliché, and so instead I say nothing. I just get down on my knees by the cabinet, pull my recorder out of my pocket, turn it on, and pull the first drawer out.

It’s full to bursting with cheap blue paper folders, all marked with little stick-on labels. Names have been written on them with slightly sloppy handwriting. I’m guessing it’s Martina’s.

Here they are. The patient files.

“I’m in Doctor Martina Hastings’s office,” I breathe into the recorder as I look down in the box of files. “I’m looking at past patient files. The goal is to find the file of Susannah Wallin, if it’s still here.” I pause, and then I add:

“I will of course avoid looking at any of the other patient files, in order to preserve patient privacy.”

I start rifling through the files, looking for the W s, but it soon becomes apparent they are in no particular order. They look shoved in haphazardly; there are bits of paper sticking out of some of them, bent corners from the drawers being opened and shut. Some of the files are sliver-thin, some thicker, and I see names passing by—Lina, Emilia, Carina, Matilda, Anya, Robin—until the letters begin to blur.

So many names. But no Susannah.

“Shit,” I mutter to myself, before remembering I’m recording.

I clear my throat; the sound seems to echo in the empty room.

“The records are poorly kept,” I note. “There doesn’t seem to be a system to them. I question whether a former client’s healthcare provider would be able to contact Himlafall and get any useful information about their patient. This, again, reinforces the lack of care that the staff take with their—”

I stop talking.

Upon opening the second drawer, I see a stack of files that have been pushed in at the end. The one closest to the handle says CLARA AF SPERLING .

I rifle through the next few files until I see my own first name staring back at me.