The Break-Up Retreat(68)

It all seems so trite and pointless, now.

The recording is six hours long. It lay here, dutifully documenting the sound of the oncoming storm until the battery ran out.

When I click on it, and it shows the track, I see, to my surprise, that there are three major peaks on the recording. The first one is clearly the message I left; after that, there are ten or so minutes of low-level sound from the rain, and a small blip. Finally, there is a big chunk about an hour or so in.

When I fast-forward to the final burst, I’m greeted by muffled voices. It takes me a little while to recognize them.

“. . . you lunatic!”

It’s Clara. Me and Clara, arguing last night.

I don’t need to listen to it back. I remember it well enough.

Instead, I go back to the little blip, about ten minutes after I left. It’s short, voices rising and falling over the sound of the rain. Even as a strain, I’m having a hard time making them out; whoever it is, they must have been right outside my cabin, but the sound of the wind is drowning out the voices.

I raise the volume, rewind again and try once more. It’s easier to make out the tone than it is the words themselves. First, a short burst, like a greeting; then, a period of only rain . . . and then, sounding closer, slightly louder, something I can almost make out. There is a strong vowel sound, a U , and then what sounds like rear .

I go back, listen to it three more times.

I’m almost, almost certain they are saying “. . . you here .”

Finally, a few seconds later, are the only three words I’m sure of. It’s not a full sentence; the first one is spoken by a different voice than the last two, and in the middle are sounds too muffled to interpret.

“. . . Isobel . . . about Susannah.”

I recognize the first voice. Recognize the way it says my name.

It’s the same voice I heard in the woods, last night. Whispering for me, in the dark.

I turn the recorder back off. Slowly slide it into my pocket. I try to get to my feet, but my legs won’t cooperate.

That voice in the woods was real. They went out there to find me. They knew I’d be out there, and they knew about Susannah.

And they weren’t alone.

A sentence from the Himlafall brochure pops into my head, and I begin to laugh, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to swallow the sound back down.

There are no secrets at Himlafall. Here, you are never alone.

Clearly, I should have read that literally.

The door opens behind my back. There is no knock, no warning.

I turn my head, and I see Belinda standing in the doorway, softly backlit in ominous gray, the hood of her rain jacket making her look like some ancient monk, come to make me repent for my sins.

“Isobel. You’re late for group therapy.”





Chapter 38


The others are already sitting in the circle: Clara, straight-backed and perky, rigid grin on her lips, Leyla inspecting her nails, Katarina picking at the ends of her ponytail, and Pernilla, folded up and closed off.

I take my seat.

The rain is whipping against the windows, the patter stronger in here than it was in the hallway. Martina smacks the light switch on the wall, bathing the room in artificial light.

“Well, aren’t we all so cozy in here.” She makes it sound like a threat.

Martina slowly sits down in the one empty chair, looking around the circle.

“You know, weather like this can actually be helpful to bring emotions to the surface,” Martina begins. “I know it might feel a little bit scary, but whether we like it or not, our feelings are influenced by the world around us. A storm can be a chance to let loose. Let our feelings fly free.”

She leans forward in her chair, tilting her head so that her braid slides sensually down the side of her neck. Her necklace is dangling freely over her clasped hands, glinting in the light.

“Who would like to start?” she asks.

At first, no one speaks.

All that can be heard is the sound of the rain, and the wind.

For a second, I’m struck, absurdly, by the thought that this is all the set of a play. That we are performing for her pleasure. It feels like we’ve been gathered in here, neatly cordoned off, pushed together in a tight space with our emotions running high so that it might culminate in an explosion.

It all feels inevitable, somehow. Like I’m being cut off at every exit, neatly and on purpose.

I’m never going to leave this place.

My hair is standing on end. I tell myself I’m overreacting, that it’s all going to be fine.

Tomorrow, I’m going to wake up in my shitty apartment, sore and tired from the drive, and this is all going to feel like a dream I had long ago, a failed endeavor that exhausted and frightened me but doesn’t anymore, because I’ll be safe.

But that idea is hard to trust, at this point.

Somehow, some part of me believes that I was always meant to end up here.

“Katarina.” Martina speaks her name like a command, and Katarina sits up in her chair, her hands folded neatly on her lap.

“Yes?” Her voice is bright. Too chipper to sound real.

“How are you feeling right now?”

“I feel good.” Katarina pulls her mouth into a tentative smile, but her eyes flicker toward the windows.

“I slept well,” she adds.