The Break-Up Retreat(70)

She turns away from Katarina, looking at the rest of us.

“Katarina’s parents told her she should be grateful to have a bed when she was eight years old,” she says. “Isn’t that funny?”

No one moves.

Martina gives a high, pearly laugh. The kind of laugh that belongs at a cotillion, or a polo match; rich and distant.

“See, when Katarina was a little girl, and when she was bad,” Doctor Martina begins, her voice now low, conspiratorial, as though she’s sharing a juicy piece of gossip, “her parents would make her sleep on the floor. They told her that she shouldn’t take anything for granted. Not even a bed. So when she didn’t do her homework, or when she didn’t complete her chores, she had to sleep on the floor. Not even on the rug. Can you imagine?”

Martina laughs again. She slaps her knee.

“Isn’t that the funniest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Katarina is looking at Martina. Her eyes are open so wide I can see the whites around her iris.

Something in me snaps. It feels like I’ve suddenly woken up.

“That’s not fucking funny,” I say. Somehow, my voice sounds calm and controlled, even though that is the last thing I feel.

Martina turns to me.

“Well, of course it’s funny, Isobel,” she coos. “Just picture it. Little Katarina, curled up on the floor, crying because she was cold. All she had to do was not talk back so much! It’s all just so silly .”

“Stop it !” I raise my voice, but she’s still talking, now turning to Pernilla, who looks on in equal parts horror and fascination.

“When she was a teenager, Katarina’s mom and dad would do weekly weigh-ins for her,” Martina keeps going, in a hushed tone. “And if she had gained weight, they wouldn’t let her have dinner until the next week. Once . . .” She leans in even further.

“Once, Katarina snuck down and ate the leftovers out of the trash. She was crying into the garbage, she was so scared of getting caught. Isn’t that absolutely mad?” Her eyes are sparkling.

“Don’t tell them about that.” Katarina’s voice has turned into a low growl.

“Stop it, Martina!” I’m nearly yelling, now, but Martina just keeps going, raising her voice until it’s louder than the rain, louder than anything, until it’s the only thing that exists in the world.

“Katarina still has dinner with her parents once a week. And about a month ago, they decided to send her here to have her fixed. They’re upset, you see, that Katarina isn’t married yet. So they sent her here to have her taken care of, like she’s a broken toy. Isn’t that just the funniest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Martina throws her head back and laughs, and Katarina catapults out of her chair.

“SHUT UP!” she screams, at the top of her lungs. “JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Martina’s laugh cuts off, as though someone’s pushed a button.

Katarina is standing over her, panting, her cheeks red, her chest working like bellows, and she has one hand raised, shaking, in the air.

I don’t know if she’s straining to hit Martina, or straining not to.

“There,” Martina says, softly. “There it is.”

Katarina is crying, soundlessly, breathing in giant gulps of air.

“You’re angry,” Martina states, plainly. “Say it. Say that you are angry.”

There’s hunger in her eyes, in her grasping hands, a sort of breathless anticipation.

“You hate me,” she breathes. “Come on. Admit it.”

Katarina slowly lowers her hand.

And then she shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “I don’t.”

For a long, vibrating moment, Martina looks at Katarina. Something passes between them.

Then Martina sighs.

“Okay.” She stands up, disgust radiating from her. “Fine.”

Katarina flinches, but Martina just walks right past her, to the door.

“I think we’ll be skipping the break, today,” she tosses out, over her shoulder. “I’ll go tell Anna and Belinda to bring us some tea and treats.”

She closes the door behind her with a bang.





Chapter 39


I spring from my chair the moment the door closes, and I put my arm around Katarina. She’s shaking, the muscles in her thin shoulders tense like springs, as though she’s about to fall apart. Or explode.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

Leyla has joined up at the other side of her, and I see, to my surprise, that Pernilla has stood up as well, wringing her hands, her face white and drawn.

Katarina shakes her head.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she murmurs. “I shouldn’t have . . . I shouldn’t . . .”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Leyla grasps Katarina’s hand lightly in her own.

Katarina looks over at Leyla, and the sight of Leyla’s calm, steady gaze seems to soothe her.

“You don’t mean that,” Katarina says.

“I do,” Leyla says. “What she did was horrible. There’s no excuse for it.”

When Pernilla speaks up, we all start in surprise; her voice is low, and, for the first time I’ve heard it, unsure.