The Break-Up Retreat(80)

I have to know. I won’t believe it until I know. Until I’ve seen.

The three steps over to the bed feel like crossing an ocean.

I pull the covers back.

Sandra is lying on her side. Her arms are pulled up to her chest. Her hair is half pulled out of her ponytail, and it’s a blessing; the back of her skull is caved in, a sickening break in the smooth curve that should be there.

Her eyes are open.

One eye is staring into nothingness, still stark, and gray, and perfect; almost as though she might turn to me, now, and laugh, that oh-so-familiar laugh I’ve known all my life, the soundtrack to my childhood. Sharp and crass and mocking.

But sweet, underneath it all. So sweet.

The other one is painted obscenely red.

The blood has pooled under the skin on the side of her face resting against the pillow. I can see the bruised horror of it reaching up toward her cheekbones.

When I reach out to touch her cheek, it’s cold and stiff.

I feel my lips tugging in a smile. This is funny, really. It’s a funny joke. So typical of Sandra. She’s always been such a prankster.

Probably trying to teach me a lesson. She and Martina probably set this up together. What fun they must have had.

Sandra has always treated me like a younger sister. She always thought I was too impulsive, too irresponsible.

This’ll teach her , she must have thought, laughing to herself. It’ll scare her straight .

I grab a hold of Sandra’s shoulder, and I start shaking her. She’s such a good actor. I can’t believe she’s managing to lie this still.

Someone grabs ahold of me from behind, both shoulders, crushingly strong, and turns me around, but I struggle against it. I have to make Sandra move. I have to get her to look at me.

If I can just get her to look at me, it will all be fine.

Martina manages to spin me around.

There’s a sound, and it’s coming from me. A deep, guttural groaning, like stone grinding against stone. I didn’t know I could make a sound like that.

Martina’s eyes are huge, and terrified, and deeply, deeply sad.

It’s only when I see her cheeks streaked with tears that I realize mine are, too.

“We have to go,” she whispers to me, so close to my face it feels like our lips might touch. “The window.”

“No.” I breathe it like a prayer.

“Isobel,” Martina says, as the sound of rummaging in the next room becomes clear, a living body with violent intent moving around.

“We have to go.”

“But . . .”

I turn, to look at my oldest friend, who will surely, any moment now, reveal this all as a ruse, of some kind.

“We have to take her with us,” I whisper. “We can’t leave her here. We have to get her to a hospital. We have to—”

This time, it’s Martina who puts her hand over my mouth. But gently, softly.

She shakes her head.

“She’s gone, Isobel,” she whispers. “And if we don’t get out, we will be, too.”

She removes her hand, and she walks over to the window, sliding it open. The sound of the storm comes rushing in, a maelstrom of wind and chill and water. Then she climbs up on the ledge.

The noises from the other room stop.

“Isobel,” Martina says, no longer bothering to stay quiet, “you have to jump.”

And she jumps out.

I can’t move. I can’t look away from her.

I always thought the dead would look peaceful.

Sandra. Sandra, who’s always been so strong. Physically and mentally. Who never let anything faze her.

Who always laughed the loudest at her own jokes.

Who always hugged me like it was a chore.

Who agreed to help me with this, because it was the right thing to do.

The steps are quicker, now. One, two, three, and they’re outside the door.

I hear the door handle turning. Feel the wind dusting my face with rain.

I imagine Sandra turning at me, and looking at me with that stern look of hers. I hear her voice in my head, clear as new ice.

It’s now or never, babe.

I climb up on the windowsill, and I jump, too, landing painfully on my cut-up feet, my ankle wanting to roll, and the storm wanting to push me over, and instead I run, run after Martina in the rain, and I can’t tell if I’m screaming or if it’s the wind.

I will never unsee that eye. That red, empty eye.

Her name is pounding in my head like the beating of a heart.

Sandra. Sandra. Sandra.

I don’t know where I’m running. I just follow Martina, and I run as fast as I can, despite the wind pushing me back.

There’s nowhere to go. No one is coming.

I can see the cabins in the distance, the main building a dark blur, when I feel someone grasping onto my arm, nearly tugging it out of the socket, and through the storm I hear my name:

“Isobel!”





Chapter 45


Under the scent of plastic, and wind, and sweat, there’s something familiar. Something about the way the wet hair is tickling my cheek. Something about the smell.

Eucalyptus.

And the voice, in my ear.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.”

He releases me, and for a second, I think I’ve finally cracked. There’s a peaceful sort of quality to it, for that moment, because maybe none of this is real.