The Break-Up Retreat(81)

Because he can’t be here.

“Get away from her!” I hear someone shouting, and then someone tugs me back, and I am starting to feel like rag doll.

Martina is utterly drenched, wet hair clinging to her cheeks and rage in her eyes.

“No,” I try to say, “it’s not him, he’s—”

“Don’t take one step closer,” Martina pants, still behind me.

Armin looks from me to the doctor; I see confusion and anger battling in his face.

“Okay.” He puts his hands up. “I don’t know what’s going on here.”

I look behind him, over at the staff quarters, and I feel another surge of adrenaline.

“We can’t stay here,” I tell him.

“Who are you?” Martina asks Armin, her face twisted up. “We’ve called the police!”

“No.” I tear myself loose from her. “It’s not him. He’s okay. I promise.”

Martina doesn’t take her eyes off Armin.

“Isobel, what’s happening?” Armin asks me.

“I’ll explain,” I try to say, but my teeth are chattering, my head swimming. My knees feel like jelly.

“But we have to . . . we can’t stay here.”

“Okay,” Armin says, following my line of sight.

“Main building,” I manage to get out.

We’re close enough that we’re in through the door in only a couple of minutes, door shut behind us. It’s warmer in here, and for a moment, I feel like I need to collapse; I see Martina falling to her knees on the floor.

But I can’t. I look at Armin, and I say:

“We have to block the door.”

My voice doesn’t sound like my own.

He doesn’t ask. I walk over to the couch and grab it by one end.

Armin takes a hold of the other end, and we pull it in front of the door; I see Armin wedging it under the door handle.

My body seems to decide I’ve had enough, because I sink down onto the couch, water dripping off of me onto the fabric, staining it darker.

I rub my fingers over it.

I think of the dark droplets on Sandra’s white sheets.

Tears are still running, silently, making my eyes sting.

When I feel the couch cushion giving way to Armin beside me, I know I should look up, know I should say something, but I can’t find the voice to do so.

“Hey.” Armin very gently places his hand on top of mine. “Isobel.”

I close my eyes. I see Sandra.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

I reach for the words. I can’t find them. I need to tell him about the person in the woods; outside the window; about the stolen files, about the generator, about everything.

But what comes out, as a whisper, is:

“Sandra is dead.”

“What?”

I don’t know if he couldn’t hear me, or if he just can’t understand what I’m saying, but I repeat: “Sandra is dead.”

There’s a buzzing in my ears. And in my hands. There are black spots dancing in front of my eyes.

It doesn’t sound real. It doesn’t feel real, either. I try laughing, to see if maybe that will break the spell; if it might make me wake up, and all of this will have been a terrible dream.

But the sound that comes out of me is nothing like a laugh.

“Who are you?” I hear a voice, as though from far away.

“I’m Isobel’s friend,” another voice answers. This one is better, calmer; I press my forehead against my knees, and I try to fill my lungs with air, try to remember how it feels, try to listen to that second voice.

“What are you doing here?” the first one asks.

I feel like I’m underwater.

“I was worried about Isobel,” the second voice responds. “She wasn’t calling me back. I hadn’t heard from her in days. So I drove here.”

Then, a hand on my upper back, and that second voice, the good voice, Armin’s voice, closer to my ear: “Breathe. Just breathe. Come on. In and out.”

I gasp for air, and I think:

I can’t do this. I can’t. I don’t know how to do this.

“It’s okay,” Armin tries to soothe me. “It’s going to be okay.”

But I know that it’s not.

I draw another deep, rattling breath.

“Isobel,” I hear, and I look up.

Martina is sitting in front of me. Her face is blotchy with dissolved makeup, her hair a wet, disheveled mess.

But she’s looking me in the eyes.

“Name four colors you can see, right now,” she says.

She doesn’t sound like Doctor Martina. She doesn’t sound calm, or ethereal, or superior. Her natural voice is slightly higher, a bit nasally.

“Colors?” I repeat, confused.

“Look around the room,” she instructs me. “Name four colors you can see.”

I still can’t breathe. I still feel like I’m about to pass out, like I’m floating above my body.

But I look around.

“Green,” I say, and then I look at Armin, who is wearing a deep-teal raincoat.

“Teal.”

“Good,” Martina encourages me. “Two more.”

I look down at my jeans.