The Rockland terminal building is clean and quiet. The American and Maine State flags hang from a rafter. Four rows of benches face the port. On the walls are small stained-glass window scenes of birds and plants that must be significant to Maine.
After using the bathroom, I head back outside. Gray clouds creep toward the harbor. I jam my hands in my pockets and exhale, watching the puff of condensation drift from my mouth. I pause at two H-shaped loading ramps. On the first ramp, the public ferry to Vinalhaven Island is preparing to depart. Men in jeans and neon yellow sweatshirts guide truckers as they drive their vehicles onto the ferry. The water glistens, bluer than I expected considering all the traffic.
On the other side of the harbor bob dozens of sailboats. A red lobster shack, concrete tables, and red barstools stand nearby. Secured to a lamppost is a handwritten sign: GUESTS OF WISEWOOD, PLEASE WAIT HERE. I sit on one of the stools, trying to convince myself I’m not in danger. I hope I’m not the sole passenger on this boat; it would be my luck to try to save my sister only to wind up in a body bag on the ocean floor.
I tap my foot and check my phone. The water taxi should be here in six minutes. I consider squeaking out a few e-mails while I wait （Tyler will spend the day sharpening his stand-up routine if I don’t keep him busy） but I’m too wired to focus. A sixty-something woman wearing a khaki sun hat and dragging a purple suitcase heads toward me. I sigh with relief. Even small talk is preferable to imagining Wisewood’s skipper folding me into a tarp like a ham and cream cheese roll-up.
The woman waves, the fanny pack around her waist jiggling. “Here for the Wisewood ferry?”
I nod.
“Me too.” She extends her hand. “I’m Cheryl.”
“Natalie,” I say as we shake. “What brings you to Wisewood?”
“A little R and R, some self-reflection.” She chews her lip, thinking. “Oh, what the hell? This place is all about honesty.” She leans in and lowers her voice. “My business partner and I were going to retire next year, sell our flower shop. Instead, she threw me out on my bottom and had me replaced. After twenty years together.” Cheryl squeezes her suitcase handle hard enough to break it in half. With great effort, she forces her jaw to relax and rolls her head around her shoulders. “I’ve tried meditation. Exercise. Therapy. Lots and lots of therapy.” She laughs bitterly. “Can’t let it go. I’ll sit down on the couch for a minute and next thing I know, hours have gone by without me realizing it.” Her expression blackens. “You should see the severance she gave me, the nerve of her. The shop was my idea—we opened it with my life savings. I’d be starting over at sixty-four if it weren’t for my husband’s pension.”
Cheryl’s shoulders have crept back up to her ears.
“I’m so sorry.”
She touches my arm. “Thank you, dear. I figure if traditional therapy hasn’t done the trick, maybe I need something less conventional. My sister’s the one who told me about Wisewood. She joined after a rough divorce. Husband’s a real prick. I told her as much before they married thirty years ago, but does she ever listen to me? Anyway, Wisewood doesn’t seem like your average retreat, some glorified vacation with sunrise yoga thrown in. You know that application we had to fill out? I haven’t written something that long since I was in school.” She raises an eyebrow. “I heard they only accept ten percent of applicants. I liked that line from their brochure: We are not your first resort.”
What story did Kit’s application tell? I wonder whether the ten percent approval rate is accurate or a marketing ploy to make the place sound exclusive.
“I liked that,” Cheryl repeats. “Sends a message that Wisewood is for people who really need help. It won’t be four days of trust falls and self-empowerment babble and then back home we go. Kinda hard to change your life in a week, don’t you think? I’m talking real, lasting change.”
I nod, distracted. Kit must have been desperate. Guilt stabs me; I had no idea she was so miserable.
“My sister’s never been happier, so I thought I’d try Wisewood too.”
I should have been honest with Kit from the start. No, I never should have done what I did in the first place.
She’ll hate you if you tell her.
I rub my face as a group walks over: two adults in their fifties and a teenage girl. The couple reveals they’ve enrolled their daughter Chloe before she starts college in the fall but don’t share why.