AT MY DESK I remove the lid of my scratched-up Tupperware and stare at my lunch, the same one I’ve eaten every day for years: a cup of kale, two slices of bacon, toasted walnuts, chickpeas, and Parmesan cheese, tossed in a shallot vinaigrette. I eagerly await the day scientists discover kale’s worse for your health than nicotine; for now, a superfood’s a superfood. I sigh and dig in.
I had a lot of time to think through my New Year’s resolutions over Christmas break. Last year I put an additional two and a half percent of my pay into savings. The year before that, I started washing my bed linens twice a month instead of once. Every January （except this one） Kit tells me I should resolve to have more fun. Every January （except this one） I want to snap at her that resolutions have to be measurable or you can’t tell whether you’ve achieved them, but that would do little to disprove her point.
On New Year’s Eve, as I sat alone in my apartment, staring at the needles falling off my three-foot Fraser fir while snow pelted my window, I was loath to admit my sister might be onto something. I don’t know a soul in my new city other than my coworkers. How does a thirty-one-year-old make friends if not through her job? I’d rather be eaten by a bear than go to one of those Meetups, standing around with a bunch of strangers, trying to figure out who’s least likely to make a skin suit out of me.
I’d resolved to try harder my first day back at work, focus less on the job, more on the people. Three hours in, I veto the resolution. Why waste my time with dolts like Tyler?
I allow myself a moment to wish Kit were here, then brush the weakness away.
I check the time back home （nine a.m.） and text my best friend, Jamie: Still not making any progress with work people. No response; must be busy with the baby. I stab a chickpea with my fork and jiggle my finger across my laptop’s track pad.
Once I’ve cleared my work inbox, I move on to my personal account. I scan the subject lines: a few newsletters, a grocery coupon, spam from someone named Merlin Magic Booty. Plus a message from [email protected]. I pause.
Kit went to Wisewood six months ago.
My sister didn’t tell me much before she left, just called last July to explain she’d found this self-improvement program on an island in Maine. The courses are six months. During that time you aren’t supposed to contact family or friends because inward focus is the goal, and oh, by the way, she had already signed up and was leaving for Maine the following week, so she wouldn’t be able to call or text me for a while.
I had balked. She couldn’t afford to go half a year without income. What about health insurance? How was she okay with cutting off everyone she knew for such a long time?
I pictured her shrugging on the other end of the line. If I had a dollar for every time Kit answered me with a shrug, I could pay for her to live at Wisewood forever.
“What are you thinking?” I’d asked. “You finally have a dependable job, benefits, an apartment, and you’re going to throw it all away on a whim?”
Her tone cooled. “I’m not saying Wisewood is the answer to all my problems, but at least I’m trying to figure it out.”
“Your job is the answer.” I was incredulous that she didn’t get it. “How much is this program? How are you going to afford it with that student loan?”
“Why don’t you worry about yourself for once, Natalie?” She never calls me that, so I knew she was furious. “Why can’t you be happy for me?”
I couldn’t be happy for her because I knew exactly how this would end: Kit disillusioned with Wisewood and stranded on the island, begging me to save her. My sister needs rescuing more often than most people. Last year she called me sobbing over a scarf she’d misplaced. （I found it an hour later in her closet.） On the other hand, she’s known to get in hot water on occasion. She once found herself stuck in the desert after her loser guitarist boyfriend dumped her in the middle of his tour, which she had dropped out of college to follow him on. Another time a misunderstanding with her best friend ended with me picking both of them up from a police station. My sister doesn’t want me to hover until the exact moment she needs me, and then she expects me to drop everything to save her.
We ended the call still snapping at each other. I haven’t heard from her since. She doesn’t even know I moved across the country to Boston, taking a page out of her playbook that mandates when the going gets tough, the tough flee the situation. Back when I started toying with the idea of moving, I had pictured more frequent sisterly get-togethers; I would be only a train ride away now. She left New York before I got the chance. On my more honest days, I can admit her absence is a relief. The less often I talk to her, the less guilty I feel.