I wake with a headache more often than not. I live for forty-eight hours of every one hundred and sixty-eight. Sometimes I forget how old I am, what year it is. My name appears only in e-mails and tax forms—it will disappear altogether after I die. My Social Security number has summarized my earthly contribution to date: person number X of seven billion.
I want to join to prove my sister wrong. There are more important things in life than a steady paycheck.
I want to join to untether from likes and stories and filters and followers.
I want to join to figure out whether my mom is in a place I can reach with my feet on the ground.
To figure out whether I want to be aboveground or under it.
I’m scared of wanting to be under it.
To get out of my head. I would prefer anyone else’s.
To determine whether I can be more than a receptacle. If I can do more than accept other people’s lunches and bouquets.
I want to join because travel, therapy, religion, acupuncture, new cities, new jobs, new friends, puzzles, journals, candles, thick socks, face masks, long hikes, baths, drugs, sex, sports, stretching, sleeping, drinking, running, and meditating haven’t worked.
Because I like the sound of fearlessness.
Because there has to be more.
14
Kit
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
JULY 2019
I SWUNG THE trailer door open and peered around the dim, stuffy room. The blinds had been drawn over the windows. Motivational posters covered the walls. A burning incense stick filled the space with a heady scent. Seven chairs formed a circle. All but one were occupied. I rushed toward it. April and Georgina, two women I’d met on the ferry ride, waved at me. I beamed at them.
When I’d climbed out of the Hourglass yesterday and planted both feet on Wisewood’s pier, a stillness took hold of my body, a calm I had not known in all my adult life. The chatter of my fellow newcomers faded to the background. I took in a lungful of pine, then tipped my head toward the bright-eyed sky. A bird soared and sang to the sea life below. Lazy clouds gazed at their reflection in the aquamarine glass that stretched miles and miles. Jade, kelly, lime, moss: I had never seen such a rainbow of greens. Yet an odd sense of déjà vu washed over me, like I’d known this place forever, like I’d find my blood and veins inside these tree trunks.
The thrill of potential, the possibility that my answer was here, made me tremble. I wasn’t even sure what I was searching for—all I knew was that life was happening to me, that I was a minor character in my own story. During those first moments on the pier, I suddenly had in my sights the thing all of us are hunting.
Hope.
In the trailer, an older woman stood. Except for her shaved head, she could have been the grandmother of every friend or classmate I’d ever had. Between her capris, buttoned pink cardigan, and floral scarf, she was Leave It to Beaver wholesome, the type of person who called shirts “blouses.” She probably excelled at Scrabble, had volunteered at her local library before the move to Wisewood. I wondered what had brought her here—she was hardly the type to stray off the beaten path.
“Now that we’re all here, shall we begin, my lovelies?” She beamed as she gazed at each of us, her voice warm and tinkling. “Welcome to day one of Identifying Your Maximized Self. My name is Ruth? If you’re willing, let’s go around the circle, say our names, where we’re from, and why we’ve joined Wisewood? What we’re hoping to get out of the experience?”
Ruth gestured for the lady on her right to introduce herself. I considered what to say when my turn came. I’d first heard about Wisewood while eavesdropping on two accountants in the office cafeteria. The women had been sitting at the table next to mine, chatting and scrolling on their phones while they dug into Burger King sandwiches. I didn’t recognize either of them—thousands of people worked in the New York office—but the excitement in one of their voices caught my ear.
The first woman set down her phone. “I’m not kidding, Amy. This was better than that night with the Italian gymnast.” She chuckled. “For the first time in my life, I could be myself. Warts and all.” She played with a J that dangled from a thin gold chain around her neck. “You know I went there to give myself six months to get over you know who, but after a month I was barely thinking about her. My reason for being there completely changed.”
“Good for you.” Amy patted J’s arm. She let one of her black pumps dangle from her toes. “I still can’t believe you stuck it out the entire time, though. You hate talking to strangers.”