I run toward her with my arms extended. She shrinks back on the bed, stopping me short.
“We have this no-touching rule,” she says.
That’s why Gordon jerked away when I tapped his arm.
I step back, surprised. Kit has always been the touchy-feely one, climbing into laps, linking arms, playing with hair.
Most people don’t hug like they mean it. Our hugs are too quick, a chore to be hurried through, a formality. Not Kit’s. She grips you like a life raft and doesn’t let go, leaving no doubt how much she loves you. No one gives hugs like Kit.
She got that from Mom.
I long to wrap my arms around Kit and Mom—more accurately, for them to wrap theirs around me. I want to shove my nose into the hair Kit has left to make sure it still smells like apples. I know I broke the rules by coming here, but I was expecting a warmer welcome than this. She’s not even happy to see you. The ache in my throat deepens. I keep it together.
Kit raises an eyebrow. “So? Did you happen to be in the neighborhood?”
As I survey every inch of her, my gaze keeps drifting back to her fuzzy head, the bare neck and ears, the features that are too big for her face now. There’s no getting around it: the haircut is horrible.
“What happened to your hair?” I blurt.
Self-consciously she runs a hand over her head, then bristles. Her voice has an unfamiliar edge to it. “What are you doing here, Nat?”
My stomach drops when I remember the accusatory e-mail. I swallow the truth, find a different one. “I’m worried about you.” She stares, waiting. “I haven’t heard from you in six months. I tried e-mails, texts, calling, but you haven’t responded to any of it.”
“I don’t have my phone or computer. I told you I wouldn’t.” She brightens. “Anyway, you have nothing to worry about. This experience has been incredible. For the first time since she died, I’ve moved past the Mom stuff.”
I’m nauseated with regret but can’t go down that path yet. It’s too soon. I’m not ready. I tell myself not to be critical right off the bat. I decide to gather information, assess, and make a plan, nothing more.
“What have you been doing all these months?”
“Oh God, I’m so busy. I teach classes and yoga; I keep Teacher’s calendar organized; I get to serve her breakfast every morning. I plan special Wisewood functions. Last month I put together a party for Teacher’s sixtieth. It was magical, all of us dancing on the beach in the moonlight. She’s also invited me to sit in on some of her sessions, to offer my input after the guest has left. There aren’t enough hours in the day.”
“Are you a therapist in training, then?” I’ve never seen her so driven, so invested.
Kit shrugs. “I help out where I’m needed. This is not me heading down the path to becoming a licensed psychologist, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What path are you heading down?” I try to phrase the question with curiosity.
“The path to my Maximized Self. It’s not a career ladder, Nat. Here I don’t need to worry about what I want to be. I don’t have to pick one thing. Your sister is a real renaissance woman.” For the first time she smiles at me.
My sister is a real idiot, I think.
“Are they paying you?”
“They pay me in free classes and housing and food,” Kit says as if she’s won the lottery.
My sister sees no issue with working a full-time job without payment. She doesn’t have reservations about cutting herself off from the real world. She has no intention of leaving Wisewood, possibly ever.
I’m losing her.
Kit pulls herself to standing. “I still have a few things to do for Teacher.”
I glance at the wall clock. “She works you hard.”
“She doesn’t make me do anything. Only I can work the path.”
I quell a violent urge to tear her away from this place, remind myself to keep the peace.
She peers at me. “If there’s nothing else, I better get going.”
I consider telling her right here and now, letting the secret pour out of me. But now that I’m actually staring her in the face, my resolve slips. I can’t turn our first conversation in half a year into one that will destroy her. I’ll tell her in the morning instead, then head back to Rockland.
“I’m so glad you’re okay. Look, I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow. I’ve gotta go back to work.”
“Actually, you’ll have to stay a few days.”