Our last FaceTime had been standard fare until Kit announced she was leaving for Wisewood. We’d debated who would win the current season of Survivor. （We didn’t care that we were the last two fans of the show; our support for Jeff Probst was unwavering.） I had told her about a security app I liked since she’d lost all her passwords again. （It makes me stress-twitch too.） She mentioned a personal-styling startup that sends clothes to your house so you don’t have to put up with the exquisite torture that is shopping in a store. She was even-keeled, in good spirits. Until I lambasted her decision to leave.
Would you like to come tell your sister what you did—or should we?
I wince. The only thing worse than admitting my secret to Kit would be letting the e-mail sender or anyone else do it. I have to shoulder her pain, defend myself if she’ll listen.
That’s a big if.
I rise from my seat, legs shaking, and clamber off the bus into the sunny but cold morning. A few inches of filthy snow have been plowed to the outskirts of the parking lot. Immediately, I feel exposed. What if the Wisewood staff is already here, watching me? I squint at the few cars in the lot, then duck my head and rush with my duffel bag toward the terminal building.
After Gordon hung up on me two days ago, I replied to the e-mail, short and simple: Who is this? Please ask my sister to call me. Then I googled Wisewood. Up came an address and phone number, which matched the one I’d called, plus links to directions and three Google reviews. The first URL in the search results was ihatemyblank.com. I clicked it.
It took me to an empty black landing page. I stared at it, waiting for something to happen. After a few seconds, large white letters appeared one at a time, as though they were being typed onto the screen.
I HATE MY ___________
At the end of the blank space, the cursor blinked. Was I supposed to fill it in? I leaned toward my computer, squinting. The typing started again: j-o-b. As soon as “job” had been finished, a new word replaced it. Words filled the blank faster and faster, cycling so quickly I almost missed a few.
I HATE MY JOB
I HATE MY PARTNER
I HATE MY FRIENDS
I HATE MY FAMILY
I HATE MY SCHOOL
I HATE MY DEBT
I HATE MY ILLNESS
I HATE MY BODY
I HATE MY CITY
I HATE MY ADDICTION
I HATE MY DEPRESSION
I HATE MY ANXIETY
I HATE MY GRIEF
I HATE MY LIFE
At “life,” the letters shook, subtly at first but then more violently, until they exploded into a bunch of specks. Once all the specks had blended into the black screen, a new sentence appeared.
ISN’T IT TIME TO MAKE A CHANGE?
WHAT ARE YOU SO AFRAID OF?
WHAT WOULD YOUR LIFE LOOK LIKE
IF YOU STARTED LIVING IT?
COME FIND OUT.
A form field appeared, asking for my e-mail address with a submit button underneath labeled become fearless. I sat back in my chair and exhaled, imagining Kit watching this pitch. I tried to guess which part had sucked her in, what she had hated: Her job? Her grief? Our family? I left the website without signing up, not in the mood for weekly pep talks or years in unsubscribe-me purgatory.
Instead, I returned to the search results page and clicked on the Google reviews. Two gave five stars, the third only one. The anonymous users left no explanations, only the ratings. I looked up Wisewood on Tripadvisor and Booking.com. The resort had listings on those sites but no reviews. How could Wisewood be in business if they had so few customers? It occurred to me that if you were someone willing to forgo all technology for six months, you probably weren’t running to your computer to post a travel review when you returned home.
I checked my inbox every few minutes, spacing out through the rest of my Monday meetings. When I didn’t receive any messages, a knot formed in my stomach. Tuesday morning rolled around. I called Wisewood again; this time no one picked up. Another workday passed. At five o’clock I called a third time, but still no answer. The knot tightened. I considered filing a missing persons report, but Kit wasn’t missing. I imagined walking into a police station, explaining that I knew where my sister was, but she refused to contact me. They’d point me to the nearest counselor’s office.
By the time I left work yesterday, I knew I wouldn’t hear from Kit or Gordon. At home, I sat in the kitchen and stared at my phone. My clock tick, tick, ticked in admonition until I was ready to rip the thing off the wall. I e-mailed my boss to say I had a family emergency and wouldn’t be in the office for a few days, worst case a week. He told me to take the time I needed. When you work long hours and have no social life, the higher-ups learn to love you pretty quickly.