Chapter VII. 2007
CHAPTER VII
Before her father’s goons loaded her into the back of a black Range Rover, they tugged a blindfold over her eyes.
“Sorry, Miss Burson. It’s protocol. We can’t have everyone knowing exactly where Retreat is. Would defeat the whole purpose,” the taller one said, his voice sheepish.
“Fuck you,” Camilla said, and the other one chuckled.
“You got a smart mouth on you, girlie. Seems like Daddy was just in time with getting you on Retreat,” he said.
She heard the car door opening as he pulled her forward, his hands under her bent arms as he lifted her like a doll and shoved her inside.
She tumbled against the leather seat, and her skirt rode up her hips.
She fought to pull herself upright and keep them from getting a full view of her underwear.
Once she heard the front doors close and them settle into their seats, she pushed herself backward, drew her legs up, and kicked both feet directly into what she hoped was Mr. Smart Mouth’s kidneys.
“Aw, kitten’s got claws,” he said, the engine turning over. “I’d buckle up if I were you. Never know if I’ll have to slam on the brakes. Hate to see that pretty face get messed up.”
As they began to move, she settled back and gave the seat another kick for good measure, seething as he laughed even louder. But, in all their forethought and planning, they forgot one thing. Her hands were still free.
Gouging out his eyes would be unsafe even though she could practically feel the soft pop of them in her hands.
Instead, she sank lower in the seat, her legs extended as far as possible in front of her so her back rested mostly on the bottom seat.
If either of the men looked in the rearview, they would see her scrunched up like a petulant child, roll their eyes, and go back to watching the road.
What they wouldn’t see was her quick swipe at the blindfold.
It was not enough to be noticeable but enough to give her a blurred sight line of where they were going.
She wasn’t sure why yet, but it felt important to know exactly where they took the women sent on Retreat.
To know how to get there. Or how to get out.
She anticipated a long ride. Some time on 75 South as they drove her a few exits away from home.
A more rural, open area good for containing wayward Christian women.
But they followed Crestwood past the church and then turned off onto what didn’t look like a road at all.
The vehicle rolled to a stop so the more sympathetic of the two men could hop out and clear the brush that concealed a metal gate.
A camera observed from above as he punched a code into the access box, and the gate opened on well-oiled wheels.
It was all hidden in plain sight then. Not some great secret like she always imagined.
They rolled through the gate, and it closed behind them. She tried not to panic as she felt the finality of it. How cut off she was from anything other than the constructed world of the Retreat.
Women come home all the time, she told herself as a thick screen of trees swallowed the Range Rover. Nothing to get scared about.
She couldn’t help it though. She was scared. They could lock her in a cell. Starve her. Make her kneel for hours while atoning for every sin she ever committed. Keep her sleep deprived and memorizing Bible verses until she collapsed. All in the name of reforming her.
A number of minutes passed, the road rough beneath them, and then the vehicle lurched to a sudden, violent stop. Camilla flew forward, her face crushed against the back of the driver’s seat.
“I tried to tell you about that seat belt,” the driver said, his laughter filling the car. “Too bad.”
They pulled her out with the same roughness and hustled her along.
She tried to look around and get her bearings, but it was dark, and the blindfold had partially slipped back into place.
The only things she could make out were flashes of a mulched path, a gray building that looked like a service shed, and the thick cover of trees.
Enough trees to make anyone believe there was nothing on that land at all.
“Home sweet home,” Mr. Smart Mouth said.
A door creaked, and then there were softer hands that guided her forward. The air that enveloped her was jasmine scented. Warm. The carpet beneath her an opulent thickness that made her want to lie down. Her exhaustion slammed back into her with enough force to make her stumble.
“Easy, darling. You’re okay now.” A woman’s voice. “You’ll have to excuse Paul. He’s rougher than the others, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just his way. And sometimes it needs doing.” She sighed and patted Camilla’s forearm.
“He slammed on the brakes so I rammed my face into the seat, but sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
The woman tutted and then paused, the high-pitched beeps of her punching in a key code making Camilla wince. Her nose throbbed, and she felt the phantom beginnings of a headache. She wondered if she could ask for ibuprofen or if Jesus would frown on that, too.
“I’m Barbara. I’ll be doing all your intake, and then if you have any questions at all during your visit, you can ask me.” She guided them gently into a right turn. “You’re just down here. Pastor Burson made certain you had one of the nicest rooms,” she said.
“How kind of him,” she said, her sarcasm bleeding through.
The woman breezed right past Camilla’s comment. “And here we are!” Another series of beeps, and Camilla felt the air change as the door opened. Together, they shuffled inside.
“Oh! Sorry, I always forget I can take these off once y’all are officially inside,” Barbara said, and lifted the blindfold.
Blinking, Camilla took in the room. Her room.
She’d expected concrete floors. A yellowed, urine-scented cot shoved into a corner. Bare walls and a single nightstand with a Bible. What they gave her was something more akin to the Four Seasons with a dash of the Ritz.
A king-size bed dominated the center of the room, a Persian rug spread beneath it to protect the gleaming hardwoods.
The cream duvet reflected a luxuriant shimmer in the warm light cast from a tasteful scattering of floor lamps.
Two nightstands flanked the bed, and a large dresser stood at the far side of the room, its drawers inlaid with impossibly delicate floral carvings in the sorts of neutrals every woman in Hawthorne Springs determined was the must-have palette for the year.
To the left stood a chaise lounge in the same cream as the duvet, and then the room opened into a private bathroom with a rainfall shower and sunken tub.
French paneling covered the walls, the edges gilded in the most subtle traces of gold. There were no windows. Of course, there weren’t. They wouldn’t want their guests making a jump for it.
“Now. Let’s go over a few things, and then I can get out of your hair.
” Barbara settled a pair of glasses on her nose and peered down at the binder she was holding.
“Daily menus are delivered the night before. Mark off your selections and leave it on the table next to the door.” She pointed to a tiny round table Camilla hadn’t seen during her initial examination.
“I’m afraid you’ve missed it for tonight, so you’ll get the standard selections.
Tomorrow is…” She flipped through the binder.
“Spinach omelet. Salmon with spring pea puree and baby lettuces with a champagne vinaigrette. And for dinner, scallops with white asparagus and a lemon foam. Chef Goddard says no carbs this week. Helps with inflammation and focus. And we need you all focused. Otherwise, the work we’re doing here would take much longer.
And nobody wants that, right?” Barbara smiled, two rows of tiny teeth that seemed to vanish into her gums.
“All toiletries are in the bathroom. The closet is full. All your size, but you let me know if there’s something else you need.
Let’s see…” Barbara flipped more pages. “Morning prayer and breakfast is at six. You get an hour to clean up and dress back in your room, and then individual sessions start at eight. That will take you through lunch. Group sessions are at four. Bible study at six. Dr. Worthington is on staff this week. Botox, if you’re interested.
Oh! And Pilates at eight after dinner. Lights out at nine. ”
Fucking Pilates. Of course, there was Pilates.
Camilla’s head pounded. They kept the women here busy the entire day. An onslaught of prayer and Bible study and sessions that kept them from talking to each other. Kept them from thinking. Nothing beyond what they did wrong and how they could fix it.
“Lights out? Is that when you lock us in our rooms?”
Barbara pursed her lips. “Oh, sweetheart. This isn’t a prison. I think you’ll find all the women enjoy their time here. The whole point of Retreat is to draw y’all back to God and the path you should be walking. To remind you of how blessed you are.”
“Didn’t answer the question,” Camilla said under her breath, but Barbara moved back toward the door, the binder at her side.
“I’ll have them bring a little something up since you’re just getting your legs underneath you. Any requests? We can’t do everything, but we’re able to accommodate most.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, sinking onto the chaise lounge.
All she wanted right now was silence and to figure out how she was going to make it through the coming days without completely losing her mind, but first, she wanted to sit in the dark and hope sleep took her before the headache turned fierce.
She sat up. “Actually, could I get some ibuprofen? And some water?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Barbara smiled, and then let herself out, the lock sliding into place behind her with a final beep.