Chapter 19
19
As the plane neared Albuquerque, I started having second thoughts.
Dom had appeared the night before as I was packing. I could see it in her eyes as I explained Jonah the PI and the fake therapist and the podcast episode and the weekend retreat. A sort of uh-oh look, though she didn’t actually question my decision.
“Just be safe, okay?” She’d perched on the edge of my bed. “Maybe check in and let me know how it’s going?”
“Sure.” I’d still been in a daze. After feeling so much uncertainty about so many things in my life, it had felt like a relief to sign up for the retreat and book a flight. It wasn’t a coincidence that Catherine had directed me to the podcast. This couple—cult leaders?—had sent her a secret message, calling her by name, directing her to “come home.” By leaving the note, she was clearly asking for help.
I was her last chance. If I didn’t help her, no one else would.
But now, the certainty was wearing off. The adrenaline too. I’d gotten up at 4:00 a.m., and the lack of sleep was hitting me. I’d never been able to doze on planes.
A sigh emanated from my seatmate, a Black woman around my age who was nestled against a faux-fur coat pressed to the window. She smelled like expensive sandalwood perfume and had an alternative vibe: a section of her hair shaved, the rest in delicate locs, silver jewelry twinkling from her ears and nose. She wore patent high-heeled boots, patchwork jeans, and a button-down black suede shirt.
I envied people who wore chic outfits on planes. In my leggings and a sweatshirt, my hair twisted in a messy topknot, I looked like a college student flying home for break.
One of the flight attendants roamed the aisle with a garbage bag, intoning, “Trash,” in a solemn tone, as if pronouncing judgment on each of us. I opened my backpack, catching a flash of feline side-eye from my eighth-grade journal. I’d grabbed it at the last minute. I wasn’t exactly sure why, beyond the fact that it brought me back to that point in my life when I’d felt so connected to Catherine. Maybe it would act as a talisman, pulling her towards me.
I opened the confirmation email for the tenth time.
We’re so excited to meet you! Based on the flight info you all sent us, we’re providing two shuttles from the airport, one at 10:00 a.m., the other at 3:00 p.m. Our driver will be waiting for you outside of baggage claim with a sign. It’s about a 2.5-hour drive to the Center.
According to the website, the Center was built on a half-completed resort that had languished when the owners ran out of money in the sixties. The Center had bought it in 2020 and had remodeled it under the guidance of mosaic artist Steven Leister—which had been detailed in the art site article. All the pictures made it look impressive: a huge, colorful structure in the middle of the desert.
It also looked quite remote.
I felt a flicker of unease. Which would be worse—that I’d spent close to $5K I didn’t have on a ridiculous wild-goose chase? Or that my questionable suspicions would turn out to be right?
I’d done everything I could to conceal my identity: I’d hidden my LinkedIn and changed my social media handles. Of course, they still had my name from my credit card. But nothing online linked me to the hospital, which was the bare minimum of deception I needed to find out anything useful on this retreat.
I texted Dom with the in-flight Wi-Fi. On my second flight. I’ll send some pix when I get there! I also texted a link to the CRH site. It didn’t hurt for her to know where I was. Just in case.
As we walked off the plane, the airport decor made it clear we were in the Southwest. The carpets were lined with jagged hunter-green and mauve stripes, the chairs were wrapped in studded brown faux leather, and paintings of horses and buffalo dotted the walls. I pulled my carry-on past a man facing away whose T-shirt read: I DON’T RUN. I RELOAD.
Guess we’re not in Kansas anymore. I passed a kiosk of silver jewelry, then another selling hot sauce and jars of green and red chile. Out the windows, beyond the runway, clay-red mountains clashed against the bright cornflower blue of the cloudless sky. I was trailing my hip seatmate, and a white-haired man in a teal shirt and name tag grinned and motioned at us. “Baggage claim’s down the escalator, ladies. Watch out for rattlesnakes!”
The baggage claim was lined with neon blue and green lights, clashing with the tan and orange tiles. I followed Silver Jewelry Girl to carousel five—could she be coming for the retreat too? Would it be weird to ask? Besides those who’d been on our plane, there weren’t many people around.
I walked outside, breathing in the fresh, sweet breeze. My shoulders loosened. I hadn’t even thought about how it’d feel to be in New Mexico. To get out of the gray, depressive chill of New York’s early spring.
No one out here with a sign. I walked back through the doors and a sixtysomething white woman sitting on a nearby bench leaned forward. “You looking for something, hon?”
Another airport helper? But no, she had a suitcase next to her, a paperback splayed on her thigh.
I gestured vaguely. “Oh, I’m supposed to get a ride…”
“Are you here for the retreat? Center for Relational Healing?”
“Yes.” I approached her, relieved.
“Have a seat.” She patted the bench next to her. “The driver’s not here yet.” The book resting on her leg showed the pink outline of a woman, overlaid with the words: CRACKING THE CONFIDENCE CODE: Getting Back in the Dating Game After Divorce!
When signing up for this retreat, I hadn’t considered who the other attendees might be.
“I’m Karen.” She had a kind face, tan and crisscrossed with laugh lines. A large mole punctuated the bottom left corner of her mouth. I offered my name, and we shook hands. Then she picked up the book. “I probably shouldn’t be reading this in public, should I?”
Had I embarrassed her by looking? “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
She chuckled. “That’s the best part about getting older—you give less and less of a shit. Although it’s a little late to read it. I’ve been divorced ten years this week.” Her turquoise-blue eyes narrowed, mischievous.
“Oh, wow.” I hesitated; should I add a Congratulations ?
“It’s a good thing.” She waved a hand. “We were together for two decades. And a lot of the time it felt like taking care of another one of my patients. I was a nurse back then. One day I told him, Art, it’s over. It’s time for me. And…” She grinned. “It’s been me ever since.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“Not that I don’t date.” She sniffed. “I just haven’t had much luck. But that’s why we’re here, right?”
“Right,” I echoed.
Silver Jewelry Girl appeared in front of us, lugging a shiny black suitcase. “Hey, I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re going to the Center too?”
“We are!” Karen pumped her fist. “I’m so glad you ladies are here.”
“How long have you been waiting?” Silver asked.
“Not long. An hour or so. I got some chips, read my book. And now I’m ready to rock!”
“Great.” Silver caught eyes with me for a second, amused. I tried to smile neutrally. Karen seemed like kind of a lot, but I needed all the allies I could possibly get this weekend.
“What’s your name?” Karen asked her. “I’m Karen, and this is Thea.”
“I’m Mikki.”
Karen and Mikki: two such incredibly different people coming to this retreat. What would the others be like?
“So no driver?” Mikki looked around, playing with her necklaces. “Should we call them? It’s after three thirty.”
“Ladies, you came from New York, right?” Karen nodded at the electronic sign over the baggage claim. “This land has its own rhythms. I’d suggest going with the flow this weekend. It’ll all turn out fine.”
“I’m sure it will.” Mikki settled next to me, smirking. “I’m just starving.”
Karen opened her large leather purse. “You want some almonds?”
Fifteen minutes later, after Mikki had eaten the rest of Karen’s reserves and was wondering aloud about heading to a nearby restaurant and having them pick us up there, a girl with bright orange hair ran into the baggage claim. She grasped a faded posterboard sign that said THE CENTER in thick Sharpied letters. “Hi! You’re here for the retreat, right?”
“Yep!” Mikki jumped to her feet.
“Great.” The woman—twentysomething and cute, with the ability to pull off highlighter-bright hair dye—grinned at us. “I’m Grace. Come with me.”