Chapter 11
The group therapy room is large and perfectly square, with a circle of chairs arranged in the middle, in a way that reminds me of the fictionalized AA meetings I’ve seen on TV. Flimsy curtains have been drawn at the windows to prevent others from looking in, or us from looking out, I’m not sure.
There are paintings on the walls, large abstract canvases in soothing blues and greens. The shapes remind me of Rorschach tests, and I wonder if that’s intentional, or if, ironically, I’m just projecting my biases onto them.
As we sit down, I take note of the others. Is there any possibility one of them left the note under my door? I don’t want to lock into one answer too early; my favorite journalism professor once told me that “Certainty is tempting, which is why it’s dangerous.”
It’s hard to imagine. Clara is looking daisy fresh, pink hair pulled back in a loose braid, her cheeks so smooth and taut the abundance of collagen seems to be taunting me. Leyla looks grumpy but relaxed, which appears to be her standard setting.
Katarina is sitting rigid on her chair, her back straight and her fingers picking nervously at her cuticles. Pernilla folds her arms across her torso as soon as she sits down, eyes pointed at the floor.
If I was to keep an eye on anyone, it would be Pernilla. There is something there, bubbling under the surface. Could it be guilt? Fear?
Rage?
Martina enters the room, and all of our eyes go directly to her. She sits in the one empty chair and crosses her legs at the ankles without saying a word.
Then she smiles, and the room seems just a little bit brighter.
“Welcome.” Her voice is hardly louder than a whisper. “Let’s begin with a breathing exercise.”
She instructs us to close our eyes and start breathing in tandem, feeling the rhythm of the others in our chests.
It makes me a little bit dizzy, and after a while, I decide to open my eyes, instead.
“Imagine you are a tree,” Martina instructs us. “You are in the middle of a forest. It is a quiet day. You have been standing on this spot for hundreds of years, and you will stand for hundreds more.”
Her voice is a soothing monotone. I can see the others inhaling and exhaling in perfect lockstep. Clara’s cheeks are flushed; there is a small wrinkle between Leyla’s eyebrows.
“Imagine the sunshine on your branches, and leaves, as you stretch ever higher,” Martina continues.
The note flashes before my eyes again.
GO HOME. THERE IS NOTHING FOR YOU HERE.
It was typed, not written by hand, so whoever wrote it had access to a computer and a printer.
It couldn’t have been one of the other patients, could it?
Unless they managed to sneak into the office. Unless they asked for a favor from one of the staff members. Unless they, like me, figured out a way around the lax security measures.
Unless, unless, unless.
My palms are sweaty. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous; it was a note, not a threat. I can’t let something that small frighten me. I’m a reporter, not a girl detective.
Actually, fuck that. A girl detective would never let a little note scare her. Nancy Drew would spit at a stupid little note.
“Stay there for a few moments,” Martina continues.
“Feel the light on your branches. Feel the strength you are gathering from the roots. You have no obligations; there is nothing calling for your attention. You are not letting anyone down, and no one is expecting anything from you. You are fulfilling your purpose by doing exactly this. By breathing, and drinking in the light, and existing.”
It’s a nice mantra. I decide to go with my own instead.
I close my eyes with the others, and I tell myself:
You are exactly where you are supposed to be.
That note means that you were right, and there is something here.
You were right all along.
I let my fingers skim over the comforting weight of the recorder in my pocket, and I exhale.
“When you feel ready, you can stretch, and come back to yourself, and open your eyes.”
I open my eyes.
Martina reaches for the cup of tea standing on the table in the middle of the circle. There is a pitcher of water there, too, and a box full of organic tissues.
She smiles at us.
“I like to start the day with a breathing exercise,” Martina addresses the circle. “When we first started our work here, we used to begin with an hour of meditation, but everyone hated it.” She laughs a little, and Clara immediately laughs with her.
Martina then puts her palm to her chest and lets it rest there, smiling at the rest of us. Lets the silence percolate for a few seconds.
“How did you sleep last night?” she asks us.
I expect Clara to respond, eager to impress as she seems, but Pernilla surprises me by speaking up.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she admits.
Martina nods, leaning forward a bit.
“Why was that?” she asks.
Pernilla looks around the circle, appears to be weighing her words.
She’s beautifully put together, looking as pristine today as she did yesterday: in a softly patterned silk blouse, slim-fitting white slacks, her sparse jewelry still flashy enough to signal casual, off-duty wealth.
But the concealer can’t hide the bags under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands as she begins to twist the wedding ring around her finger.
“I don’t know,” she says, and I wonder if she’s lying.
“Did anyone else have trouble sleeping?” Martina asks.
Clara shakes her head; Katarina slowly raises her hand.
As does Leyla.
Martina looks at me.
“Not you, Isobel?” she asks me.
I don’t like the way she singled me out, but I smile automatically. Isobel Anderssen wouldn’t be offended at being called out; she’d be delighted at the attention of her hero.
“I never sleep well,” I say. “I’ve always woken up a lot. I’m a little bit tired all the time.”
I laugh, but no one laughs with me.
Martina keeps her eyes locked on me, long enough that I have to force myself not to squirm.
“It’s natural for all of you to have trouble sleeping,” she says, finally breaking the eye contact.
“Sleep is usually one of the first areas to be affected in times of great trauma. Our bodies end up in fight-or-flight. Often, we process emotional distress much in the same way we would process physical distress.” She pauses.
“It is, in fact, possible to die from a broken heart. Acute emotion-induced stress can put so much strain on the system that your heart simply gives out. Isn’t that fascinating?”
There’s something near lascivious about the way she says this, the way her eyes are shining.
“I’m telling you this because we are so often told to hide our pain,” Martina continues.
“We are told our emotions are not real. That they are not relevant.
That we should move on, distract ourselves, and not let our emotions run our lives.
But our feelings fulfill important functions.
Our bodies work as a system, and feelings are a part of that.
If your feelings have been hurt, deeply hurt, it is no less important of a wound than a broken leg would be.
“You wouldn’t keep walking on a fractured ankle.
You wouldn’t try to hide it from the world, pretending like nothing was wrong.
Yet, I think you have all been attempting to pretend, to various extents, like these recent break-ups haven’t impacted you the way that they have.
You have been, in accordance with the metaphor, walking, and running, and jumping, on your broken bones. ”
She draws a deep breath, and I find myself echoing her movement, filling my lungs with air, as I hear the women around me doing the same.
“So, the first thing we are going to do,” Martina says, “is bring those fractures into the light. We are going to practice acknowledging the pain. By sharing our stories, one by one, with each other.”
Martina looks at me again.
“Isobel,” she says. “You go first.”