Chapter 15
I wait until the others have left the dining hall before starting toward the staff quarters.
Sandra told me that the quarters are nice enough, that they are offered as a perk since the job is on-site. I should have asked her if they are locked during the day, if it’s possible to access them, but I didn’t, because the plan was for her to be here with me from the start.
I curse internally, bright sunshine beating down from above, making my eyes sting. I feel exposed; this would feel more appropriate under the cover of darkness.
When I come around the corner, I see that the curtains have been drawn at every window. The lingonberry bushes by the wall are beginning to bloom, small, green buds clustering, still hard and skeptical, yet unconvinced of the coming spring.
I stop, hesitating.
The sudden, creeping fear prickling along my scalp feels incongruent with the beautiful surroundings. The sky so high and blue, the gentle rippling of the pond.
No one knows I’m here. No one knows I’ve gone to speak to Ellen.
If she did leave that note—if she did, in fact, do something to Susannah Wallin, for whatever reason—how far might she be willing to go to keep that secret?
My feet feel rooted to the ground.
Should I tell someone?
No. I can’t. I knew this would be risky; this is my chosen profession. I heard so many stories growing up about my father, undercover in risky situations, and I idolized him.
Though knowing what I know now, that so many of those stories were lies—knowing, in the end, when it mattered, he was a coward—doesn’t inspire much confidence.
I draw a deep breath.
I am not my father. I am better than that.
I walk up to the door, but just as I’m about to grab the door handle, the door swings inward, and I take a step back, surprised.
Belinda is standing in the doorway, blinking at me.
“Isobel!” she says, smile sliding into place, seemingly without effort. “What are you doing here?”
“I…”
Belinda cocks her head.
“Is everything all right?” she asks.
She’s got such a symmetrical face. It’s strangely mesmerizing. Every freckle seems perfectly dotted into place, every eyebrow hair growing at the exact right angle.
“Yes,” I say. “I was looking for Ellen. The physical therapist?”
“Why?” Belinda asks, frowning while still smiling.
The effect is disconcerting.
“I wanted to talk to her about … my knees,” I say. “Apparently there was a mistake with my intake form. I want to partake in the physical therapy.”
Belinda steps out onto the small porch and closes the door decisively behind her. The clicking of the mechanism falling into place sounds like a gunshot.
Belinda steps up to me and puts both her hands on my upper arms. She looks into my eyes, her gaze ever so worried.
“What’s going on, Isobel?” she asks me.
“Nothing.” The weight of her hands on my arms makes me feel uneasy. “I just wanted to clear up the misunderstanding.”
“You know patients aren’t allowed in the staff quarters.” It’s not a question, yet Belinda adds: “Right, Isobel?”
“It just … seemed like the quickest way to take care of the problem,” I say. “I only need to speak to her for a couple of minutes.”
Belinda nods slowly and thoughtfully.
Then she says:
“Take a deep breath with me, Isobel.”
I want to protest, but she’s still gripping both my shoulders, and when she pantomimes a big, deep inhale, I do the same.
“Do you feel better?” she asks me.
“I … sure.” I nod. “Yes, I feel great.”
It makes me feel small and unmoored, having to insist like I’m not upset, that I’m fine. Like an overtired child, up past their bedtime.
“Isobel.” Belinda smiles as she says my name. “Do you feel lonely?”
“What?”
It’s not what I was expecting her to say.
“I know that the absence of a person in the wake of a relationship can be crushing,” she says. “Sometimes that can lead us to reach out to people in ways that aren’t healthy.”
“I’m not trying to reach out,” I protest, but she keeps talking over me.
Her face is very close to mine, her fingers very strong.
“Sometimes we can even tell ourselves we have close bonds to people we don’t know very well,” Belinda continues. “We can even make things up in order to feel seen and heard.”
“I’m not making things up,” I manage to protest. “I really don’t have a knee injury.”
She’s squeezing harder now. It’s starting to hurt.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re safe here. We’re all with you.”
She looks deep into my eyes, and for a moment I think I see a feeling in there. A glimpse of distaste.
Or disgust.
Then she lets go of me, and the relief is such that I take a step back before I can stop myself.
“You don’t have to make things up for us to care about you.” Belinda smiles. “Okay? If you want us to spend time with you, you can just ask. That’s what Anna and I are here for.”
“It’s not about that.” I look over her shoulder, toward the staff quarters. “I just want—”
Belinda steps closer to me, again, and I flinch.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “We’re here for you. We’re all here with you in this. There is no need to be embarrassed. You just have to be truthful. Otherwise, what’s the point? If you can’t tell the truth, there’s nothing for you here.”
Nothing for you here. That is exactly what the note said.
It’s very quiet around us. I can no longer hear the laughter in the distance, the wind sweeping through the treetops. It feels like the world is holding its breath.
“Tell me the truth, Isobel.”
I stare at her.
“Did you—” I begin, but she interrupts me.
“You were going to sneak in to try to get your phone.” Belinda tilts her head. “Weren’t you?”
For a few seconds, my brain refuses to interpret what she’s saying, turn the syllables into meaning.
“Wh-what?” I sputter.
“It’s not the first time someone has tried to do that,” Belinda says. “It’s hard to handle being in the silence with your thoughts. The first couple of days are the hardest.”
“I wasn’t…” I begin to say, but Belinda shakes her head, and then smiles sadly, a touch condescendingly.
“It’s okay, Isobel,” she says. “Especially after the first therapy session. This is a tough process. You are functionally detoxing right now. I’m sure you usually spend hours every day stalking his Instagram page, or listening to old voicemails, or looking at pictures of the two of you together. Am I right?”
I feel like I can’t think.
Is she fucking with me? Is this some game to her? Did she leave that note and use that phrase just now to test me, to see what I’d do?
Or was it just a coincidence? Is this all part of the twisted therapeutic protocol of Himlafall?
I can’t tell. Not yet.
So I smile, as ruefully as I can muster, and say:
“Yeah, you’re right.”
I slump my shoulders in a show of contrition.
“It’s normal,” she says. “You have become addicted to the dopamine rush. It’s unhealthy, but your brain can’t differentiate positive dopamine from negative dopamine.
It’s going to be really tough for a couple of days, but once you get through that, you are going to be free from it.
And from him. I know it’s hard to imagine right now, but I promise you it’s worth it. ”
My pulse is still racing, my heart fluttering like hummingbird wings.
“Your individual therapy session is at four, right?” she says, sliding her arm around my shoulders and beginning to walk.
“I’ll stay with you until then. I’ll help distract you.
We can walk around the pond a few times.
We’ll walk slowly so we don’t strain your knees.
You’ll see. It’s funny how little exercise you really need to feel better. ”
“That’s okay,” I try to tell her, but Belinda stops and looks at me, smiles with bright white teeth.
“Don’t worry, Isobel,” she says as she walks me away from the staff quarters. Away from Ellen.
“I won’t leave your side.”