Chapter 17
Dinner seems to take forever. Throughout the meal, I find that I can barely choke down a bite, or focus much on what’s going on around the table. At one point, my ears prick up as I hear Clara complaining:
“I hope that other physical therapist is better. What was her name? Sanna?”
“Sandra,” Leyla corrects her, mouth half full of food.
“Whatever.” Clara sighs and massages her neck. “I didn’t like those exercises she had us do. I feel like they left me all unbalanced. I think they released some toxins or something.”
There is a churning nausea in the pit of my stomach, and a faint buzzing sound in my ears.
It feels like I’ve slipped away from myself, half exited my body; as though I’m watching my hands pick up the fork and spear a piece of chicken, just to put it back down, my own disconnected voice narrating the actions dispassionately.
I can’t believe I fell for her act. Can’t believe I let her in like that.
When I would ask my father about being undercover, when I was little and still thought of him as some untouchable, golden ideal I could never live up to, he always told me that the most important thing was to never lose sight of yourself.
“You have to always hold on to that little core of belief, princess. That belief that what you are doing is right, and important, and that the truth matters above all.”
What a joke. What a fucking joke. At the end of the day, that was a lie, just like everything else he said; just like the lies he printed, the lies he told us, and his colleagues, and the court, until it all came crashing down in the biggest libel case of the century.
Until our family name was a smear in the same papers he’d used to smear others.
Poetic justice, I guess.
And still. After all that. Still I wonder what strength he might have had that I apparently lack.
I failed. I let go of myself, for a moment, and now everything feels raw and wrong.
It’s only when I’m back in the cabin, night having fallen outside, the last dying embers of the sunset flickering through the looming trees on the other side of the pond, that I manage to exhale.
I sit down on the floor by the bed, not wanting to be seen through the window, and bury my head in my hands.
“Fuck,” I whisper, to the ears of no one.
I need a familiar face. I need to talk to someone who knows me.
Reaching in under the bed, I pull out my phone and go to the Wi-Fi settings. I don’t care about getting caught having a device on me, not right now.
Three networks show up: HimlafallStaff, HimlafallOffice, and HimlafallGuest.
The last one isn’t password-protected.
I click it, sweat beading on my temples despite the chilly air as I see the shitty, used-up phone working overtime to try to connect.
And then, like a miracle from the heavens, it connects.
With shaking hands, I select Armin’s name and click on the FaceTime icon.
He answers within a few seconds.
“Thank fucking God,” he says, his voice loud and searing and so very, very comforting in the small space of the cabin.
I hasten to lower the volume, despite not quite wanting to; I’d like to raise it instead, until the voice of my best friend fills the whole place, and chases all the ghosts away.
Armin is sweaty; I can see the screen lighting up his face as he walks up the stairs to his apartment. His purple T-shirt is stained dark around the collar, and a dark lock of hair is clinging to his forehead.
There’s an angry little red zit right next to his nose, like a beauty mark; he always gets a pimple there when he’s stressed. After he broke up with his last girlfriend, it lingered for months, like a little reminder of heartache.
“I was about to send the cops your way,” he continues, and I hear very real anger in his voice, barely hidden below his joking tone. “And the fucking army, and maybe a SWAT team. I cannot believe you didn’t call me yesterday.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling my knees up to my chest and resting the arm holding the phone on them, so that I can see him properly.
“You promised, Isobel,” Armin says. “You promised you would call every day.”
“I didn’t think yesterday counted,” I say. “We talked in the car on the way up here.”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” Armin says. “It didn’t work when you pretended to have not stolen all my vodka in tenth grade, and it won’t work now.”
I laugh. It’s weak, but it feels soothing, like the first blast of cold air from an air conditioner on a brutally hot day.
“I didn’t take your vodka,” I say. “I’ve told you so many times, man. That was your sister. I was innocent.”
“Tara was thirteen,” Armin says. “And she wasn’t the one who puked all over the driveway.”
He comes to a stop, looks down and away from the phone; I hear the jingling of keys.
“Were you out for a run?” I ask him.
“One sec,” Armin says, and the phone shifts, pointing away over his shoulder, so I only see one-third of his face. A second later, I hear the clicking of a lock, the opening of a door.
Then he reappears, his face lit yellow by the hallway lamp, the triangular one from the ’70s that came with the apartment.
I know that light well, and just the blurry sight of the front door behind him as he walks instills a sharp ache in my gut, shocking in its strength.
Armin’s place is as much home to me as my own apartment, or the house I grew up in. More, probably; it’s where I go when I’m sad, or when I’m happy, or when I’m lonely.
“Yeah, well, something like a run,” he says as he walks into the living room. “More like a slow, sad jog. A lady in her seventies managed to lap me twice.”
“She must have been extremely fast,” I say; for the first time today, my smile is genuine.
Armin laughs. “Sure she was,” he says. “Thanks for being so supportive.”
“Anytime,” I say.
I press my hand to the side of my throat, feeling the slowing beat of my heart.
Armin sits down on his couch. The worn millennial-gray fabric hovers in the background, right behind his shoulder.
“Gross,” I say. “You’re not going to take a shower?”
“Later,” he says. “You know what my dad always says. You’ve got to wait until you stop sweating, otherwise you’re just wasting water.”
“Of course,” I respond. “Very wise man, your father.”
“In his own way,” Armin agrees.
His face grows still, his eyebrows knitting together.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “You look pale.”
I shake my head, leaning my chin on the arm I’ve hooked around my knees.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Such a well-worn untruth that it flies easily from my lips. I know, as I say it, that he won’t believe it, and there is such a comfort in that.
“What happened?” he asks. “How is it? The place, I mean.”
His breathing is still fast from the run.
I know what he would smell like if I was sitting there on the couch with him.
The fresh eucalyptus scent from his detergent, the softer, herbal undertones from his deodorant, and then the reassuring smell of sweat, of human, something physical and distinct and reliable.
“It’s weird,” I say, shaking my head, letting out a little laugh that isn’t quite a laugh. “It’s … yeah. It’s really, really weird, Armin.”
I pause. I don’t want to tell him the truth, but, then again, I clearly do. Why would I have called him, otherwise?
“Don’t say I told you so.” I raise my eyebrows at him, and he holds up two fingers like the Pope. “I feel like … I don’t know. I don’t want to say it, but I feel like I might have gotten in over my head here.”
“Okay.” Armin’s voice is soft. Nonjudgmental.
“It’s all just really fucked-up.” I run my fingers on my free hand through my hair; I get caught on a knot, tugging at it, and the slight pain makes me wince.
“It’s Martina Hastings,” I finally admit. “She got in my head today.”
“In what way?”
“It was almost like…” I smack my lips, and then I laugh, suddenly self-conscious. “Fuck, I’m going to sound crazy here. I know none of it is real. She’s just really good at making people feel like she knows them. That’s how she manages to get people to spend their life’s savings on this retreat.”
“But?” Armin encourages me.
“… but it really felt like she knew things today,” I admit. “Things she couldn’t possibly know.”
Armin hums. “You know,” he says, “just because she might be a fraud and maybe a pseudo cult leader doesn’t mean she can’t be good at her job.”
I bark out a laugh.
“Sure. Psychologist of the year.”
“Well, I have been telling you to go to therapy.” Armin grins. “Maybe this could be a two birds kind of deal.”
“Fuck off.”
He laughs.
It makes me feel ever so slightly more like a person. Like myself.
“Sorry about the whining. It’s just been a very weird twenty-four hours. Sandra’s not here, and I got this note, and—”
His voice pitches higher. “Hold on,” Armin interrupts me. “Sandra’s not there?”
I waver, feel the want to keep it from him, to not have him worry, not ask for help, not ask for anything but a few moments of his attention and his smile.
But he needs to know. He needs to know in case things go bad.
As they very well could.
“Andrea got sick,” I admit to him. “She’ll be here soon. Tomorrow. Or the day after, at the latest.”
“Isobel.” His voice is a warning.
“It’s fine,” I try to reassure him. “I just need to stick it out on my own for a few more days.”
“It’s not fine!” Armin rubs his face, and I see him taking a deep breath, visibly trying to calm down. “Isobel, it’s not fine at all. You could get killed.”
“I won’t…” I go quiet, then shake my head. “I’m being careful, is my point.”
“You’ve been there for a day,” Armin reminds me, “and you say this woman—Martina—has already started to get to you. Who’s to say it won’t get worse? You were supposed to have Sandra with you. She was supposed to have your back. Keep you sane.”
“I’m not going to go insane without Sandra here,” I protest, feeling my hackles rising.
“I’m not saying that,” Armin says, and I bite back:
“That was exactly what you said.”
A moment of silence. Shorter than a breath, longer than it should be.
“I’m sorry.” Armin looks sorry, though not quite sorry enough for my taste.
“I know you don’t like this.” I don’t want to argue, because I know he didn’t mean anything by what he said, and because I’m fairly certain I won’t win.
“I know you think I’m taking a big risk, and I am. But I’m here, and I’m calling you to tell you, and I’m making progress. There really is something here. There is so much more going on here than just Sandra not having shown up.”
“Like what?” Armin asks.
“I put Susannah’s name out there, as a feeler,” I begin. “Last night. And one of the employees clearly recognized the name.”
“Really?” Curiosity always gets the better of him.
“Yeah.” I nod for emphasis. “The other physical therapist had a big reaction. And I haven’t been able to get ahold of her yet. I think she’s avoiding me on purpose. And then, last night…”
I hesitate. I don’t want to freak him out worse than I already have, but equal parts fear over what happened and excitement over my findings win out.
“Someone slid a note under my door. Telling me that it’s too late and I should go home.”
“They what?” Armin’s face freezes.
“I know, it’s weird.” I sound too enthusiastic; I need to pull back. “But that proves there really is something here. I was right, Armin. Something happened here. Or is still happening. And I must be onto it, or whoever left that note wouldn’t have felt the need to do so.”
He is very still on the screen. For a moment, I think I’ve lost the signal.
“Armin?”
“I’m still here.” His voice is quiet. Too quiet. He’s not a quiet man; he wasn’t a quiet boy, either.
“Listen—” I begin, but he shakes his head.
“Please, just hear me out, Isobel,” he pleads with me. The tenor of his words, the set of his mouth, it all makes my stomach clench.
“Just … please be careful, all right? I know you want to expose this place. I know you want to build a name for yourself. I know this is important to you, and I know how much work you’ve put into it.
I’m not going to ask you to come home, but can you promise me that you’ll be safe?
That you’ll leave if things get more dangerous?
Because I’m trying to be supportive, I really am, but all this, it just makes me feel like…
” I can see him swallowing, the muscles in his throat working.
“It makes me feel like,” he continues, his voice gravelly, “I can see the worst coming, on the horizon, and I can’t do anything to stop it. There are no barricades I can build and no evacuation procedures I can follow and no good advice I can give. And frankly, that scares the shit out of me.”
I close my eyes. And I nod.
“I promise,” I say. “Thank you. For doing this. For picking up.”
“I’ll always pick up when you call,” he assures me, and it should make me feel safer, but somehow it just makes me feel worse.
“I just … being here, seeing what they are doing, it makes me feel even more strongly about it,” I attempt to explain.
“I wish you could meet some of the other patients here, Armin. They’re …
vibrant, and smart, and successful. And Martina has convinced them that if they just pay her enough money, if they just give into her teachings, they will find this thing they are missing.
An easy five-minute fix to all of their problems and they will have their happy ending.
And because they want it so bad, she can break them down so that she can take from them.
Money, and time, and trust. And no one is stopping her. It’s … it’s not right.”
I draw a deep, shuddering breath.
“Isobel,” Armin begins to say, but his voice is all wrong, confusion cut with fear, like ice melting in a strong drink. “There is someone behind you.”
“What?”
“There is someone in the window, Isobel!”
I look up from his face on the phone screen to the little square showing mine. My shiny, tired visage; my stringy, air-dried hair; my red-rimmed eyes.
And the window behind me. A little rectangle of blue.
A shadowy outline of a person, standing outside, looking in. Looking at me.