Chapter 22
The only person in the dining hall is Pernilla.
She is sitting at the table, staring at a cup of steaming green tea.
At the sight of her, I’m struck by a ridiculous urge to sit farther down the table, keep to myself.
It’s not because I don’t want to sit with her; it’s more that her icy perfection reminds me of some of my mom’s friends, the way they would scrutinize me as a teenager after my dad went away and my mom retreated into herself in order to keep everything running.
Looking back, I know now that they saved us.
They would come over after my mom came home from work, clad in light, gauzy shawls and with their heavy glasses perched at the tips of their noses, always carrying some takeout that they had “just happened” to pick up so that both I and my mom would get fed.
Sometimes, they would pour her a glass of wine, if she seemed like she needed it; other times, they would discreetly dispose of the bottle, if they judged that she had had enough.
In their own ways, they were deeply, deeply kind. They cared so much for my mother. They kept her going.
But they didn’t know how to care for me in the same way. And I wasn’t easy to care for at the time. A small, furious ball of teenage confusion, hacking away at my hair and piercing my nose in the bathroom just to have some way of expressing how lost I felt.
So they would criticize me instead.
Isobel, you look absolutely horrendous.
Isobel, how come you haven’t cleaned up around here?
Isobel, please, leave your mother alone. Don’t you think she has got enough to deal with?
I still have a hard time with well-put-together women in their fifties and sixties. They make me want to shrink, grow up smaller, take up less space.
They also make me want to throw things, scream at the top of my lungs, burst into tears.
But I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m an adult and, nominally, a fellow patient. And I have questions for Pernilla.
So I sit down opposite Pernilla and clear my throat before saying:
“Good morning.”
She looks up.
I don’t think I’m imagining the fact that she’s scrutinizing me.
“Good morning,” she says, her own face quite inscrutable.
It’s tempting to just not talk, but I decide to go big instead. Pernilla already doesn’t seem to like me, or, well, to be fair, she doesn’t seem to like anyone. So I can’t possibly make her esteem of me any lower.
“I can’t believe how nice you look so early in the morning.” I gesture toward her neat cardigan, held together by one big button, the discreet row of pearls around her neck, the impeccably applied makeup.
“I could barely get myself to shower this morning, I was so tired. But you look so … well-groomed.”
Pernilla raises her eyebrows for a second, and I think that she’s going to cut me down with some incredibly elegant, scathing remark, but then she says:
“Thank you. I feel better when I feel like I’m presenting myself well.”
“I get that.” I smile tentatively.
The lightning-quick once-over I get from her indicates that she doesn’t think that I get that at all, actually, but she lets it go.
“It’s not so much work, really, once you get it down to a routine,” she offers, picking her cup up before appearing to change her mind and putting it down again on the table.
When she meets my eyes, I swear it looks like she’s softening.
“It’s nice, when you’re in a place like this,” she continues, shooting a look of disgust down at her green tea.
I lean forward over the table and lower my voice. Something about it being just the two of us in the large, echoing room makes it feel oddly intimate.
“Wouldn’t you just kill for a cup of coffee?” I ask her.
She pushes her lips together.
And then she rolls her eyes.
“Lord, would I ever,” she whispers back. “I can’t stand this herbal nonsense. I don’t understand how being given a proper breakfast would interfere with our so-called treatment.”
I laugh, delighted, and Pernilla gives me a begrudging smile.
“Yes,” I agree with her. “It seems strange, doesn’t it? But this whole place seems a little bit strange to me.”
“What do you mean?” Pernilla asks.
She has pulled back a bit, and I waver; I don’t want to risk the faint connection we have built.
But the memory of yesterday, of how Martina held her back when the rest of us were taking a break, makes me push on.
“I just mean that the methods seem a little bit … extreme to me,” I say. “And there is something about this place. Isn’t there?”
Pernilla knits her hands together in her lap and looks down at them. I can see the indentation where her ring used to be, a faint line of soft skin at the base of her ring finger. She is stroking it with her thumb.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking.” I lower my voice even further. “I noticed you’re not wearing your wedding ring anymore.”
Pernilla whips up her head.
She pushes her lips together. I see the muscles working in her achingly thin neck as she swallows.
“Is that so?” Her voice has gone sharp.
“Where did it go?” I ask her.
Pernilla straightens up fully in her chair.
“I don’t think what jewelry I wear is any of your business,” she says, with all the ironclad confidence a lifetime of condescension can bring.
But I know I’m onto something. I can feel it, almost touch it.
“Did you give it to Martina?” I ask her. “Did she get you to give it to her? Did she talk you into it?”
I can feel her wavering.
She opens her mouth.
But then the doors at the far end fly open, and Leyla comes walking in, followed by Clara.
“Oh, good, I was worried I was late!” Clara says, before waving at us. “Good morning!”
I see something behind Pernilla’s eyes locking shut.
She stands up from her chair, pushing it back sharply.
“I have just realized I am not very hungry,” she announces to the room, not even giving me a glance as she leaves through the same doors the others have just come in through.
I slump back in my chair, disappointment nailing me to the wooden chair.
A gentle wisp of steam is still rising from her cup of green tea.
“Do you think there is any chance of getting some orange juice?” Leyla asks, taking a seat next to me. “I don’t think I can choke down another cup of tea.”
The frustration is making me want to snap, but it’s not her fault she decided to arrive at breakfast at an inopportune time. Nor is it her fault I decided to try to make a breakthrough with Pernilla in the dining hall.
Clara sits down opposite me.
“Hey, are you okay?” Leyla asks, nudging me with her elbow. “You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep great,” I mutter.
Clara moves the cup of tea out of her way, so quickly the hot liquid splashes over onto the table.
“I have some green-coffee eye masks you can try,” she offers. “They will get rid of those horrible dark circles in a jiffy.”
She puts her fingers to her cheeks and pulls upward. “They might actually help with those bags, too,” she adds.
“Yeah, and heal her relationship with her parents and grow back her hymen, right?” Leyla asks her, smirking.
Clara flicks her pink braid over her shoulder and stares at Leyla. She’s wearing her hair like Martina, I realize, and her clothes look like the good doctor’s, too, the same kind of white linen button-down, tucked into the same kind of light-wash straight-legged jeans.
“The hymen is a myth,” she points out, with an icy bite to her words. “You of all people should really know that.”
Leyla snorts.
Just then, the doors open to the kitchen, and one of the waiters comes out carrying a plate of whole-wheat toast, cottage cheese, and fruit salad.
She stops when she sees us.
“Where did Mrs. Boman go?” she asks.
“Pernilla realized she wasn’t hungry,” I explain, as Leyla remarks:
“Wait, she asked you to call her Mrs. Boman? That is ridiculous.”
“I’ll take it!” Clara chimes in. “I’m absolutely starving. I barely slept a wink. I need to refill my energy deposits.”
Leyla groans. “Just say you need to eat, like a normal person.”
I decide that Pernilla’s choice was a good one; I, too, can’t take having breakfast with Leyla and Clara today.
I stand up from the table.
Leyla looks up at me. “What’s up?” she asks.
“I’m not feeling so good,” I tell her, putting my hand on my stomach for effect. “Cramps.”
“You poor thing,” Clara says. “I have a visualization exercise for menstrual pains that’s really good. It’s all about picturing how your body is ridding itself of toxicity, and—”
“Or I’ve got some paracetamol, if you want some,” Leyla cuts in.
“No, I’m good, I’m just going to go lay down for a second,” I say.
“See you in therapy!” Clara says, and I wave at her before going outside.
The sunlight is too sharp; it feels as though it’s actually cutting into my skull through my eyes, worsening the burgeoning headache I can feel pounding behind my eyebrows.
But as I walk out of the dining hall, I stop in my tracks.
There is a beaten-up green Prius parked next to my flashy rental.
A car I know well.
Sandra is finally here.