Chapter 29
I see Clara leaving her cabin right before seven, heading to the dining hall; Katarina follows behind her, and then Leyla, and Pernilla. They turn from women into silhouettes, painted golden by the sinking sun, and then finally into shadows who disappear into the dining hall, one by one.
The doors close behind them, and then all is still.
I wait a few more minutes before slinking out the door.
I decided to wear relaxed clothes, fit for exercise; I figure that if I get caught going to or coming from the main building, I can say I’ve gone for a walk, to try to ease the pain.
Still, my heart is fluttering in my chest. The cold, brisk air feels good against my face. The feelings from the group therapy session linger in my body, stretching lazily under my skin like tentacles.
Again, I wonder if feelings are all they are. Or if it’s something more. Drugs building in my brain, to make me pliable, to render me vulnerable.
The thought lights a small, burning ember of anger under my ribs.
Well, if that’s the game she’s playing, I’m about to find out.
The main building is dark and looks abandoned.
I’ve prepared a story, just in case someone stayed behind in the reception; I’m almost certain everyone should be at dinner except for Sandra and Martina, but if someone decided to stay behind, I’m going to tell them I feel anxious. That I need someone to talk to.
When I glance over at the staff quarters, I see one of the rooms lit up, the outline of a person moving, and I have to fight the urge to duck.
My father once told me to “never give in to the urge to hide. People recognize hiding; it looks suspicious. If you pretend like you have every right to do what you’re doing, they won’t even take notice of you.”
I guess he’d know.
So instead, I stroll, slowly but purposefully, up to the door to the main building, and I open it already posed to ask Anna or Belinda if they have time.
But they are not there.
The reception is, indeed, empty.
I step inside and close the door, tasting the small thrill of being somewhere I’m not supposed to be. The lights are still on, the air humming with silence.
Still, I call out:
“Hello? Is anybody here?”
Loud enough to be heard through the corridor but quiet enough so that it won’t be noticed from outside. I hope.
It feels different, being here on my own, walking down the corridor without someone shadowing me. Without the soft voices of staff whispering in my ear, the beautiful, shiny surface suddenly seems to dissipate.
No longer a luxurious, curated space designed for healing, no. Now the plants look placed at random, and the wear and tear of the floor looks obvious. It looks like an office building, or a government facility.
It’s like the spell has worn off.
I stop outside of Martina’s office. The sign by the door catches my eye.
Dr. Martina Hastings, PhD
“You don’t need to say you’re a doctor twice,” I mutter to myself, and then I push the door handle down and step in.
The office is dusky, lit only by the dying light from the window. It takes me a moment to orient myself; I look around, catching the eyes of the two-dimensional Martina looking at me from a book cover, her flat eyes seeming to follow me around the room.
When I turn away from the bookshelf, I see the cabinet hiding behind the desk. It’s low to the ground, dark, polished wood, with two deep drawers.
I consider saying Bingo to myself but decide it’s too much of a cliché, and so instead I say nothing. I just get down on my knees by the cabinet, pull my recorder out of my pocket, turn it on, and pull the first drawer out.
It’s full to bursting with cheap blue paper folders, all marked with little stick-on labels. Names have been written on them with slightly sloppy handwriting. I’m guessing it’s Martina’s.
Here they are. The patient files.
“I’m in Dr. Martina Hastings’s office,” I breathe into the recorder as I look down at the box of files. “I’m looking at past patient files. The goal is to find the file of Susannah Wallin, if it’s still here.” I pause, and then I add:
“I will of course avoid looking at any of the other patient files, in order to preserve patient privacy.”
I start rifling through the files, looking for the Ws, but it soon becomes apparent they are in no particular order.
They look shoved in haphazardly; there are bits of paper sticking out of some of them, bent corners from the drawers being opened and shut.
Some of the files are sliver-thin, some thicker, and I see names passing by—Lina, Emilia, Carina, Matilda, Anya, Robin—until the letters begin to blur.
So many names. But no Susannah.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself, before remembering I’m recording.
I clear my throat; the sound seems to echo in the empty room.
“The records are poorly kept,” I note. “There doesn’t seem to be a system to them.
I question whether a former client’s healthcare provider would be able to contact Himlafall and get any useful information about their patient.
This, again, reinforces the lack of care that the staff take with their—”
I stop talking.
Upon opening the second drawer, I see a stack of files that have been pushed in at the end. The one closest to the handle says CLARA AF SPERLING.
I rifle through the next few files until I see my own first name staring back at me.
ISOBEL ANDERSSEN
“I’ve found my own file.”
Pulling it out gingerly, I lay it flat on the floor and open it up.
That’s my intake form, all right. But there, at the very top, is a bright blue Post-it note.
FORGOT TO MENTION KNEE INJURY NOT COVERED ON INTAKE FORM. EXEMPT FROM PHYSICAL THERAPY.
I stare at it.
“So, I…” I search for the words. “It seems like someone added a note to my file. I was told I had crossed off the wrong box on the intake form, giving the staff the impression that I had an injury that would prevent me from doing any exercise, but it seems like … someone added a note in later.”
I lean in closer, pull the Post-it off the page, and hold it up. I look from the note to the folders still in the drawer.
The handwriting doesn’t match.
“I don’t know who wrote this.” I keep talking automatically. Anna was right after all: There is something comforting about talking to myself.
“But whoever added the note seems like they were trying to keep me away from the physical therapist, Ellen. The one who recognized the name Susannah Wallin.” I pause, and then I say:
“Maybe it was her, all along. Maybe she was the one who added the note. If it was, she has already left, and I might not be able to get any more information about her on location. It’s possible my”—I almost say Sandra’s name before correcting myself.
I can’t leave any trail that might give her away—“contact might be able to find out more.”
I turn the pages in the folder, until I get to Martina’s notes, and then I stop, slightly mesmerized.
There is something so fascinating about reading about yourself, seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes. I’m here as a journalist, sure, but I’m only human.
My eyes skim over the words.
First impressions … avoidant attachment … possible secondary reasons for coming …
I turn the page again.
There, at the top of the next page, are the words:
Problems with lying. Makes up connections. May present a problem. Keep away from Anna as much as possible.
I blink.
“I, uh…” I don’t know how to describe what I’m seeing. “There is an instruction here in my folder calling me a liar and saying to keep me away from a specific member of the staff.” I try to gather my thoughts.
“I don’t know why Martina thinks I should be kept away from this staff member,” I say, halting, then continuing. “I have gotten the impression that the staff member in question might be less dedicated to the clinic than others who work here.”
Are they worried I might get to her, somehow? Worried I might convince her to spill any secrets?
“I don’t know if—” I begin to say, but I go instantly quiet when I hear something.
The front door. Opening and closing.
I feel my stomach dropping.
Shit.
If I’m lucky … no, there is no good scenario here. There is only bad and worse.
Bad would be Anna or Belinda coming back from dinner to take up their shift at reception.
Worse would be Martina, back from her meeting with Sandra, heading for her office.
I put my file back in the drawer, close it as quietly as possible, turn the recorder off, and stuff it down my pocket again.
There are no steps coming this way. That’s good; that means it’s most likely Anna or Belinda.
I’m still sitting on the floor, my knees beginning to ache. I cast a glance up toward the window, wondering if there is any way I can crawl out of it.
Maybe. But if I do that, they might hear me climbing out, see me running away; and, besides, I will have no way of closing it properly behind me again. It will be obvious someone was in here, and given what I just read, I bet I’ll be at the top of their list of suspects.
My breathing is fast and shallow, my eyes skidding from one side of the room to the other. There has to be a good way out of here, something I haven’t thought about.
I can try waiting here, hoping for a window.
But what happens if I linger for half an hour, and Martina then decides to pop by, do some late-night work? She insists on her Instagram that she doesn’t need more than five hours of sleep per night, after all.
And I’m supposed to meet Sandra in the woods in less than two hours.
No. I have to get out now.
I get up, standing silently behind the desk for a second.
Then I walk as quietly as I can toward the door.
Just as I am about to open it, I freeze.
Footsteps. Down the hall. Coming closer.
Potential explanations run through my head at lightning speed, some way to get out of this, some way to explain my presence. I’m sleepwalking again. I’m looking for some evening therapy. I went for a walk and developed spontaneous agoraphobia, taking shelter in the closest possible room.
But the footsteps don’t reach me.
I hear a door opening, closing. The clicking of a lock.
The bathroom.
Maybe guardian angels really do exist. If so, mine is working overtime tonight.
I slip out of the door, walking as quickly and as quietly as I can down the hallway, heart pounding, palms clammy, and then I wait by the front door, unmoving.
The seconds seem to stretch into years.
And then—sweet mercy—the sound of flushing.
I push the door open, praying the sound will be covered by the rushing water through the pipes, and now I can no longer stop myself from running; despite the pain in my feet, I jog all the way back to my cabin, not stopping until, out of breath and sweating, I close the door behind me and sink to the floor in front of it.
I sit there for a few seconds before raising my eyes to the analog clock on the bedside table.
It reads 8:27. A little more than an hour and a half to go.
“Well, Sandra,” I whisper, “at least I’ll have something to tell you.”