Chapter 32
I clench the rock in my hand, my fingers aching, the slick stone surface icy cold against my skin.
“Back away,” I tell Clara, and I barely recognize my own voice. It’s a scratchy growl, more fit for an animal than a person.
“Jesus, what is going on with you?” Clara asks in a low hush.
Her usually immaculate hair is hanging in stringy ropes around her shoulders, and in the light from the cabin, I can see that her face is shiny with sweat.
“What did you do?” I ask her. “Where is Sandra?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Clara asks in a harsh whispered shout. “You look insane. Why are you bleeding?”
She takes a step toward me, stretching out her hand.
I back up, raising the rock.
“Have you lost it?” Clara stops. “Is this a psychotic break or something? Fuck.” She shakes her head.
“Don’t pretend like you weren’t out there!” I’m nearly shouting.
“Lower your voice,” Clara hisses at me. “Someone will hear you, you idiot.”
Her face is twisted, her usual lilting way of speaking sliding off her words to give way to a slightly deeper, more obviously upper-class accent.
“What were you doing out there?” I ask her. “What did you do?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you lunatic!” Clara exclaims. “Now put the rock down. What are you going to do, brain me with that thing?”
She looks at my hand with disgust. The wind catches her hair, throwing the pink strands around her face, some of them sticking to the blood at the corner of her mouth.
“No.” I grip it harder. “So, what, are you saying you weren’t out in the woods just now?”
“Why would I have been in the woods?” Clara asks, trying to free her face from the tangles of hair. “What, were you out there?” She stops, and stares at me.
A beat passes. Two.
I look over at the trees. Strain my eyes to try to see in between them.
The adrenaline has begun to recede. All that’s left behind is shaking muscles, and the sudden, stinging pain from the long, sharp slash along my cheek, the aching in the soles of my feet, the tension in my jaw.
My mouth fills with saliva. I feel as though I’m about to throw up.
I turn to the side, and spit.
“What the fuck?” Clara exclaims with disgust.
“Tell me you weren’t just out there.” My voice is shaking. “Tell me you didn’t chase me in there.”
“Why would I have chased you in there?” Clara eyes me with suspicion. “Seriously, are you crazy? Or is it drugs? Did you go into the woods and take something?”
“No.” I shake my head, lowering my hand. The rock suddenly feels like it weighs hundreds of pounds. My shoulder aches; I must have torn something when I threw myself off the ground.
“There is something seriously wrong with you,” Clara says, voice full of disgust. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.”
“Wait,” I say.
“No.” Clara holds her hands up. “Whatever you’re doing, I don’t want any part in it. You look super fucked-up. This is so not my vibe.”
“No,” I say, sharper now, raising my voice, and she stops.
“What are you doing out here, then?” I ask her. “If you weren’t in the woods, why aren’t you in your cabin?”
Clara is standing very still.
“And why are you sweating? It’s cold outside. There is a storm coming.”
As if to remind us why, there is a groaning rustle from the trees on our right, straining against the wind.
Clara whips the hair out of her face.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” She is trying for cold and haughty, and falling short.
I take a step toward her.
“Clara,” I urge her, “I’m not kidding around. This is serious. Why were you out here? Just tell me.”
Clara shakes her head, hair falling in front of her face. She makes an odd little sound, like a snort, or a hiccup.
When she looks up at me again, she’s smiling. But it’s a different kind of smile.
“Listen, Isobel.” She closes the distance between us. “I haven’t said anything about your little journalistic mission yet, because I didn’t think it mattered.”
The rock clatters to the ground.
My mouth falls open.
“What…”
“Yeah, I heard you the other night.” Clara’s nostrils flare. “Should have thought about the neighbors. Sneaking in a phone? That was really cute.”
When she smiles, I see the crusted blood in the corner of her mouth breaking up and flaking, her teeth colored a ghoulish pink, turned near gray in the faint light.
“But I’m over it now.” Clara crosses her arms and stretches to her full height. “So how about you stay out of my business, and I’ll stay out of yours. All right? Otherwise I might as well go directly to Dr. Martina and tell her how cozy you and the new physical therapist looked.”
“Clara,” I stammer. “What are you—”
“No,” Clara spits at me. “Go wash your fucking face, Isobel.”
She turns and walks away.
I’m left standing for a few seconds, mouth dry and heart still pounding.
But when I look over to the trees, I’m reminded that I’m still not alone.
For a second, I consider going to one of the other cabins. Knocking on the door. Asking if I can sleep in there, just to have someone there. Just to be able to tell someone.
But I can’t know if one of them might have been the one who was out there with me.
So instead, I half run, half walk back to my own cabin instead.
When I open the door, it all looks like it did when I left. Clothes bundled on the floor, blanket bunched up at the end of the bed.
I close the door behind me, walk over to the desk, and pull it with a loud screeching across the floor until it’s firmly planted against the door. I don’t know if it will hold, but it’s heavy enough to at least give me a warning.
Then I pull the curtains in front of the window and walk into the bathroom.
The light in there is a harsh and unforgiving white. The cut across my cheek has stopped bleeding; it’s long and thin, crusted over with blood and dirt.
I reach down over the sink and wash the cut until all the dirt is gone, until it has opened up and started bleeding again. Then I grab one of the pristine, white hand towels and push it against my cheek, grasping onto the stinging feeling as an anchor as the blood soaks through the white cotton.
It’s only when I look back in the mirror that I see my necklace is gone. That impossibly heavy little pendant that’s been haunting me for nearly twenty years, torn off somewhere in the woods.
A throaty laugh tears its way out of my mouth, and as I watch the woman in the mirror laughing, she looks like someone else.
Well, I think. I guess I’m on my own now, Dad.
Memorandum re: patient safety and well-being
09/02/2023
Dr. Nina Sundin
Dr. Hastings,
I would like to report some concerns regarding the methodology currently being employed in treating certain patients admitted to the Himlafall Clinic.
Having worked at the Himlafall Clinic for four months now (starting date 04/24/2023), I have made some concerning observations regarding a subset of the patients.
This memorandum should not be considered a criticism of the philosophy of the clinic as a whole but rather a reflection of the limitations of that methodology and how it is being applied.
I have reported my concerns in passing, but it is my hope that putting them to paper in an official manner might provoke a deeper reflection as to how we might proceed.
I have on at least three occasions (regarding patients ML, KR, and SW) observed how the Hastings Method has had a less than desirable outcome.
KR came to us after a long, drawn-out divorce, and it became clear rather quickly that not only had the seventeen-year marriage been abusive, but that KR had a long history of emotionally abusive relationships, likely in part stemming from undiagnosed C-PTSD.
KR had sought out the Hastings Method in an attempt to find a new partner, and rejected the idea of conventional long-form therapy, something which left me deeply concerned for their well-being.
The group therapy setting seemed to aggravate KR’s symptoms rather than help them gain clarity or perspective, and at the end of the week I found myself deeply concerned that they might, upon leaving, once again seek out their former abuser.
ML came to us with what they considered a “failure” to find a partner.
It became apparent that ML had a long history of cultural and religious trauma, and, furthermore, that these deep-seated beliefs were causing ML enormous psychological pain as they were conflicting with ML’s sexual orientation.
In a more conventional therapeutic setting, ML would have had the opportunity to process their past experiences and explore their sexual orientation at a speed that felt comfortable, but as a result of the heightened pace of the Hastings Method, ML became re-traumatized by the rapid resurgence of painful memories, and left in what I considered to be a worse state than they arrived in.
SW came to us after a recent break-up, seeking assistance re-establishing the relationship in question.
SW presented a narrative that fell apart upon examination, and when I attempted to push back, refused to listen and attempted—with some success—to turn the other patients against me.
I grew worried enough that I deviated from the protocol and attempted to challenge the beliefs directly, resulting in what I would classify as a violent emotional outburst.
It is my belief that the Hastings Method, though rooted in sound science and having produced positive results for many of the patients who have undergone treatment, is not suited to all patients, especially not those who might have gone through abusive relationships, either as the abused or the abuser.
I believe that the patients should be screened before admittance to rule out any patients with Cluster B personality disorders, as the Hastings Method is at risk of worsening their destructive and self-destructive tendencies.
Patients who fail the screening should, depending on severity, be referred to either outpatient or inpatient treatment options more in line with their specific needs.
I further believe that the relationship between patients and therapists needs to be better delineated.
In two cases (patients ML and SW), patients appeared to both have developed strong parasocial bonds to you personally, with SW describing you as “the only person who could save her” (quoted from memory).
Both ML and SW displayed significant anger at being treated by another psychologist, and described themselves as feeling alternatively “abandoned” and “cast aside” by you, despite never having previously met or interacted with you.
It is my belief that this was not only harmful to the patients, but could potentially become dangerous in the future.
I take from this and other observations that the necessary boundaries are not in place to ensure proper emotional compartmentalization.
This is always a challenge in an intimate treatment environment.
I propose a strict rule of no contact between the primary psychologist and patients outside of therapeutic sessions, and I would further recommend that the Hastings Method and the Himlafall Clinic not be discussed on your or any other social media, as the parasocial relationships between the aforementioned patients and yourself all seem to have been rooted in interactions with your social media profiles.
I believe the potential marketing value lost is a reasonable price to pay for the health and safety of our patients.
Furthermore, communication needs to be improved between caregivers.
Written records need to be kept, organized, and cross-referenced.
Three weeks ago (08/07–08/13) I received a patient (CL) and only discovered halfway through the week that this patient had already gone through the Himlafall treatment program, something which should have been communicated to me at the start of her treatment.
Upon requesting her patient file, I found the file had been misplaced, which was why I had not been informed that CL had already gone through the program, something which greatly impacted my ability to evaluate the patient’s needs and design a treatment plan.
I further discovered that one of the carers on staff had gone through the program at the same time as CL, resulting in more of the kind of blurring of boundaries described above.
As such, I further propose a general ban on hiring former patients as staff members.
I believe the Hastings Method has great potential in treating a certain subset of patients, but the way it is currently being applied risks being harmful not only to the patients, but potentially to the caregivers as well.
In order for the Himlafall Clinic to survive long-term, stringent protocols need to be put in place.
Otherwise, I fear the consequences might be dire.
Dr. Nina Sundin