Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
Without my phone, I feel trapped and disconnected from the outside world.
If I find Sadie, how will I call Gabriel to come and help me, if she refuses to come home with me? What will I do then?
My pulse races out of control when I think about possibly being only a few walls away from my daughter. I pace around the room, hands on hips, my mind racing.
During our talk, Megan may have seemed nice and welcoming, but she’s the boss at the moment and if she finds out that I checked in under false pretenses, she will show me the door.
I finally stop in the middle of the room to take a deep breath, to push past the fear and allow myself to think clearly. I wish Coco were here to comfort me.
No solutions come to mind, so I head for a hot shower.
I’ve been feeling cold, the kind of cold that sits below the surface of the skin.
As the water runs, helping to melt the chills away, I remember what Elena said about activities on the retreat being optional.
I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I decide not to join them on the first day, claiming to be exhausted and needing time to settle in first. That would give me a chance to scout the premises while everyone is occupied.
At 4 p.m. Elena knocks on my door to remind me about the Mindfulness Workshop in the Green Studio, due to start in forty minutes.
“We like to know the exact number of people participating, I was wondering if I should put you on the list.”
“Oh, sorry.” I feign a yawn and sigh. “It’s been a long day, and I have a splitting migraine. I think I might skip today and take it easy.”
“Of course, I understand.” Elena’s smile remains warm. “Just keep in mind that the more programs you participate in, the more you’ll benefit. You checked yourself in because you needed support, and we want you leaving stronger than you arrived.”
“Absolutely, and tomorrow I intend to fully take advantage of everything here. Today I’d rather just relax on the grounds and familiarize myself with everything first, make myself feel at home.”
“That’s perfectly fine. Dinner is at seven-thirty. If you need anything, use the panel by your bed and ask for me.”
I spend the afternoon wandering the adult side of the lodge. Casually, as if I’m simply admiring the architecture.
I find no path leading directly to the children’s quarters.
Careful not to raise suspicion, I stroll along the low walls dividing the two sides, but the only two doors I come across are locked with discreet keypads. There’s no getting through them without a code.
And I understand the logic. When this adult retreat fully launches, parents will expect boundaries. No parent would feel comfortable sending their child somewhere adults could wander freely into their children’s spaces. It’s just safeguarding.
Still, it hinders my plans somewhat.
It’s only after dinner—that I asked to have brought to my room and barely touched because my mind was too occupied—that I spot the brochure Elena had given me earlier. It’s on the desk where I left it. Why didn’t I think of it before? It has a map of the grounds.
I grab it and flip it over, flatten it against the desk. Then I get to work.
I trace the premises with the tip of my finger, studying every detail. Even though the camp has been extended since I lived here, it has not been altered much, as far as I can see.
The playground with its metal swings is still where it was decades ago, the pond in the center of the zen garden, the library room that used to smell musty, the laundry room, and the clinic, which looks like it now has its own small pharmacy, and three therapy rooms, where endless therapy sessions were conducted.
How often did Sadie sit in there in front of a counselor, sharing her pain with them instead of with me?
My fingertip stops at the dining hall. It’s the nexus point, a building connecting both sides of the camp with the kitchen positioned right along the separation wall. If I can get into the kitchen, I can make it to the other side.
I can’t go right away. With dinner only just served, the kitchen will still be packed with staff who would definitely question the presence of a guest in a restricted area.
But later, if I can get through to the children’s side, I won’t leave a single room unchecked until I find Sadie.
On my way to the bedrooms, I know I will pass the director’s office, which Megan must be using as interim director.
It’s probably locked, but if I can get in, I could have a quick look at the residents’ files to see if there are any mentions of Sadie.
If I’m lucky, I might come across some confidential therapy session information that might help me understand her state of mind around the time she disappeared.
As a psychologist, I might be able to slot together some missing pieces.
I spend the rest of the day waiting for night to fall, desperate to see my daughter, knowing she could be so close by.
Sitting on the bed for a long time with my eyes closed, I imagine her standing in front of me.
My arms around her warm body, I hear myself apologizing to her for any harsh words I said, for my overly strict parenting.
Then begging her to come home so we can start over, promising that things will be different.
I’ll open up to her about staying at the camp and how great it was, while reminding her of the wonderful future she will have on the outside, with us.
How will Gabriel and Scarlett react when they discover I had a connection to the camp and didn’t say anything?
Of course, as it turns out, my husband had secrets of his own, but right now I don’t know which is worse: my childhood secret, or the one that led to us losing our marriage.
At 10 p.m., I decide it’s time. The dining halls will be empty and I hope the kitchen staff are finished with the cleanup and gone for the night.
Nervous that the search might be fruitless, I find I can’t get myself to move, not for another hour.
Finally, I get dressed and rush out of my room and down the path to the dining hall.
The grounds are deserted, except for a guard who is hunched on the steps outside the Green Studio, smoking a cigarette. He does not even look up when I walk by, so I continue, following the path until I reach the glass doors of the dining hall.
The sliding doors have not been locked, and I’m able to slip inside unnoticed.
There’s no one inside and everything is in its place with tables straightened and chairs waiting for the next shift.
The kitchen is behind a swinging door that creaks open with a gentle push.
The air still carries the aromas of the last dinner, mingling with those of industrial lemon cleaner.
Through the light of the moon that spills through the windows, I catch the sparkle of the stainless steel appliances and surfaces that have been scrubbed clean.
I’m not surprised to find the place empty of people. When Mrs. Potter was running the camp, she treated her staff the way she treated the kids, with care. Made sure they did not work more than they had to and encouraged them to go home to their families.
That’s the kind of person she was, and all her employees loved her. I’d like to think the way they are treated hasn’t changed.
I pause to listen, but only the steady hum of the refrigerators fills the space.
I move through the kitchen at a measured pace, trying not to hurry, walking like I belong, until I reach the door leading to the other side of the camp.
I emerge into a long, carpeted hallway with doors lining both walls. A few are marked Staff Only. Others are unmarked.
I continue down the hallway, which is lit by occasional faint lamps, then I turn left, and walk through a sliding glass door that I remember from my childhood. I’m right, not much has changed on this side. The second door to my left is still the office.
I try the door and to my surprise it swings open.
The office space is unrecognizable. It has been given a total makeover.
Gone is the heavy brown desk that was always overflowing with paperwork and coffee mugs.
The moss-green couch that sagged a little in the middle and smelled faintly of dust is also nowhere to be seen, along with the carved wooden coffee table with old coffee stains that Mrs. Potter said once belonged to her grandmother.
The walls are stark white now, no longer a moody gray, and show off framed abstract photos rather than the black and white images of the camp through the years that Mrs. Potter used to add to every year.
One wall, which had a large clock hanging on it, is gone entirely, replaced by tall windows that look out onto the dark grounds.
A long mahogany conference table stands in front of the windows, surrounded by ten identical high-backed, padded chairs.
But the eye-catcher is the sparkling rectangular glass desk in the center, two cream leather chairs in front of it and a white one behind it, reserved for the boss.
Megan is sitting in it, smiling at me as if she’s been waiting.