I'll Be You(21)

But Caleb was looking at me with blatant concern. “That doesn’t sound good. Is she OK?”

“I have no clue.” That unwelcome word—culty—clutched at me again. I thought of the black GenFem binder. “All I know is that she’s reading my text messages but isn’t answering them. But that’s par for the course. She hasn’t answered a text message from me in over a year.”

“Still. Aren’t you worried? What are you doing about it?”

Was that accusation in his face? “Nothing,” I said defensively. I pointed at Charlotte, running across the playground with Mae in mock pursuit. “I’m a full-time entertainment and catering service for a two-year-old. No time to play detective.”

“No reason you can’t do both. How do you think parents survive? Kids get dragged around on errands all the time,” he said. “Where’s the retreat? You should go check it out.”

“That’s the thing. I have no clue where it is. This self-help group she joined, something about it feels really off. Its website lists centers in Santa Barbara and a few other cities, but it doesn’t say anything about Ojai. I’ve tried calling the Santa Barbara office a half dozen times but no one ever answers. They don’t return my messages.” I swallowed.

“Just go there in person, then they can’t blow you off.” He hesitated. “I’ll keep you company, if you like?”

The girls had found a life-sized whale sculpture, rising like a colossus from the sand, and little Mae was trying to boost Charlotte up its smooth flanks. She kept sliding down to the ground and shrieking with hilarity, not in the least bit defeated by the Sisyphean nature of their endeavor.

There was a lesson to be learned from this, but I wasn’t exactly sure what it was.



* * *



—

From the outside, GenFem’s center wasn’t nearly as impressive as its website. The group occupied a space in a strip mall, between a dry cleaner and a frozen yogurt shop. Judging by the faded paint above the door, the space had once been occupied by a pet supply shop. Now its windows were covered with opaque shades, preventing a clear view inside. The glass door read GenFem in gold letters.

Caleb and I parked side by side in the parking lot and extricated the kids from their car seats. “We’re getting frozen yogurt? In the morning?” Mae asked her father, looking confused. She gripped his hand. She’d put on a cat-ear headband with red sequins that glittered in the sun.

“Special treat. But first we need to do an errand, to help Sam.”

Charlotte lolled sleepily on my hip—I vaguely recalled that she was supposed to be taking a nap around now—as I pushed open the door to GenFem. I was greeted by an arctic blast of air-conditioning and a thick fog of vanilla candle, so strong that it made my eyes sting. A small decorative fountain burbled just inside the door, catching Charlotte’s attention. She slid from my hip and stuck a hand in the water, grabbing for the pennies that someone had dropped in the bottom of the basin.

“Gross,” I said. “Dirty.”

“Tweasure!” she crowed, holding up a dime.

The room was empty. At the far end of the space, a podium was set in front of purple velvet curtains; and before this was an array of couches and armchairs in bright candy colors. Closer to the window a row of desks displayed a half dozen shiny new laptops. A young woman in an oatmeal-colored dress was sitting at one of these workstations. She jumped up when we entered, and then she scurried toward us.

“The center is closed,” she said. “Our next meeting isn’t until two p.m.” She eyed Caleb, lips parting to reveal a tight line of perfectly straight teeth. “Women only, I’m so sorry. We do have a men’s group, if you’re interested, but it meets elsewhere.”

“Actually, we’re not here for a meeting,” I said.

“Are you familiar with GenFem? Did a member refer you?” She kept her eyes locked on mine, pupils huge in the dim room, the smile fixed on her lips, while her hand clawed for a stack of pamphlets on a nearby table. “Maybe you’d like to take some literature about our founder’s patented method. You could read it and we could set up an information session? Take one of our assessments?”

“Thank you, but really, I’m just trying to get the address of your Ojai retreat.” The woman’s hand, still clutching the pamphlets, wavered.

“Oh! Hmm.” The woman took a step away from us. “Let me get—” She abruptly turned and scurried toward the back of the room, disappearing behind the purple curtains. Caleb and I waited, the children weaving impatiently around our legs. Charlotte had now fished at least two dollars’ worth of change from the fountain. Maybe she’d buy a helicopter for her new friend.

I was expecting the psychologist from the website to appear—Dr. Cindy Medina—but the curtains disgorged a regal Black woman, her hair cropped short to expose a finely shaped skull. She approached us with a look of welcoming dismay on her face.

“Hi, I’m Roni. I’m told you are interested in joining us in Ojai?” She had a faint British accent. “I’m sorry, but that’s a private retreat, the personal property of our founder. It’s invite only.”

“Oh, I’m not interested in checking in to the retreat myself. I just need the address.”