I'll Be You(26)

Somewhere, a dog was barking an alert at our presence.

I kept winding up the hill, coming into a thick section of chaparral, dense with sumac and scrub oak. One more hairpin turn and I knew immediately that I’d found it: A long wooden fence, at least eight feet high, stretched along the road for as far as I could see. The fence was imposing, but it also wasn’t topped by barbed wire or protected by armed guards. I drove past an abstract sculpture of a woman, life-sized, made of bicycle parts and rusted scrap metal; and then another, of driftwood, painted pale pink; and then one more, twisted out of frayed and knotted rope. The vibe was less military compound and more hippie commune with a rather intense sense of privacy.

In the back seat, Charlotte had grown quiet; she craned her neck to stare at the curious sculptures as we bumped slowly up the road.

And then suddenly we were at the gates of the compound: two iron doors, topped with curious metal spikes. No, not spikes—small metal circles, each one topped with a cross. I puzzled over these for a minute before realizing what they were: the sex symbol for woman. The symbol, the amateurish sculptures, the quasi-feminist name—I laughed out loud, startling Charlotte in the back seat. It all looked so…harmless. Downright hokey. When you leave gaps in information, people fill the space with misunderstanding, imagining worst-case scenarios as hard reality. I don’t know what I’d imagined I’d find, but now that I was here the place looked as benign as my mother had protested it must be.

I felt something ease inside me, the tension slipping loose. Maybe I was just overreacting; maybe GenFem was just a women’s group with an overdeveloped sense of privacy and an extremely high price tag. Maybe Roni at the Santa Barbara center really didn’t find my sister’s name in their database, not because my sister was lying or because of some sinister disinformation plan but simply because they were disorganized.

The gates were locked, and there was no guardhouse, just a call box off to the side of the road. I pulled over in front of the gate, got out of the car, and pressed the button.

Nothing happened. The air was hot and still. A faint buzz sawed at my temples: the drone of cicadas hidden somewhere in the shrubbery. If there was human life on the other side of that fence, I couldn’t hear it.

I looked around, noticed a security camera, and jumped up and down, waving my hands. Maybe the buzzer was broken? Still—nothing. The minutes passed as I stood there stupidly, unsure what to do. Had it all been a wild-goose chase? Was this even the right spot? A mourning dove called out from the brush nearby, plaintive. I banged on the gate with my fist, sweat dripping down the back of my T-shirt, until the side of my hand began to ache. Charlotte stared soberly at me through the open car window, still gripping the labradorite stone in her fist.

Just as I was about to give up and go back to the car, the call box suddenly crackled to life, startling me.

“May I help you?” It was a young woman’s voice, friendly enough.

The sound of her voice filled me with relief. “Hi! Yes, I’m looking for my sister. Elli Logan?”

A momentary silence, then: “I’ve never heard that name before.”

“She also goes by Eleanor. Eleanor Logan. Or Hart, actually.”

“So many names!” The voice laughed gently. “I’m not familiar with any of them, I’m sorry.”

I leaned closer to the call box, confusion rising in me. “But you are a wellness retreat, right? Affiliated with GenFem? She’s a guest.”

The voice was infuriatingly placid. “I don’t know all of our guests by name, I’m afraid.”

“Look, I’m just trying to visit my sister. I know she’s here. She told my family she was here. Can I just come in, please?”

The call box went dead. A moment later, it crackled back to life. “I’m sorry, but even if she is staying here, I can’t let you in. Our guests come here for study and contemplation. We find visitors disruptive. They’re not allowed without advance approval.”

“How do I get approved?”

“You can submit a request through our website.”

I couldn’t recall seeing anything on the website about the retreat at all, let alone a visitation request form. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tried to pull up the website for GenFem, but cell reception in the hills was spotty at best. “Can’t you page her or something, and ask for her approval? I drove an hour to get here. This is ridiculous.”

“I’m really very sorry, but we have protocols.”

I stared up at the security camera and decided to play my trump card. “I have her daughter with me. Charlotte. She’s only two and she really wants to see her mother. Plus, she needs to pee.” I turned to point at Charlotte in the car, right behind me. This would be a good moment to cry or throw a tantrum, I thought, willing her to make herself seen. But Charlotte just stared placidly at me through the window, turning the labradorite stone in her palm, holding it up to the light.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.” The voice had grown cold. “If I come across her, I’ll tell her you came by. It’ll be up to her to contact you. Thank you.”

The call box went dead. I jabbed at the button, pressing it over and over, imagining it ringing in some invisible office, but there was no response. I pressed a hand on the iron of the gate. The metal was hot under my hand.

Just then there was a rattling at the gate, the faint sound of voices rising from the other side. I jumped backward as the gate suddenly swung open toward me and two bodies appeared in the gap.