This Might Hurt(25)

I shake my head. “I’m not here to stay, just visiting.”

Ruth blinks. “A visitor?”

The other woman twitches. “Wisewood doesn’t have visitors.”

“How did you get here?” Ruth asks.

“Wisewood doesn’t have visitors,” the other one repeats more insistently, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet.

“I came on the ferry with Gordon. This afternoon,” I say to Ruth, trying to ignore the crazy one.

Ruth squeaks, “Only Gordon?”

“No, a guy named Sanderson too.”

Ruth exhales, then studies her shoes.

“Do you know where I can find Kit Collins?” I ask.

Ruth’s head whips up. “Is that who you’re here to see?”

“Friends and family aren’t allowed at Wisewood together,” the other woman warns.

Ruth rubs her brow like a headache is coming on.

“Have you seen her?” I prod.

“Sorry, honey, I haven’t. I wish I could be more helpful.”

I nod, about to turn and go, when the younger one says, “I know where she is.”

I wait.

“On the path to fearlessness.” She winks at Ruth.

I scowl. “How about a place you can find on a map?”

“Who do we look like? Lewis and Clark?” She shrieks like a banshee, her laugh so high-pitched it hurts my ears.

“For Pete’s sake, Sofia, enough already. You’re going to give her the wrong impression.”

Sofia stares pointedly at me. I think I have exactly the right impression: unhinged.

“You’re welcome to sit in on one of my classes,” Ruth offers. “My beginners’ course meets at seven tomorrow morning.”

Sounds like about as much fun as the day in junior high when a tampon fell out of my pocket in front of the entire class.

“Thanks. I should get going.” I wave and begin walking away from the twosome.

“If you change your mind,” Ruth calls, “I think I can help with all the loneliness you’re shouldering.”

Where’d she come up with that? I twist around to see the women standing stock-still, watching me. Any trace of laughter is gone. I keep walking, unable to imagine Kit fitting in here, loving it so much she’s taken a job with these people. Kit is trusting but has a bullshit detector. She assumes the best in a person until they give her a reason not to. She’ll let you use her, but only to a point. How could she think this place is the answer? Throughout our lives I’ve tried to teach her to be more skeptical, even heartless when necessary. She won’t have it; she wants to believe in the inherent goodness of humanity. Which is why I find myself in places like this, dragging my sister back to reality. She loses sight of it more than anyone I’ve ever met.

Since I have little daylight left, I decide to skip the rest of the guest rooms. I hurry to the northwest corner of the property, where a second trailer stands. I creep toward it, wary of being caught prying, and the blinds are down. Why are there blinds for the classrooms but not for the cabins? I listen outside but can’t make out any words. Instead of impassioned speeches or a guided meditation, moans and cries pour from under the door. A tremor darts down my spine. I hurry past the trailer.

By now my goose bumps have goose bumps. The snow falls in grumpy clumps. Slushy flakes dart into my boots, licking my socks. I scold myself for not dressing warmly enough, decide to swing by my room for another layer before continuing the search.

I jog across the island to my cabin, kick the snow from my boots, and leave them on the welcome mat. Inside I pull off my coat and gloves, and rub my hands together. The room might be sterile, but at least it’s toasty.

I stop short when I notice an unfamiliar scent. It’s a woman’s perfume, crisp with notes I can’t identify.

Has someone been in here?

I shake off the feeling. I’m being paranoid. This island has made me jumpy.

I walk to the closet and slide open the door. One more sweater should do the trick. I crouch to the third shelf but find only jeans. There’s an empty spot where my sweater should be. I frown.

As I pull myself to standing, a strip of turquoise catches my eye. I turn toward it, then back away from the closet like it’s on fire. My heart snags in my throat, blocking the cry that wants to come out.

Gently swinging on a hanger is my favorite sweater.





10





ONE MORE LAP. I ducked underwater and emerged on my back, slicing the water pinkies first.

That the best you got?

I pushed him away but quickened my pace.

Red and white pennants, strung wall to wall over all six pool lanes, fluttered as I swam past. Emblazoned on each red one was my university’s logo. When I reached the end of the lane, I glanced at the clock. This lap had been a second slower than the last one. I docked myself a point, then pushed the thought away.

I would go again.

Inhaling deeply, I began another lap. I’d grown to love the clean, chemical scent of chlorine, the way it overpowered and purified. I was halfway down the lane when someone in neon yellow shorts and a T-shirt approached the edge of the pool. I waved at my roommate and sped up. By the time I reached Lisa’s feet, I was huffing and puffing. I lifted my goggles and rested them on my swim cap.