This Might Hurt(77)

“You’re not going to change my mind, Nat. This is not an indictment of you. You don’t know how glad I am to see you, even though you’ve gotten me in trouble.”

“Then why haven’t you called or texted a single time in the past six months? Gordon told me the guests are allowed to reach out to family members.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, but I knew we’d end up having this conversation. I wasn’t ready to have it then. Teacher thought you might try to change my mind, and then I’d head back to the outside world with you and be totally miserable. I know you think I’m a selfish brat for choosing to be here, but this is the most content I’ve been in my entire life. I don’t know how to make you understand.”

“What’s so great about this woman, anyway? I have yet to see her.”

“That’s because she’s tied up with a new project.” Kit’s eyes shine. “She’ll change your outlook on life, Nat.”

“She has all of you jumping through hoops. Some of the people here seem brainwashed.” Like you, I don’t add.

Kit grimaces. “Scientists have proven it’s not possible to empty a person’s head against their will. You can’t take over someone’s mind. Brainwashing is a concept popularized by Hollywood. The idea gives family members permission to blame an outside authority instead of their loved ones.”

Exactly what someone who has been brainwashed would say.

“Everyone at Wisewood has made this commitment of their own free will. No one’s being coerced into anything.”

“Just because she’s not holding a gun to your head doesn’t mean she’s not planting ideas in your mind.”

“We want new ideas to be planted in our minds! That’s the whole point of a self-improvement program.”

“I’ve gotta be honest, Kit.” I pause. “Wisewood sounds like a cult.”

She works her jaw for a minute. “?‘Cult’ is a derogatory label that society puts on a group of people whose beliefs they either don’t understand or don’t agree with.”

“This place isn’t normal. No internet, no phones, no connection to the rest of the world.”

“What’s so great about normal? People are terrified of everything now. They climb corporate ladders, scared their stuff isn’t good enough because it’s not the newest or biggest or best. They do juice cleanses, afraid their waistlines are too big, then binge drink, afraid their nights are too boring. Climb, buy, eat. Climb, buy, eat. Like hamsters on a wheel. Overdrugged, overstimulated, over the life they’re killing themselves to keep up with. Why do you have to bash a different way of life? Let me be happy.”

Neither of us speaks for a while. I listen to my sister take deep breaths in and out. I don’t want to leave her here. I don’t want to resume life without her. How can she be okay with never talking to me? Does she value our relationship so little? We’re the only family each of us has left.

“I don’t know how to protect you.” My voice wobbles. “This place is awful, and you can’t see it.”

Kit sniffs. “Do you remember the Christmas I was nine and you were twelve?”

I shake my head. All our childhood Christmases blend: me wrapping Kit’s presents, baking cookies for her to leave Santa, tiptoeing downstairs to eat them once I was sure she was asleep, writing her thank-you notes in big block letters, carefully smudging them with charcoal so she would be convinced he’d come down the chimney. After being up all night, I usually passed Christmas Day in a tired haze.

“I’d wanted this one Barbie for months. She wore a yellow jumpsuit and heels and had her hair in a ponytail like I did. When I ripped off the wrapping paper Christmas morning and saw what was inside, I’d danced around the room, shrieking with excitement. Mom sipped coffee in that bathrobe with the cats on it. You had just opened the Girl Talk game.” She chews her lip. “I shoved my Barbie toward you, begged you to look. Do you remember what you did?”

A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. “No.”

“You rolled your eyes.” I cringe. “So I tried a second time. This was the Barbie. I just wanted you to see how cool she was. The second time you told me to get it out of your face.”

I rip a hangnail. My cuticle begins to bleed.

“The third time you turned to me and said”—here Kit adopts a psychopathically cold tone—“?‘Aren’t you a little old for Barbies?’?”

I swallow.

“All of a sudden that nightgown I was wearing, the one with Ariel and the purple ruffles, seemed babyish. I took the Barbie out of the packaging to show Mom how much I loved it, but I felt like a two-year-old whenever I brushed Barbie’s hair or slipped the plastic heels on her feet. I looked stupid making her walk and talk. A month later I stopped playing with dolls. For good.”

The worst part is not the act itself (though that was mean enough) but the fact that I have no recollection of it, whereas my sister has carried it with her for decades. So much for us remembering only the wrongs we’ve committed, not the ones committed against us. I open my mouth but can’t think of a single redeeming thing to say.

Kit watches me with red eyes. “You’re not going to take Wisewood’s sparkle from me.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s not enough; I know it’s not.