This Might Hurt(8)

That’s a big if.

I rise from my seat, legs shaking, and clamber off the bus into the sunny but cold morning. A few inches of filthy snow have been plowed to the outskirts of the parking lot. Immediately, I feel exposed. What if the Wisewood staff is already here, watching me? I squint at the few cars in the lot, then duck my head and rush with my duffel bag toward the terminal building.

After Gordon hung up on me two days ago, I replied to the e-mail, short and simple: Who is this? Please ask my sister to call me. Then I googled Wisewood. Up came an address and phone number, which matched the one I’d called, plus links to directions and three Google reviews. The first URL in the search results was ihatemyblank.com. I clicked it.

It took me to an empty black landing page. I stared at it, waiting for something to happen. After a few seconds, large white letters appeared one at a time, as though they were being typed onto the screen.


I HATE MY ___________





At the end of the blank space, the cursor blinked. Was I supposed to fill it in? I leaned toward my computer, squinting. The typing started again: j-o-b. As soon as “job” had been finished, a new word replaced it. Words filled the blank faster and faster, cycling so quickly I almost missed a few.


I HATE MY JOB




I HATE MY PARTNER




I HATE MY FRIENDS




I HATE MY FAMILY




I HATE MY SCHOOL




I HATE MY DEBT




I HATE MY ILLNESS




I HATE MY BODY




I HATE MY CITY




I HATE MY ADDICTION




I HATE MY DEPRESSION




I HATE MY ANXIETY




I HATE MY GRIEF




I HATE MY LIFE





At “life,” the letters shook, subtly at first but then more violently, until they exploded into a bunch of specks. Once all the specks had blended into the black screen, a new sentence appeared.


ISN’T IT TIME TO MAKE A CHANGE?




WHAT ARE YOU SO AFRAID OF?




WHAT WOULD YOUR LIFE LOOK LIKE




IF YOU STARTED LIVING IT?




COME FIND OUT.





A form field appeared, asking for my e-mail address with a submit button underneath labeled become fearless. I sat back in my chair and exhaled, imagining Kit watching this pitch. I tried to guess which part had sucked her in, what she had hated: Her job? Her grief? Our family? I left the website without signing up, not in the mood for weekly pep talks or years in unsubscribe-me purgatory.

Instead, I returned to the search results page and clicked on the Google reviews. Two gave five stars, the third only one. The anonymous users left no explanations, only the ratings. I looked up Wisewood on Tripadvisor and Booking.com. The resort had listings on those sites but no reviews. How could Wisewood be in business if they had so few customers? It occurred to me that if you were someone willing to forgo all technology for six months, you probably weren’t running to your computer to post a travel review when you returned home.

I checked my inbox every few minutes, spacing out through the rest of my Monday meetings. When I didn’t receive any messages, a knot formed in my stomach. Tuesday morning rolled around. I called Wisewood again; this time no one picked up. Another workday passed. At five o’clock I called a third time, but still no answer. The knot tightened. I considered filing a missing persons report, but Kit wasn’t missing. I imagined walking into a police station, explaining that I knew where my sister was, but she refused to contact me. They’d point me to the nearest counselor’s office.

By the time I left work yesterday, I knew I wouldn’t hear from Kit or Gordon. At home, I sat in the kitchen and stared at my phone. My clock tick, tick, ticked in admonition until I was ready to rip the thing off the wall. I e-mailed my boss to say I had a family emergency and wouldn’t be in the office for a few days, worst case a week. He told me to take the time I needed. When you work long hours and have no social life, the higher-ups learn to love you pretty quickly.

The Rockland terminal building is clean and quiet. The American and Maine State flags hang from a rafter. Four rows of benches face the port. On the walls are small stained-glass window scenes of birds and plants that must be significant to Maine.

After using the bathroom, I head back outside. Gray clouds creep toward the harbor. I jam my hands in my pockets and exhale, watching the puff of condensation drift from my mouth. I pause at two H-shaped loading ramps. On the first ramp, the public ferry to Vinalhaven Island is preparing to depart. Men in jeans and neon yellow sweatshirts guide truckers as they drive their vehicles onto the ferry. The water glistens, bluer than I expected considering all the traffic.

On the other side of the harbor bob dozens of sailboats. A red lobster shack, concrete tables, and red barstools stand nearby. Secured to a lamppost is a handwritten sign: GUESTS OF WISEWOOD, PLEASE WAIT HERE. I sit on one of the stools, trying to convince myself I’m not in danger. I hope I’m not the sole passenger on this boat; it would be my luck to try to save my sister only to wind up in a body bag on the ocean floor.

I tap my foot and check my phone. The water taxi should be here in six minutes. I consider squeaking out a few e-mails while I wait (Tyler will spend the day sharpening his stand-up routine if I don’t keep him busy) but I’m too wired to focus. A sixty-something woman wearing a khaki sun hat and dragging a purple suitcase heads toward me. I sigh with relief. Even small talk is preferable to imagining Wisewood’s skipper folding me into a tarp like a ham and cream cheese roll-up.