This Might Hurt(9)
The woman waves, the fanny pack around her waist jiggling. “Here for the Wisewood ferry?”
I nod.
“Me too.” She extends her hand. “I’m Cheryl.”
“Natalie,” I say as we shake. “What brings you to Wisewood?”
“A little R and R, some self-reflection.” She chews her lip, thinking. “Oh, what the hell? This place is all about honesty.” She leans in and lowers her voice. “My business partner and I were going to retire next year, sell our flower shop. Instead, she threw me out on my bottom and had me replaced. After twenty years together.” Cheryl squeezes her suitcase handle hard enough to break it in half. With great effort, she forces her jaw to relax and rolls her head around her shoulders. “I’ve tried meditation. Exercise. Therapy. Lots and lots of therapy.” She laughs bitterly. “Can’t let it go. I’ll sit down on the couch for a minute and next thing I know, hours have gone by without me realizing it.” Her expression blackens. “You should see the severance she gave me, the nerve of her. The shop was my idea—we opened it with my life savings. I’d be starting over at sixty-four if it weren’t for my husband’s pension.”
Cheryl’s shoulders have crept back up to her ears.
“I’m so sorry.”
She touches my arm. “Thank you, dear. I figure if traditional therapy hasn’t done the trick, maybe I need something less conventional. My sister’s the one who told me about Wisewood. She joined after a rough divorce. Husband’s a real prick. I told her as much before they married thirty years ago, but does she ever listen to me? Anyway, Wisewood doesn’t seem like your average retreat, some glorified vacation with sunrise yoga thrown in. You know that application we had to fill out? I haven’t written something that long since I was in school.” She raises an eyebrow. “I heard they only accept ten percent of applicants. I liked that line from their brochure: We are not your first resort.”
What story did Kit’s application tell? I wonder whether the ten percent approval rate is accurate or a marketing ploy to make the place sound exclusive.
“I liked that,” Cheryl repeats. “Sends a message that Wisewood is for people who really need help. It won’t be four days of trust falls and self-empowerment babble and then back home we go. Kinda hard to change your life in a week, don’t you think? I’m talking real, lasting change.”
I nod, distracted. Kit must have been desperate. Guilt stabs me; I had no idea she was so miserable.
“My sister’s never been happier, so I thought I’d try Wisewood too.”
I should have been honest with Kit from the start. No, I never should have done what I did in the first place.
She’ll hate you if you tell her.
I rub my face as a group walks over: two adults in their fifties and a teenage girl. The couple reveals they’ve enrolled their daughter Chloe before she starts college in the fall but don’t share why.
“This will be the longest she’s ever been away from us,” her father says, putting his arm around Chloe, who’s a cross between Wednesday Addams and Cousin Itt with her colorless skin and bushel of dark hair.
Chloe wriggles out of his grip. “I’ll be fine.”
At the sound of an engine, we all twist toward the harbor. I search for the source of the noise, but fog cloaks the horizon, turning once-cerulean water an icy gray. The haze has stilled the sailboats and engulfed the ferry workers. We are alone in this port. I turn the same question over for the hundredth time: if people at Wisewood have no problem threatening strangers, how have they been treating my sister these past six months? In my pockets my hands clench. We wait, frozen, until a white motorboat with navy trim skulks through the mist. I check the time again: twelve on the dot.
Two men are aboard. The driver is pushing seventy and short, barrel-chested with a shaved head. His companion is around my height, five-nine, wears baggy jeans, an oversized logger coat, and thick work gloves. Underneath the coat is a purple sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. I’d put him in his late twenties, the perfect example of my beer client’s target. The two men are staring straight at me.
What if these men are the ones who e-mailed me?
The driver climbs out of the boat. When Hooded Guy tries to follow, the driver glowers at him. Hooded Guy flinches and sinks back into his chair. The driver ties the boat to a cleat, finger jabs a warning at his partner, then heads toward us at the pace of a man decades younger than himself. My pulse hammers in my throat. When he reaches our circle, the driver puts his hands behind his back and inclines his head.
“Welcome to Wisewood. My colleague and I will be taking you to the island today. I’m Gordon.”
Shit.
Gordon gestures to the boat behind him, which has a black-and-white winged hourglass on its side. “This is the Hourglass. Unless there are questions, now’s the time to say goodbye to your loved ones. Then we’ll get going.”
Gordon taps his foot while Chloe quickly hugs her parents. Once they’ve left, he scans our three faces and frowns. I put a hand on my hip, straighten my spine.
“We’re expecting Cheryl Douglas”—he peers at Cheryl before she raises her hand—“and Chloe Sullivan.” He glances at Chloe, as if he knows who she is too. He turns to me with a thin smile. “Who are you?”
Based on our phone chat, I’m guessing friendliness won’t work here, but I grin at him anyway. “Natalie Collins.”