Until the Day I Die(28)

No one’s manning the concierge desk, and as we navigate our way over the stream and down one of the corridors, none of the staff takes notice of us. Halfway down the hall, we find a frosted glass door with the word YOGA etched into it.

I can just make out the dimly lit wood-paneled room on the other side, hear the flute music playing in the background. The instructor, an ethereal-looking redhead, so pale the veins in her neck stand out like tattoos, holds a graceful tree pose, arms overhead. Her eyes are closed, face lifted, nostrils flared. Tendrils of damp hair encircle her neck; tufts of reddish hair fur her armpits. The class follows her lead, a dozen or so women in the room, every size and shape of glistening body completely naked.

“Oh dear,” I whisper.

“I am so doing that,” Deirdre says.

“I am not doing that,” I say simultaneously.

Suddenly the door, which is automatic, apparently, and which I’ve activated, slides into its pocket with a neat shunk. Deirdre and I are standing in full view of the whole class. The teacher opens her eyes, and a couple of the students twist around.

“Join us, ladies?” the redhead says.

“No,” I practically scream.

“Later, for sure,” Deirdre says.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I say.

We slink away, giggling like a couple of preteen girls. Behind us, I hear the automatic door hiss closed. “That better not be mandatory,” I say and head for another door labeled WELL SPA. I wave my hand, and the door obligingly slides open. Deirdre slips in, beckoning me with a conspiratorial grin.

This room is a perfect jewel of rose-veined white marble—walls, floor, and ceiling—and plush, low-slung leather chairs. The whole length of wall facing us is a waterfall, running over green glass tiles, foamy and white. Every other wall is lined with planters overflowing with varieties of succulent and vine and fern. It smells like a combination of rosemary and lavender and jungle.

From one of the back rooms, we hear a woman shriek.

Deirdre’s eyes go wide. “What the hell?”

“Somebody getting a massage?” I whisper.

I imagine myself on a table, naked under a sheet. Letting someone dig into the knots in my neck and shoulders and lower back that seem to have formed and made themselves a permanent part of my body in the past five months.

What would it feel like to let go of them after holding on so long? Would I wail like that? I feel a rush of panic, and I’m suddenly bathed in sweat. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through an entire month in this place.

There’s another wail. Not a scream exactly, something more subdued. Then the woman starts to sob. Deirdre and I exchange wide-eyed glances.

“Jesus,” Deirdre breathes.

Then we hear a woman’s voice, low and controlled. “Agnes, talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk,” comes the subdued reply. “I just want you to let me go home.”

“You know I can’t allow you to do that. Your family sent you here, and they insist you not return until you’ve earned your L’élu certificate.”

More sobs.

The woman continues. “Agnes. What you need to understand is that L’élu is not just a physical challenge. It’s a vision quest. A chance to shut out all the noise of the world—all the things that distract us from what’s most important—and accept what the universe is trying to tell us.” A beat, then the woman speaks again, slowly. Deliberately. “The universe is trying to tell you something, Agnes. Can you hear what it’s saying?”

There’s no answer, only the sound of crying.

“It’s saying that your life is not your own. But that you are part of a family and must subjugate your desires to the greater need. It is saying your father has found a wonderful opportunity for you, to marry a man who can take care of you for the rest of your life. It is saying you need to gratefully accept the opportunity. Do you understand, Agnes?”

A muffled, “Yes.”

“I’ve spoken with your father and told him that, instead of kicking you out, I’m willing to give you one more chance. I’ll be sending you on another L’élu. Not L’élu un. L’élu trois—have you heard of it?”

“No.”

“I think it’s just the right experience for you, Agnes. So you can get to the heart of what’s bothering you. Sound good? You’ll leave tomorrow morning, so I suggest—”

“Ladies?”

Deirdre and I spin to face a young woman—Filipino, I think, another ten, with a slicked-back ponytail and white sarong. She’s standing behind us and smiling. I wonder how long she’s been there.

“It’s almost time for dinner,” the woman says smoothly. “Would you like me to show you the way to the dining hall?”

“Sure,” Deirdre says with just enough snark in her voice to show she’s not buying into this whole Hidden Sands thing and can’t be bossed around, even by a beauty queen in a sarong.

I’m not quite as plucky. After hearing the conversation down the hall, I feel distinctly sick to my stomach. Something is definitely wrong with this place. And I do not belong here, no matter what Sabine and Ben and the rest of them think.

But, “Thank you,” I say, because I can’t exactly make a run for it now, and the beautiful woman escorts the two of us out of the marble waterfall room.