The Sanatorium(113)

As she hovers on the curb, her eyes fix on Isaac’s back. A tiny white feather has worked its way through the seam of his blue puffer jacket. It catches in the breeze, flickering from side to side before coming loose, flying away.

A bus trundles down the road in front of them, kicking up bits of salt, grit. The metal grille at the back is full, packed tight with skis and snowboards. Waiting for it to pass, she follows Isaac across the road to the station.

The concrete building isn’t pretty. It’s spare, functional, the blunted edges of the flat roof brutally splicing through the raw beauty of the snowcapped mountains behind.

Beyond, the sky is a brilliant blue. Not the pale blue of an English winter’s day, but a deep, explosive color that makes the white of the mountains whiter, the streaky haze of cloud something definite and solid.

It’s been like this for days, so long that it’s hard to remember what the highs and lows of the storm were like, how it made her feel—the sharp, gripping waves of panic coming with each hour of wind and snow.

“It’s busy,” Isaac says as they walk into the station.

He’s right. People are gathering in messy clusters: an elderly couple, teenage girls with rucksacks hanging low against their backs, a large group of schoolchildren.

A small kiosk on the left is selling coffee and pastries. The bitter, buttery scent makes her stomach growl.

“You wait here. I’ll get the tickets.” Will’s already walking toward the counter, dragging their bags behind him. Though they need the tickets, Elin knows he’s deliberately giving her and Isaac the time and space to say good-bye.

Isaac scuffs the toe of his shoe into the asphalt, his face pinched. “It’s weird, saying good-bye like this. I’ve just gotten used to you being around.” He stops, fingers tightening around the water bottle in his hand.

She can’t look away from him: his eyes, his hair, the anxious expression on his face. It feels wrong, leaving him here alone.

“Then come with us,” she says abruptly. “We’ll book you a ticket. Just stay for a few weeks with me, see how you feel.”

“Not yet. I want to try to get back to normal life. See how it goes.” He presses his lips together, looks away. “I can’t stop thinking, you know, about how I doubted her. Just before you told me she was dead, I was burning the photographs I had of her in my wallet. I thought she’d betrayed me, when the whole time she was there. I could have found her, instead of . . .” His voice splinters.

“Isaac, there’s no point in beating yourself up. The situation was horrible. I doubted you, too, didn’t I? When I found out about the accusations of intimidation, I jumped to conclusions when I should have just asked you about it.” Even now, the thought of what she did—calling the university—makes her face burn.

“But you and I hadn’t seen each other for years. Our relationship was strained. I can see why you might have doubts, but Laure and I were engaged. I shouldn’t have questioned her. I should have known.”

“How could you? Laure hid in the outbuilding deliberately. She knew it wasn’t used, that she wouldn’t be found. There were no cameras, no obvious way you could have found her.”

“I know, but it’s like a bug in my mind, racing around and around. The fact that she was there, so close, all that time.”

“That’s why I think you should come back with us. Distract yourself.” She smiles. “Mainly with my crap cooking. You can take over the kitchen if you like.”

Elin takes a step toward him, reaches out a hand, then withdraws it, chiding herself.

I’m doing too much. Too full-on.

Several beats pass.

Isaac hoists his rucksack higher up on his shoulder. “I will come and visit,” he says finally, his gaze finding hers. “It’s not just words.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.” “It won’t go back to what it was before. It’s different now, isn’t it? You and me. We’re different.”

“Okay.” She’ll take that. Different.

“I’ll say good-bye to Will, then I’d better go.” Isaac glances over to the kiosk.

“Will, mate, I’m going.” Isaac raises his voice as Will starts walking toward him, tickets in hand. They do the half-hug thing, then fist-bump, before Isaac steps away.

He turns to Elin, pulls her close. She can feel tears hot at the back of her eyes. Why does this feel so wrong? Leaving him?

As they separate, she can hear the loud grinding of machinery—a clunking mechanical whirr. The funicular’s nearly here.

“Before I go, there’s something I wanted to give you.” Raising his voice above the sound, he reaches into his bag. “I had this copied for you. Will said you didn’t have any photos of Sam, the three of us, in your apartment.”

Elin almost can’t look at it, but she makes herself.

It’s a photo of the three of them on the beach, sand streaked up their legs. A lopsided sandcastle sits behind them, dotted with paper flags.

Her eyes lock on him. Sam. Her little brother.

Finally, a real picture. One to replace the flawed, messy flashbacks inside her head.





92





The funicular starts to move, and with it their surroundings—sky and snow give way to trees and snow-tipped chalets, 4x4s snaking up the narrow mountain roads.