“Why don’t you worry about yourself for once, Natalie?” She never calls me that, so I knew she was furious. “Why can’t you be happy for me?”
I couldn’t be happy for her because I knew exactly how this would end: Kit disillusioned with Wisewood and stranded on the island, begging me to save her. My sister needs rescuing more often than most people. Last year she called me sobbing over a scarf she’d misplaced. (I found it an hour later in her closet.) On the other hand, she’s known to get in hot water on occasion. She once found herself stuck in the desert after her loser guitarist boyfriend dumped her in the middle of his tour, which she had dropped out of college to follow him on. Another time a misunderstanding with her best friend ended with me picking both of them up from a police station. My sister doesn’t want me to hover until the exact moment she needs me, and then she expects me to drop everything to save her.
We ended the call still snapping at each other. I haven’t heard from her since. She doesn’t even know I moved across the country to Boston, taking a page out of her playbook that mandates when the going gets tough, the tough flee the situation. Back when I started toying with the idea of moving, I had pictured more frequent sisterly get-togethers; I would be only a train ride away now. She left New York before I got the chance. On my more honest days, I can admit her absence is a relief. The less often I talk to her, the less guilty I feel.
The e-mail has no subject line. I open it.
Would you like to come tell your sister what you did—or should we?
Hairs rise on the back of my neck. On the track pad my hand trembles. The note is unsigned but has a phone number at the bottom. Attached are two pdfs. The first lists directions to the island: various routes involving buses, trains, and planes, all leading to a harbor in Rockland, Maine. From there I’d have to take a ferry. The next one leaves Wednesday at noon.
I click on the second attachment and frown at the heading in bold letters. As I scan the typed words I start to feel sick. Halfway down the page a handwritten note in blue ink catches my eye. The blood drains from my face. I push my chair away from the computer. Who could’ve sent this? How would they know? What if they’ve already told her? I shove the heels of my palms into my eye sockets, wait for my body to still.
I’m in control. All I need is a plan.
I read the message twice, three times, then dial the number listed at the bottom of the e-mail.
A throaty, relaxed voice answers. “Wisewood Wellness and Therapy Center. Gordon speaking.”
I launch straight in. “My sister’s been at Wisewood for almost six months—”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Gordon interrupts. “We don’t connect family members with guests. Our guests are free to get in touch with loved ones once they’re ready.”
I blink, stung. Kit never told me that, nor has she reached out a single time. I force myself to focus on the task at hand. He might put me through if he thinks she made first contact. “She did get in touch. She sent an e-mail, asking me to come there.”
“Well, don’t do that. Only approved guests are allowed here.”
I keep pushing. “Her name is Kit Collins.”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s hung up on me.
“You must be Natalie.”
I startle. “Has Kit mentioned me?”
“I know all about you.”
I swallow. Is he part of the “we” from the e-mail, this group making threats? I wait, not wanting to show my hand. He doesn’t elaborate. I lift my chin, project confidence into the receiver. “Can you put her on the phone?”
“I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?” he says pleasantly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Perhaps your sister needs less interference with her happiness. You have a maximized day, now.”
The line goes dead.
What has she told these people about me?
Gordon sounded like he knows something, but if he’s behind the e-mail, why solicit me to come to Wisewood only to discourage me over the phone? I watch my screen until it turns off, thinking. First I’ll reply to the message. If I don’t get a response, I’ll call Wisewood a second time. If I can’t get through . . .
I skim the directions in the pdf again. Kit is a hundred and ninety miles of driving plus a seventy-five-minute ferry ride away. I could complain about her until I was blue in the face, but she’s still my little sister. Besides, it’s time. Over and over I’ve sworn to tell her the truth but have been too chickenshit to confess.
I have no idea what Kit will do when she finds out.
2
NO ONE HAD said a word the entire car ride. We were off to a good start.
No, a fortuitous start. Fortuitous: happening by a lucky chance, and also today’s word of the day from my bright yellow word-of-the-day calendar, which was last year’s Christmas gift from my parents.
I clutched Mr. Bear, climbed out of the station wagon, and stood in the driveway, staring. Aunt Carol’s one-story lake house had red clapboard siding and dark green shutters. It wasn’t as big or fancy as some homes we’d passed on our drive, but it had three whole bedrooms. I was going to have my own room for an entire week.
“Help your mother and sister with the groceries,” Sir said, carrying armfuls of luggage to the front door. I tossed Mr. Bear in the backseat and walked to the trunk, where Mother handed me a paper bag of food.
“Take two bags,” Jack said.
“They’re too heavy.” I scuttled toward the house before she could hand me another.
Sir opened the door. I peered around him. The cottage was musty but clean. I carried the groceries into the homey kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the open windows. I picked up a handwritten welcome note off the counter and sensed Sir reading over my shoulder.
“Of course she has house rules.” He snickered, then elbowed me and lowered his voice. “We’ll make sure we break every single one.” I couldn’t tell whether he was serious, so I made a noise that could have meant anything.
Sir didn’t like Aunt Carol because she was related to Mother and had the nerve to afford a second home without a man’s help. He rarely let us see her anymore, but I guessed he didn’t hate her enough to say no when she offered to loan us her house.
I barely had enough time to unpack and snoop through the garage before Sir called a meeting in the cozy living room. There were throw pillows everywhere, embroidered with sayings like Live, Laugh, Love and I just want to drink wine and pet my cat.
Sir clapped, eyes twinkling. “What do you say we have ourselves a family outing?”
Jack and I bobbed our heads. Nobody called my sister by her actual name. Sir had been hoping for a son. When the nurse handed him a baby girl instead, that didn’t stop him from using the name he’d picked out for his boy. The nickname had stuck, much to my sister’s and mother’s horror.
Mother wrapped her arms around herself. “I think I’ll say a rosary, then lie down while you three explore.”