“Yeah, but they probably keep their files on computers. What if they got hacked?”
I’m not tech savvy enough to break into a password-protected computer.
“They can’t,” Edward explains, shaking his head. “Anne looked into it. This place is strictly analog. They wouldn’t even set up the reservations over email. It all had to be over the phone. Landlines, even.”
There’s moisture in the air, and I can feel the ends of my hair curling. I kick one of my boots against the ground. I checked the forecast earlier: too cold for rain, not quite cold enough for snow. It’s supposed to start sleeting at 4:00 a.m. I’m wearing two sweaters, a knit hat, and fingerless gloves, but when the wind blows, I shiver.
“Check it out,” Edward says, picking something off the ground. Before I can stop him, he throws a piece of gravel at the windows of the third cottage.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“You said you were bored!”
“Yeah, but—”
“But what?” Edward grins. He tosses another rock. The stone hits the glass with a dull thud that’s barely audible over the music coming from the cabin.
Edward says he’s seen the third patient from his window; it’s a woman, he thinks. Given her taste in music—my parents’ sort of music—I guess she must be middle-aged. (Edward said he couldn’t tell.)
“Gotta find a bigger rock,” Edward says. “No way she’ll be able to hear us otherwise.”
“You’ll break a window,” I protest. I can picture her now, a nameless, faceless basket case. Getting high in the middle of the day, her children coming home to the smell of something burning, never certain if they were smelling the remains of burnt toast or a bong rip. Georgia was creative when she had to be, chasing the dragon with the same aluminum foil Naomi used to wrap my sandwiches.
I try to remember the last time I saw a sign of Georgia’s drug use. Was it months, a year even, before she came here? It all feels terribly fuzzy, like my memories were printed on old-fashioned film that’s been damaged.
I circle my left wrist with the opposite hand’s fingers, trying to stay calm.
“You’re supposed to be here anonymously,” I remind Edward. “Anyonewho plays music that loud isn’t interested in discretion. They could leak your presence to the press likethat.” I snap my fingers like I have his best interests in mind.
“You didn’t,” Edward points out.
“Yeah, well, you got lucky with me. I already hate the press.”
Edward hesitates before tossing another rock.
“Come on.” I step off the path before he can change his mind, turning away from the ocean, tiptoeing past the lower-level rooms where our care managers, chefs, and housekeepers sleep and toward the building I saw in the woods. I know I’m being insensitive, asking him to walk farther on his injured leg, but I can’t help it.
“How’s the PT going?” I try to sound nonchalant. He’s told me he has physical therapy every day.
“Fine,” Edward answers, though he sounds unconvinced. “They made me do a cold plunge today.”
“A cold plunge?” I echo.
“It’s exactly what it sounds like. You get into a tub filled with ice water.”
“You’re describing a literal form of torture.”
In fact, it sounds like a treatment from medieval times, like bloodletting or leeches. I’ve considered telling Dr. Mackenzie that my treatment here isn’t all that different from the “rest cure” they used to prescribe to women in the 1800s. It had three core elements: isolation, rest, and feeding, with massage to combat muscle atrophy—not dissimilar from my yoga and bodywork classes. Patients were required to lie in bed for twenty-four hours a day, sometimes for months at a time, with a special nurse who would sleep in the room with them—just like Dr. Mackenzie living downstairs. Visits from family and friends were forbidden. The women were given “feedings,” and if they refused any part of the treatment, they were prescribed more rest.
Nowadays, we (allegedly) recognize the damage such treatments did. I wonder what they will say about places like this in 150 years.
Edward shrugs, like being forced into an ice bath is perfectly normal. “It’s supposed to have all kinds of benefits. Anti-inflammatory, accelerates healing, blah, blah.”
“So if it works, your fucked-up leg will get better, right?” That’s what he calls it, hisfucked-up leg.
“Cured,” Edward answers wryly. He makes the word sound like a punchline.
“At least your leg isn’t alcoholism,” I say. “Like, there might actuallybea cure for it. That’s the advantage of physical ailments over psychic ones, right?”
