I don’t do anything but stare at her, stripped of every single thing she came to me with when I first met her. Her dress, her heels, her perfect makeup and hair. She’s beautiful. Beautiful, and as terrifying as ever.
“I will go with you right now and we can tell Paul and Lorraine the truth about us, about this. You can tell them it’s not the right time for you to do this.”
It’s my last out, and she is serving it up to me like a gift. I don’t have any doubt about what she’d do if we went down to that lodge and stood in front of Paul and Lorraine. She’d try to tell them both it was her fault, this whole fake engagement. I wouldn’t let her, but she’d try. It’d be awful, telling Paul and Lorraine. It’d be awful, calling my parents and telling them I’d given up on the camp. It’d be awful, starting over with that pile of blood money, or watching it get bigger in some cold, stale bank account, statements delivered to me every month while I try to wait this out, wait until it’snot so painful.
It’d be awful, thinking I’d let my brother down.
Still, for one brief, hopeful second, I think about what it’d be like to leave here with her beside me, both of us untangled from thislie, thislife.
Too brief, though, and too hopeful.
I know where my loyalty lies. I know the promises I’ve made.
“No,” I tellher. “I can’t.”
* * * *
If she’s angry at me, shehides it well.
I’d skipped the group lunch, done another run-through, which means I’ve done it so many times I’ll be dreaming of it for days. I’d done the same when I’d been doing my training for the paramedic exam—I’d fall asleep at night and see myself wandering around a grocery store or shopping mall, unable to leave until I’d identified for every cashier the arrhythmias in an EKG, always my toughest challenge. Back then, there hadn’t been half as much riding on getting it right, so I figure the dreams this time aroundwill be worse.
When I’d finally shown up at the lodge, Zoe had been there, in her regular seat at the table where we always eat for group meals, looking as calm and casual as she had on that first day we were here. “Hi,” she’d said, waving me over, smiling brightly. “Val was just sharing some ideas for honeymoon locations.” She’d been as calm as she wasn’t on that first day, when talk of weddings had made us both skittish and awkward.
By the time Val and Sheree had given their instructions to the camp staffer who’d be staying behind with the kids—this particular presentation an obvious nonstarter for the youth set—I’d been sweaty with nerves, and Zoe had stood by my side, patted my lower back twice, softly. “Ninety minutes,” she’d said. “Less than ninety minutes, and this whole thingwill be over.”
That had been—haunting, I guess. More haunting than comforting.
But now we’re in it, fully in it—Zoe beside me the whole time, all my practice paying off, I think. I’ve not stumbled over the details once. I’ve answeredevery question.
“If you take a look at page twelve of your packets,” I say now, my voice feeling a bit strained from all the talking, “you’ll see that most patients come to the Wilderness/Wellness program on physician referral.” I pause, waiting a well-rehearsed few beats for my audience to read over page twelve, half the page showing stats for the types of referrals, the other half with brief but convincing quotations from doctors in the state of Virginia who have sent patients to theother centers.
I watch as Lorraine lifts her reading glasses from where they hang around her neck, nodding as she reads. It’s hard to tell, really, what Lorraine and Paul have been thinking through this. Not much of what I’ve said here invites a lot of laughter, and for the most part, everyone’s been quiet and serious throughout. That worries me, but Zoe told me yesterday that this is what I should expect, that whether I talk about Aaron or not, no one who’s listening is going to be lighthearted when they know they’re hearing this pitch from someone who’s been personally affected. “People aren’t going to say much,” she’d said. “But that’s not really a bad thing.”
When Lorraine looks up, I begin again. We’d timed the stuff about physician referrals to this stop in particular, the infirmary, so that I can talk about the two full-time nurses that would be on staff, the medical director that would work on-site a minimum of three days a week. This is different, I tell them, from the clinical psych staff that’s kept on staff—Wilderness/Wellness tries to keep those functions separate, so that patients don’t necessarily see their treatment here as highly medicalized. I talk, too, about the major insurance companies that cover sixty-day stays, the treatment financing that’s offered through a third-party vendor for people who don’t have insurance. I dislike this part, the money stuff. It feels ugly, particularly after Aaron’s failed rehab efforts, and the money those efforts cost our family. One night, not long after my parents had received the settlement check, I’d worked out how many days I could’ve paid for Aaron at Wilderness/Wellness, if I’d only had that kind of cash.
It’d beena lot of days.
I ask for questions, same as I have at every stop, and this time Paul raises his hand. “What kind of changes would you need to make to a building like this?” he asks, gesturing tothe infirmary.
“Pretty big ones here.” The infirmary’s basically a modular house, factory built, three small windows, unreliable plumbing. “We’d look to expand the space, open it up. As you can imagine, many of the patients are cautious about hospital-like spaces, so naturallight is key.”
Paul nods. “Probably need better security too, huh?”
“Yeah, I—” I break off when I notice his teasing smile, his small gesture toward that lock I picked. “Oh. Right, yes.”
Beside me, where she’s been for all of this tour, Zoe breathes out a quiet laugh, and before I’ve even thought of it, I’ve reached out, set my hand on the nape of her neck, my thumb moving lightly over the soft skin there while I try not to think too hard about the memory of our first night together. Still, for a second, it feels like everything from this morning, from this whole presentation, has faded away. What would we have told Paul and Lorraine, after all, if we’d gone to them this morning, told themthe truth about us? Because right now, it feels like nothing about me and her is a lie.
“Shall we go on back toward the lodge?” she says, gesturing an arm out for everyone to pass. If I’m the info guy during this thing, she’s the friendly, supportive guide. She passed out the packets, reminded people where to go next, checked her watch to keep us on schedule. We drop back while everyone moves on to the next stop, our last. “How do you think it’s going?” sheasks, quietly.
“Was going to ask you the same thing.”
She smiles at me briefly, steps over a root that’s sticking up in the trail, which she knows by heart is there now. “You’re doing well. Getting lotsof questions.”
“Zo,” I say, slowing my steps a bit, letting the group get that much farther ahead.“This morning—”
“Let’s just finish this,” she says, cutting me off. It’s not harsh, the way she says it. But she’s right, there’s no use getting into it now, not when we’re so close. There’ll be plenty of time after to talk about everything that’s happened between us over thelast few days.
The plan is for everyone to take a seat in the outdoor classroom for this last stop, and Zoe leads the way, taking her own seat before patting the one beside her for Lorraine. Lorraine, in turn, pats Zoe’s knee when she sits, smiling at her in the kind of affection she gives out easily to her campers and friends, and Zoe’s face flushes in a kind of shy, surprised pleasure, an expression I haven’t seen on her much. Not for the first time do I let my mind try picturing her here in a more long-term way. Ever since I’d decided that I’d do the camp manager role here, I keep thinking of it. No matter how many summers I’d spent here as a kid, it’s like the adult version of me now can’t see myself at this place without her. At first I’d thought it was because I’d lost that kid version of me when Aaron died—that I couldn’t see myself here withouthim.
