Page 15 of Counting On You

Everyone is sitting so still you could drop a pin and hear it.

“This is going to be your sanctuary for the next few weeks. It’s a place where we don’t judge you. A place that will offer you redemption. With the help of the finest psychologists and renowned… blah…blah…blah.”

My mind trails off.

I’m far away mentally, thinking of Bruce.

What’s he doing right now?

I hope he isn’t back with his ex. I’m pretty sure she’s the one responsible for my restraining order…she and Bruce’s mom.

I’ve barely caught fragments of the woman’s long talk when people stand, and I follow suit. Everyone seems excited, like they’re about to go on a trip to the Bahamas.

Everyone but me.

In my opinion, they’re crazy, not me.

I don’t belong here, and I can’t wait to get the hell out.

Stepping out of the bus, I inhale the humid scent of the earth and the wind ruffling the leaves.

The air is crisp. Clear. It does nothing to improve my opinion of this place.

Holding my handbag in one hand, I drag my suitcase behind me, which I packed lightly because I’m convinced I’m not going to stay for long. The crowd seems to know what to do, so I trudge behind, up the broad path that snakes all the way to what looks like a mansion from the late nineteenth century. I’m not particularly into architecture, but even I can’t deny that this place is both scary and imposing.

The large, wooden doors open into a huge reception area.

I stop to stare.

My first impression wasn’t wrong.

Even though the building is very old, the architectural design still looks intact, but the walls smell of paint.

There is hope that we haven’t entered the nineteenth century yet. Maybe the furnishings aren’t that old either.

Like a mattress or bed, for example.

Or else I’ll be forced to sleep on the floor. Because there’s no way I’ll sleep on a mattress that’s absorbed the sweat of a hundred other people.

The redhead has stepped on a small podium in the entrance hall, from where she seems hell bent on continuing her speech, her hand extending toward the rows of brown boxes stacked on a long table.

“Please grab a welcome package,” she says. “It contains all the information you’ll need as well as your therapy plan. We’re giving you the day to explore and acquaint yourself with the premises, so there won’t be any lessons. You’re expected to drop by your appointed counselor tomorrow at ten a.m. sharp. I wish you all a good time and hope to see everyone again.”

Shehopes?

What does she think might happen? That we steal the bus and drive back wherever we came from?

On second thought, that isn’t such a bad idea.

A soft tug on my shoulder catches my attention. It’s Sylvie again.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her perfectly shaped eyebrows slightly raised. Her hand is clutching a thick folder, and I realize I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn’t even notice people are busying themselves with picking up their itinerary.

I shrug. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem kind of zoned out.” She eyes me, amused. “You’re not scheming to break out already, are you?”

My face seems to catch fire. God, I’m such a bad liar that I don’t even try to answer that one. “I’m just tired.”

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