Page 119 of Woman on the Verge

I’m leaving my family behind, so I’m forgetting everything.

“Therese?” she says when I don’t reply.

“No,” I say. “I’m good.” A bald-faced lie.

The first ten minutes of the drive are silent, which is just fine with me. We aren’t going far. It’s the only place of its kind in the country (so far), and it just so happens to be forty-five minutes from where I live. It could be a coincidence, or it could be that my area has an extra-high concentration of insane women.

“You doing okay back there?” Margot says.

Her voice is softer now, perhaps because she has captured the target (me) and successfully strapped me into the vehicle. I am en route and she can relax. Her job is nearly done.

“Are any of the women who have been in this seat okay?” I ask.

She meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, smiles.

“Good point,” she says. “You are definitely one of the calmer ones, so I suppose I was hoping you were okay.”

I try to imagine how the other women behave. I assume there are lots of tears, perhaps pained moaning. Some may kick and scream. Such effortful expression seems futile, though. Very simply, what would be the point?

“I guess I’ve surrendered to this,” I say.

“They say that’s the first step in healing.”

“How many steps come after that one?”

“Don’t know. You’d have to ask a healed person.”

She exits the freeway, and I stare out the window as we approach what will be my home for the next few months.

“Do people leave this place healed?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t know. I only see them going in. But I’m told the success rate is very high.”

“How do they measure success?”

“You have a lot of questions. Someone in there can answer,” she says, pointing ahead.

The van makes its way up a long, narrow driveway, then parks in one of three spots. There’s a sign atop two posts on the expansive green lawn in front of the facility that says:

Welcome

CenterofMaternalEvolution

It feels like an aggressive demand:Come! I imagine all the women, mothers like me, heeding the demand, walking as if entranced to the doors of this place that promises to make them better.

Margot hops out of the van, opens my door for me, and then goes around to the back to get my suitcase.

“You ready?” she asks.

She needs to stop asking me this.

I follow behind her as we make our way to the entrance, where a plump, round woman in khaki pants stands with her hands neatly clasped in front of her, an eager smile on her face. She is waiting to greet me.

This is really happening.

“Hello!” the round woman says. Her excitement startles me.

Margot sets my suitcase next to me and says, “Well, good luck,” then salutes me and returns to the van.

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