Cruel Minds (7 page)

“I know plenty of people who were like that long before social media came along,” Jerome said.

Emily moved forwards and placed her hands on the porch railings. She watched a pair of birds hop from one treetop to the next. Above the house, the sun shimmered in golden waves. Voices floated on the air, drifting in from the front of the house. Emily cocked her head and heard snippets of Pamela’s welcome speech.

“Looks like the final guest has arrived,” Daniel said. “Perhaps we should say hello.”

Jerome nodded in agreement.

“I think I might take a nap,” Emily said. The knot of anxiety in her chest would not loosen.

Jerome cocked his head. He waited for Daniel to step off the porch, then he said, “But you never nap. You can’t.”

He was right, of course. But while Emily was here, it made sense to at least try. Even if right now, her anxiety laughed at the idea.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “Who knows, by the end of the weekend you might be looking at a whole new me.”

E
mily lay back on her bed and as she closed her eyes, she imagined Kirsten Dewar’s soothing voice filling her ears.
Imagine you are in a calm place. Somewhere you feel safe. A forest, or a beach
. In her mind, she was lying on soft sand, metres away from the ocean. The tide rolled in, then ebbed away. The drag of the water was a soothing whisper. The warm breeze was a gentle hand stroking her face.
You feel protected in this place. Nothing can harm you.
The tide rolled back in, fizzing and singing. Emily felt the tension in her body seep into the mattress. A fog drifted into her mind, disorienting her thoughts, swallowing them whole

Minutes later, she was sinking into the black depths of sleep. Voices called her name. Faces swam before her like spirits of the dead. Hands pulled at her. The darkness cleared and she found herself at the Ever After Care Foundation, in Doctor Williams’ attic of horrors. Pain-stricken faces stared up from hospital beds, their eyes pleading with her to tear out the needles and the cannulas, to end the suffering and let them go quietly into the night. In the last bed she saw herself; withered and gnawed, and writhing in pain. She picked up a pillow and placed it over the face of her other self. She pressed down with all of her strength. Instead of arms and legs kicking out beneath her, she felt hands running through the back of her hair, stroking the back of her neck. As she lifted the pillow, she was no longer staring at herself, but at the cold, dead features of her mother.

Emily sat up with a jolt, blinking the dream away. Perspiration beaded her brow. Her throat was dry. Her chest heaved up and down. How long had she been asleep? It felt like only moments since she had shut her eyes, but there were long shadows already spilling across the floorboards. Turning her head towards the window, she saw the sun sinking towards the treetops. She stared at her wrist, at the white outline where her watch was usually strapped. Anxiety kicked and bucked in her stomach.

Rising on unsteady feet, she moved towards the dresser and took out her toiletry bag. Her fingers trembled. Her chest had grown tight, her breaths a little harder to draw in and push out. The signs were all too familiar. Soon, she would feel a numbness at the top of her head and in her extremities. Then paralysing terror would come in pulsating waves, dragging her to the floor, where she would curl her body into a foetal position and sob until the terror had subsided and calm had been restored once more. It would last for minutes. Perhaps an hour. She could let it happen, let it consume her, strip her of control. Or she could try and stop it in its tracks. Unzipping the toiletry bag, Emily removed a foil blister pack and pushed out a pill. She moved to swallow it, then hesitated, staring at the tiny compound of chemicals pinched between finger and thumb. How many more pills would she need to take before she felt safe again? Before she woke up without the sound of her own screams in her ears?

Her head floating above her body, Emily sat down on the edge of the bed. She was hyperventilating now. Squeezing her eyes shut, she cupped the pill and attempted the breathing exercise that had saved her over and over again.
In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.
She chanted the mantra in her head, the words spilling over each other, then untangling like wool.
In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.
She pictured the wide, sandy beach, a flat, crystalline ocean. The sand beneath her soft and warm. The sun beating down from a cobalt sky.
In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.
On the ocean, a white yacht, its sails fluttering lazily on the whisper of a breeze.
In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.
She didn’t know how long she had been sat there for—without clocks and watches, every second, minute and hour had revealed its true arbitrary nature—but gradually, she began to return to her body. Lungs opened up. Breathing slowed. Limbs softened. She looked down at her clenched fist and saw it open up, fingers unfurling like the petals of a blooming flower. Angry, crescent-shaped grooves were carved into the flesh of her palm. But the pill remained.

Slumped against the wall, Emily waited for the dizziness to subside. After everything she had been through, after everything that she had lost, wasn’t she allowed happiness? Hadn’t she earned that right? Six months ago, she would have answered with a resounding
no
. But she had begun to see the world differently now. She had begun to understand how quickly she had blamed herself for actions that were out of her control.

She stared at the pill in her hands, a sense of achievement melting away the frustration. Somewhere amidst the fog in her brain, the deep tone of a bell echoed. She was debating whether the sound had been real or imaginary when a voice snapped her back into the room.

“Dinner time, sleepyhead. You’ve been out of it for hours.” Jerome stood in the doorway, bouncing up and down on his heels. “You’ve missed out on a ton of drama! Remember that couple Pamela mentioned earlier—Ben and Sylvia—the ones who’d complained about breakfast? Well, they’re completely monstrous. They’ve just blown up about the lack of structure to the weekend. You know, why are they paying to do nothing in the middle of nowhere when they could be doing nothing at home for free? I mean, they have a point, but hello, do your research. Plus, they’ve broken half of the rules, sounding off about work, bragging about how much money they make. Also, I think they’re kind of racist. Pamela had them in her office for twenty minutes. So much for her zen-like qualities. Oh, and then Oscar arrived. Not the friendliest person I’ve ever met. In fact, on a scale of rudeness, he’s up there with London rude. Your friend Melody tried to be all welcoming and he completely blanked her. This place is great!”

Emily pulled herself to the edge of the bed. “How long have I been asleep?”

She felt Jerome watching her as she struggled to get off the bed. As he reached out a steadying hand, his eyes moved to the medication lying on top of the dresser.

“Panic attack?”

Emily nodded.

“How bad this time?”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you need a few minutes?”

“I said I’m fine.”

Jerome hovered next to her, hands dug into his pockets, eyes examining her with the attention of a doctor. “In that case, let’s go see what non-carnivorous delights await us in the dining hall. I’m starving.”

He held out his hand and Emily took it.

Q
uiet chatter rippled through the dining hall. Emily’s gaze moved from guest to guest as she attempted to put names to faces. Pamela sat at the head of the table, with Marcia on her left. Sitting opposite each other in the next two seats, discontent hanging over them like a black cloud of flies, were a man and woman in their late thirties. Ben and Sylvia, she assumed. On Ben’s right, Daniel was engaged in conversation with the young woman seated across from him. This had to be Helen. Emily stared warily at the journalist, noticing how her smile failed to reach her eyes.

On Helen’s left, a stern-faced man in his mid-forties was hunched over the table, steely blue eyes scowling at the empty seat opposite. Beads of perspiration glinted on his bald head. Was this Oscar? As if sensing he was being watched, he turned his head and glared at Emily. She quickly looked away.

Beside her, Jerome whispered, “Good job I like a challenge.”

Giving her a wry wink, he headed towards the table and slipped into the chair opposite Oscar.

“Great to meet you, I’m Jerome,” he said, extending his hand across the table. Oscar stared at him. His hands remained on his lap.

“You know, if you stand there much longer you’ll turn into a statue.” The woman in the headscarf smiled at Emily. She nodded at the empty chair beside her. “I promise not to bite.”

Emily sat down.

“I’m Janelle Magoro. Should we even be doing surnames here? It sounds so formal.”

Janelle had a kind face. Her eyes lit up like stars when she smiled.

“Emily.”

Jerome had already abandoned attempts at conversation with Oscar and was now talking with Daniel and Helen.

“Are you okay, Emily? Is this your first time at a retreat?” Janelle patted her on the forearm. Why was everyone obsessed with that question? “You look like a first-timer. These places seem odd at first. A little ... out there, I suppose you could say. But once you’ve been to a few you get to know the drill. Slipping into the right headspace becomes much easier.”

“Have you been to many?” Emily asked. Janelle’s hand remained on her forearm. She stared at it, feeling its weight.

“Oh, I’ve done the rounds. Yoga retreats, artist retreats, women’s, monastic ... it’s good to take time and re-centre yourself, don’t you think? These days, time has become our most precious commodity. The older I get, the less I want to spend of
my
time trying to catch up. Coming to places like Meadow Pines helps to remind me that life should always be set at one’s own pace. Don’t you agree?”

Janelle raised her eyebrows, waiting for Emily to share her pearls of wisdom about the tribulations of modern living.

Emily shrugged. “It’s very peaceful here.”

“And a wonderful space to create in. Although some of their art resources leave a lot to be desired.”

Emily stared at the empty seat on her left. Melody was the only guest missing from the table. She was about to ask Janelle if she had seen her when the kitchen doors swung open. A sinewy young man with sandy hair, grey eyes, and a mass of wiry facial hair wheeled out a trolley filled with steaming pots of food. Marcia jumped up and began handing out plates while the man placed the pots in the centre of the table. There were dishes of lentils and beans, sticky rice, and a vegetable stew. The blend of aromas was dizzying, causing a wave of excited chatter around the table.

Standing up, Pamela raised a quietening hand.

“I hope everyone has found some fulfilment on their first full day at Meadow Pines,” she said. “Often, the first day is the most challenging—a rude awakening to how hectic our lives have become, how dependent on technology we now are, feeding from it like babies at their mothers’ breasts. It’s on this first day that we feel the sting of withdrawal. Tomorrow, however, we realise the illusion—that the milk is sour and empty of nutrients.”

Jerome leaned back in his chair, catching Emily’s eye. He bit down on his lip to suppress a smile.

“Tomorrow we open our minds. We acknowledge our worries and fears, the anxieties that nibble at us every day, and then we release ourselves from them so that we may instead reconnect with the self.”

Pamela paused, allowing a moment for her words to absorb into the minds of her guests. A clack of shoes on floorboards disturbed the quiet. Melody hurried into the room and dropped into the seat next to Emily.

“Sorry I’m late,” she mumbled.

Something was wrong. The friendly, happy woman Emily had met earlier that day was now sullen and nervy, her eyes bloodshot, the skin around them red and irritated.

“Are you all right?” Emily mouthed.

Melody nodded and stared at the table.

“Let me briefly go over why we practise silent eating at Meadow Pines,” Pamela said, refocusing her guests’ attention. “In today’s busy world, dinnertime is one of the few opportunities we have to communicate with family and friends, so it may seem at odds to encourage silent eating. But there are many benefits. Free from the distraction of talk or technology, silent eating allows us to have greater focus, to better enjoy the eating experience. It allows us to chew for longer, to eat slower, thereby improving digestion and boosting our energy levels, while making us more aware of when our hunger has been satisfied. By eating in silence, we become more mindful of what is before us, strengthening our awareness throughout the day, increasing our enjoyment in all of life’s pleasures. And finally, silent eating helps us to develop greater connections with the people around us. We notice their facial expressions and their body language—elements that we often miss when distracted by conversation.”

Around the table, backs straightened and arms uncrossed.

“Let’s use this time to enjoy and reflect,” she said. “And let us give thanks to Sam for cooking this wonderful feast of vegetables harvested from our very own garden!”

Murmured thankyous went around the table as Sam set down the final dish and sat in the empty seat beside Pamela.

Eating in silence was a strange experience. Emily found the food appetising, but did not feel her senses heightened like Pamela had promised. Perhaps like all things it took practise. As she ate, she observed the other guests. Ben and Sylvia ran forks through their meals as if they’d been laced with poison. Melody picked at her food, pushing it around her plate without attempting to eat. The drastic change in her worried Emily. Jerome, however, was distinctly unworried about anything. He shovelled food into his mouth as if dinner was a competitive sport.

Emily was not the only one watching the room. Across the table, Helen’s eyes moved from face to face. As she worked her way around, Emily quickly dropped her gaze to her plate. By the time she looked up again, Helen had finished observing her fellow guests and was now busying herself with eating. But now Emily felt someone else’s eyes upon her. She turned her head and saw Oscar staring directly at her. Something changed in his expression. Was it recognition? Surely she was being paranoid.