Page 49

Therese

The inside of Come looks like a hotel lobby. It’s possible this place used to be a hotel. Or an apartment building. There are no people in sight, aside from a young woman at the front desk who is wearing a headset and currently talking to someone, saying, “We will have a bed available next week.”

Too-chipper Phoebe leads me to a small office off the reception area. She sits on one side of a desk, and I sit on the other.

“So I’m the new-client coordinator here at Come ,” she says. “We just have a few paperwork things to get out of the way, and then I’ll give you a tour of the facility.”

She is in the wrong career. She should be working on a Disney cruise.

I cross and recross my legs, tap my foot on the floor.

“Are you nervous?” she asks, glancing at my foot.

I force myself to stop with the tapping.

“Sorry.”

She furrows her brows. “Oh, don’t be sorry. Women are altogether too apologetic for feelings that are quite valid. Everyone is a bit nervous on their first day.”

I want to punch this woman in the face.

“So you know the name policy then?” she says, looking at something on her computer screen.

“Yes, though I can’t say I really understand it.”

She reestablishes eye contact with me and says, “We refrain from using real names here, for the protection of everyone’s identities.”

“Protection?”

She’s talking like we’re in a government witness protection program.

She leans across the desk, as if sharing a secret.

“Some women want to reemerge into their real lives with nobody knowing they were here.”

“Their real lives.”

“Not that this isn’t real life,” she stammers. “Their post- Come lives is what I mean.”

“Post- Come ,” I say, finding it impossible not to giggle like a dirty-minded teenager. She is straight faced. I doubt Phoebe was ever a dirty-minded teenager. She probably tattled on those kids.

“I see you’ve selected Therese.”

“I was told to use my middle name, and that’s my middle name.”

“Oh, brilliant! Some women don’t use their middle names, but choose whatever they like. We’d have so many Anns and Maries if everyone used their middle name, you know?”

She laughs heartily. This is what makes Phoebe laugh.

When I don’t say anything, she goes on: “Therese is a beautiful name! It sounds very French!”

“It is very French.”

“Well, I love it. Everyone here will love it!”

She says this like it’s a compliment that’s supposed to make me blush. I had nothing to do with my middle name.

“How many women are here?”

“Right now, we’re at twenty,” she says. “We have intentions to expand, but we want to do so mindfully. Our pilot program included ten women, and it was such a success.”

“They’re doing well now, those ten women?”

She nods emphatically.

“ Thriving ,” she says. “Truly!”

“And most women are here because they were ... struggling?”

The emphatic nodding continues.

“Yes, struggling. With a variety of things in a variety of ways. The modern world asks so much of women, you know?”

She doesn’t blink.

“We see so much here. Marital troubles, childcare challenges, career realignments, mental breakdowns, grief and loss, addictions and other coping mechanisms—eating disorders, alcoholism, obsessive cleaning, affairs.”

She holds steady eye contact throughout the list, careful not to convey any judgment of what’s brought me here. She knows what brought me here. I assume there is a whole file with my name on it.

“It’s amazing how similar we are, though, at our cores, regardless of our ‘issues.’”

She uses air quotes when she says issues .

“We really take a holistic approach to helping women get back on track. Group therapy, one-on-one therapy, yoga therapy, art therapy ...”

“Lots of therapy.”

She smiles tightly, her thin lips barely visible.

“I promise you’ll find it immensely fulfilling.”

This is a tall order. Have I ever found anything immensely fulfilling?

She starts to stand. “Are you ready for the tour?”

As she shows me around, it is obvious that, yes, this used to be a hotel.

There is a large dining area that must have been a banquet room before.

There is a gym. Ground floor conference rooms have been transformed into group therapy rooms and yoga studios.

Hotel staff offices are now reserved for individual therapy sessions.

“We have four therapists on staff, with five clients each,” Phoebe says. “You have been matched with Crystal, who you’re just going to love .”

Her eyes go big. She nearly squeals.

“Crystal is in a session right now, but you’ll meet her tomorrow.”

We take an elevator to the third floor.

“Your room is on our top floor,” she says.

I follow her down the hallway until she stops in front of one of the doors. In place of a room number, there is a little plaque that says you have the power to heal your life .

“Here we are,” she says.

Inside, the bathroom is right off the door, and then a short hallway leads to a main room with two double beds. I’m surprised to find a woman sitting on one of the beds, knees pulled to her chest, paperback book in hand.

“Marie, this is Therese,” Phoebe says.

“Hello,” Marie says, looking up briefly before returning to her book.

She has dark-brown hair, almost black, cut short, and she’s wearing tortoiseshell glasses. She’s very thin, her arms and legs long and gangly. I try to see the title of the book she’s reading, but can’t. She seems like the type to casually read Nietzsche. She doesn’t bother even faking a smile.

“I think you two will be great roommates,” Phoebe says.

“I didn’t realize I’d have a roommate,” I say.

“Oh yes! I thought you knew. We have some single rooms, but your sponsor elected the double.”

By “sponsor,” she means husband. And by “elected the double,” she means he’s frugal, which is accurate.

“I’m not excited about it either,” Marie says, which makes me like her.

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. You’ll hear the dinner bell at five thirty,” Phoebe says before pulling the door shut behind her.

I sit on my bed and wait to see if Marie will speak. She does not.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

She answers without looking up: “Two days.”

I wonder if she arrived in this state of apparent despair or if two days have done this to her.

I proceed to unpack once I realize there will be no conversation.

An hour later, at precisely five thirty, a bell rings. Dinner.

Marie sighs.

“I don’t know why they do dinner so early. We’re without our children for once. You’d think they could treat us to an adult mealtime.”

I smile. Marie and I will be friends, whether she likes it or not.