Page 130 of Woman on the Verge

“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 saysissues.

“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 tolove.”

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 saysyou 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.