My first week at the retreat was more about observation of the environment and trying to keep food down than anything else. One of the other patients, Gretchen Lang, had breast cancer and was recovering from a double mastectomy, she told me. As a side note, she sadly reported that the surgery left her feeling inhuman. And certainly not the least bit feminine. She wore yoga suits every day, as I did, and vibrantly colored silk scarves on her bald head. She was into meditating—for hours on end—as well as yoga and Pilates.
Another patient, Hannah Olden, was in her thirties and in a wheelchair following knee surgery that came right after a hip replacement—all from a degenerative disease she suffered. She had her doubts that she’d ever walk normally again, and I could see the toll it took on her, similar to Gretchen’s battle with feeling useless and alien in her own body. Hannah spent her time painting gorgeous floral arrangements when she wasn’t in physical therapy.
I knew very little about the youngest of Dr. Stevens’s patients, Chelsea Brooks. She was a tiny girl with blonde, springy curls and big, amber-colored eyes. She kept to herself, in the corner of the solarium where she sat at a four-foot-long table.
One day, I asked Kyle, “Is she building a mini Eiffel Tower out of an Erector Set?”
“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “She’s amazing. Give her a picture of just about any structure and she can replicate it.”
I started to take a couple of steps forward, to get a better look, but Kyle gently gripped my arm. “She doesn’t like strangers in her space. She’s autistic. Change throws her. She needs to stick to a routine—new people upset her.”
“Oh.” I felt bad about that. I didn’t want to alarm or distress her.
“Don’t worry. She’ll eventually get used to you. Just stick to the periphery, you know?”
“Sure.”
I didn’t have a whole lot to do at the retreat, so I asked Gretchen if I could join her yoga and Pilates workouts, since I’d learned she was a certified instructor of both, with pre-natal experience. She seemed grateful for the company.
The kitchen staff allowed me to watch them prep and cook, which was a nice learning experience and occupied more time. The tea and very delicate biscuits Dr. Stevens recommended for me did wonders for the morning sickness and I was actually sleeping a bit better.
I still woke in the middle of the night, crying softly, trying to contain the heart-wrenching sobs that threatened to shatter the tranquility at the retreat.
New Year’s Eve and Day came and went, and I spent both in bed, reading and blocking all thoughts of a Lux grand opening that would never happen.
Slowly, I started to gain weight and look a little healthier than when I’d arrived. Dr. Stevens suggested calming scents to help me relax and keep my stomach from churning. We started with vanilla, moved on to chamomile, then lavender. I gave lilac a shot, but my currently delicate senses were having none of it, and I continued to spend time close to the bathroom.
Sifting through my cosmetics bag, I hoped there was a little bit of Carmex left over, since that had always been a soothing aroma and balm. From the bottom of the deep pouch I dug out a small container. It wasn’t the Carmex. In fact, I’d never seen the generic glass vial.
Curious, I twisted the lid off and held the vial to my nose. I inhaled tentatively, then with gusto. Wave after wave of serenity washed over me.
The oil was frankincense. The frankincense that Dane had given me, with the enticing orange tinge that seeped pleasantly through me.
Despite my sudden euphoria, the corner of my mouth dipped. I’d never poured any from the bottle into a vial. And I certainly hadn’t slipped it in with my toiletries.
Thinking back to that last day I’d been at the house—before coming here—I contemplated the flannel sheets. Such an inconsequential thing for most people. Yet, for me, they held significance. I broke my recently established rule of keeping Dane’s voice out of my head, recalling the morning we’d sat on our patio while I’d tried to get him excited over garland for the hotel.
You promised flannel sheets to keep me warm.
His eyes had bored into me. No. I promised that I’d keep you warm.
Oh, right. I’d kissed him.
Everything had been perfect that morning.
I brushed away tears as I stared at the vial a few seconds more. Then I dabbed a little of the oil on the insides of my wrists before carrying it into the bedroom and dotting the pillowcases with it. The flannel ones. I’d stripped the bed in mine and Dane’s room and brought the sheets with me.
As I drew in more of the rich, enticing aroma, an ominous thought occurred to me.
Had Dane changed the sheet set to flannel and put a vial of frankincense in my bag because he’d known something would go wrong at 10,000 Lux? Had he predicted something horrific would happen?
He’d even gone to the length of telling me—insisting, actually—at our wedding that I contact Mr. Conaway if I ever needed anything … and couldn’t turn to him for help.
I settled in a chair and stared at the bed, those sheets.
Had he feared all this time that he wouldn’t win this game?
* * *