Every Single Secret

by Emily Carpenter

  “Okay.” I hesitated. “It seems like a big shift, all of a sudden. But even if you’ve changed your mind, there’s no reason to go all the way to Dunfree. That’s at least three hours away, right? Up in the mountains? I’m sure you can find a doctor down here in Atlanta. Somebody who can help you get closure.”

  The bartender pointed at me, his eyebrows raised, but I shook my head, and he turned back to the bar. I squeezed the cashews.

  “I’m sure there are plenty of good doctors around here,” I barreled on. “Hell, Lenny could probably recommend a battalion of them, knowing her crazy family.” I touched his arm. “Growing up the way you did. Your mom and her boyfriends. Maybe that’s why you’re having the nightmares—”

  “Heath. Dude.”

  A young man in a badly tailored blue suit had materialized behind us. A basketball buddy or an old college friend. I didn’t recognize him. He clapped Heath’s shoulder and thrust out a hand. “Where’ve you been?”

  Heath swiveled to face the guy. “Busy, man. Working. I’ve got a new thing.”

  I kept my back to them and let out a whoosh of breath, half listening to Heath describe the warehouses on the outskirts of Cabbagetown that he was developing into condos. Heath didn’t bother to introduce us, rightly sensing I was in no mood to chat up strangers, and for that, I was grateful. I signaled the bartender. He braced his arms against the bar’s edge, and in a low voice I made my request. He raised his eyebrows at my credit card but took it. When he moved back down the bar, Heath was sending the guy in the suit on his way.

  “So the therapist,” he said.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the bartender was talking to the girl with beige lipstick. Her gaze slid over to me once, then back to him.

  “He’s based near Dunfree, up on the mountain. It’s an old mansion that he uses as a relationship-research lab and retreat center,” Heath said. “He’s one of the best in his field, been leading these retreats for over a decade. He observes how couples interact—he studies their body language, their conversation, all with hidden cameras in their suites.”

  “Seriously?”

  “He gets amazing results, apparently. And he’ll be able to observe me while I sleep. It’s like a total break from reality up there. Very intense—they don’t let you have cell phones or computers.”

  I just shook my head.

  “People from all over the world want to see Dr. Cerny. Baskens is really hard to get into.”

  “But you did.”

  “A guy in the office told me about him, and he must’ve put in a good word, because I called today and got the green light.”

  I cleared my throat. “You know, you could just talk to me.”

  He smiled gently. “Interesting you should say that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I told you all about my past, but you keep yours hidden, it would throw off our balance. The perfect, precarious balance that’s made this thing work so well. Don’t you agree?”

  I didn’t answer. It was the first time Heath had ever referred to my past—and with such confidence that I wouldn’t want to talk about it, even if he opened up about his. It was a new feeling—like he was indulging my insecurities, like he was a parent whose child was convinced there was a monster hiding under the bed.

  “I wouldn’t put this on you anyway, Daphne. Dr. Cerny’s a professional. He’s done everything—couples’ therapy, relationship research, dream therapy too. He does this thing called EMDR. Eye Movement . . . um, something something? It’s a technique they use to help people remember past events. Childhood trauma.”

  A trickle of sweat ran down the back of my neck; I rolled the cashews inside my palm.

  “I’d like to go there,” he said. “To the Baskens Institute, to meet with him. But”—he hesitated—“it’s seven days.”

  My skin goosepimpled. “What’s seven days?”

  The whole bar broke into a round of barking in response to the game playing over our heads, and I leaned closer to Heath.

  “The retreat,” he said louder. “Dr. Cerny’s retreat for couples. It starts Monday morning and ends Sunday. When I called, he suggested we should register for it. That it might be a really good idea, for the both of us.”

  “But if it’s you that wants therapy, why do we need a couples’ retreat?”

  “He suggested since we’re going to be married, whatever I had to deal with involved you too—”

  “But it doesn’t,” I blurted. “And, frankly, I don’t buy that the only solution to what we’re dealing with is a weeklong couples’ getaway. How much is this thing, anyway? I’m sure it’s not cheap. I mean, think about it. This guy’s a salesman. He’s selling a product.”

  “That’s a cynical way to look at it.”

  “Heath. You don’t need to sit in some airless office and talk for seven days straight so some arrogant, money-hungry PhD can tell you why you’re having nightmares. I mean, there’s a billion-dollar self-help-book industry out there, probably scores of books on why we dream what we dream. And not that you want to hear this, but you could just take a knockout pill to help you sleep better. I mean, they’re not going to make you turn in your man card for taking a fucking Ambien.”

  I was babbling now, but he only watched me, his eyes patient. The look filled me with more fear than everything he’d just said.

  “Look—” I started again.

  He put out a hand. “Listen to me for a second. Dr. Cerny said if you weren’t comfortable meeting with him, that it would be fine. You could still come up, be with me when I’m not in sessions, spend time around the institute. The house is really old, and I hear the grounds are beautiful. You could just rest. Relax. Would a week off kill you?”

  “No.” I sounded petulant even to myself.

  “He said there was a possibility you could offer some insight into the nightmares, too, if you were open.” He looked down at his drink. “If you don’t want to, that’s your choice, of course. But, Daphne, here’s what I’m saying. Whether you go with me or not, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  This was the point where he was supposed to say he was kidding—that all this therapy talk was just a huge joke, and really what he wanted to do was go home with me so we could make love and then fall asleep in each other’s arms. But he wasn’t saying that. He was just staring down at that stupid business card lying between us like it was some kind of magic key, given to him by a fairy godmother. The promise of a better life. I already felt like I was being left behind.

  He was very still. “I don’t want to do anything without you. But if we don’t figure this out, Daphne, I don’t . . . I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”

  “So you’re saying . . .” My voice was shaking. “You’re saying it’s the therapy or we’re finished?”

  He cleared his throat carefully. “What I’m saying—”

  “Heath—”

  “—is I don’t know if the way we’re living—the way we’ve chosen to relate to each other—is sustainable for the long term.”

  These weren’t his words. They were something a therapist had said to him and now he was repeating back to me. But it didn’t matter where the words had come from. It was clear—Heath wanted to deal with his past. Bring it out into the open. And then—as surely as thunder followed lightning—mine would be next.

  The dark, crowded bar felt airless. Like it was gradually shrinking and I would be crushed if I stayed. I lifted a finger to the bartender. “He’ll have another one.” I dropped my credit card back in my purse, then faced Heath. “Drink it slow. When you’re done, come home, and we’ll talk. And whatever you do”—I slipped off the stool—“never, ever make me come looking for you again.”

  As I pushed my way back through the crowd, a cross between Joan of Arc and Beyoncé, I burned with humiliation and defiance. I could feel Heath’s eyes on me. And the eyes of the blue-lashed girl. I hadn’t been able to resist striking first. Paying her tab for the night, and thus sen
ding her an unmistakable message: Don’t mess with me; don’t mess with my man.

  If the system had taught me one thing, it was that acting tough was a perfectly good substitute for actually being tough. Just like this bar and the people drinking away their Saturday night in it. Heath’s basketball buddy, the girl with the blue eyelashes, the laughing bartender. We all acted like a bunch of badasses with nothing to lose. But I knew it was a lie.

  I was a lie. I was weak and I was scared. Losing Heath, losing my soul mate, would be like watching a sand castle that had taken twenty-eight painstaking years to construct be swept away by a single wave. It would end me, if not in body, then in spirit.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  Outside the bar, I found a trash can and watched the cashews fall from my hand. I wiped the salt off my palms and stood there for a minute, thinking over my plan.

  I would go with Heath to the retreat. Play the supportive fiancée while he met with the doctor and searched for his elusive closure. And in the meantime, I would do some digging of my own, try to get out in front of the situation. If I could somehow figure out what was causing Heath’s nightmares before this Dr. Cerny did, maybe I could cut this process short and get us home where we belonged. Get everything back to normal.

  I did have something to start with, something I hadn’t given much attention to when it first happened because I’d been so rattled. Now I realized it was a clue, if only just a seed of one. Words Heath had said during one of his bad dreams, his voice raw and ragged with terror.

  Break the mirror, he had chanted over and over until it reverberated in my brain. Break the mirror.

  Chapter Two

  Sunday, October 14

  Five Days Before

  The house lay at the end of a rutted gravel road that seemed to stretch on endlessly, rising, switching back, then rising again until I felt nauseated. It stood in a cove of dark pines, its steep crimson gables and stained-glass windows regarding our arrival with a stern expression.

  A house with eyes.

  I wasn’t being paranoid or dramatic. Like Heath had said, the cameras were actually part of the deal at Baskens Institute. Couples attending the famous Baskens retreats were not only paying for therapy sessions but also for the privilege of being observed while they twiddled their thumbs or engaged in their everyday spats. A bunch of lab animals, paying for their own exploitation.

  I unfolded myself from Heath’s battered Nissan. The air smelled of moss and rotted wood and was at least ten degrees cooler than down in Atlanta. A cloud blotted out the sun, dousing blue sky and green forest in an inky gray, then moved on again. I shivered in the sunlight and thought of my iPad, which I’d tucked safely under the mat in the back seat. Heath hadn’t seen me hide it. I hoped it would be safe until I could retrieve it later.

  “Where do you think the cameras are hidden?” I polished my cloudy glasses on the scrunched-up sleeve of my sweater. Ours was the only car in the circular drive. I wondered if the other two couples attending the retreat had flown in and been shuttled up the mountain. I hadn’t heard anything about them.

  “They’re inside the rooms. Not out here.”

  Heath climbed out, popping his neck and stretching. The drive from Atlanta had only been three hours, but in his tiny car it felt like twelve. The Nissan, an unfortunate iridescent royal blue, was a holdover from his college days that he swore he’d never give up, no matter how important the job he happened to have. His holding on to the old car was just one of the things I loved about him. He didn’t judge things by their outward appearance; he saw below the surface.

  In the bright mountain sunshine, Heath sneezed twice in quick succession.

  “Bless you,” I said.

  “Something’s blooming.” He went around to the trunk.

  Everything was dying as far as I could see, fall’s brown and red and gold emerging on the hillsides. A series of terraced lawns bordered the western side of the house, dropping out of sight down the slope of the mountain. Dense forest flanked the rear and eastern sides. Farther off, higher up on the shoulder of the mountain, I caught a glimpse of a thin waterfall tumbling between granite rocks.

  The house was painted a deep crimson—the wood siding, the shutters, even the intricate gingerbread trim. Except for the door, which was a vibrant mustard yellow. The facade was dominated by a large overhanging gable, but the rest of the thing was a collection of off-center wings, jutting eaves, and precarious spindled balconies. There was an L-shaped wraparound porch and a hexagonal tower that rose from the top floor. An orgy of Victoriana.

  The place was grand, but this close, it was impossible not to notice the faded, peeling paint and mildew-rotted eaves. The way the tops of the window frames sagged. How the roofline and walls joined at odd angles. And the house was wedged into the side of the mountain, too, good and tight. No place for me to go jogging, not unless I wanted to risk falling off a cliff.

  I did an automatic count—two doors, four chimneys, eighteen panes of glass on that large, front-facing gable that appeared to be an enclosed balcony. I felt a little better, then. It was important to stay calm. I couldn’t let myself slide into panic.

  “How in the world do people find this place?” I said.

  Heath hoisted our bags from the trunk. “Dr. Cerny’s retreats are all based on word of mouth and referrals. Under the radar, super exclusive. Word is, he’s the guy who handles Bill and Hillary’s tune-ups.”

  “I wonder if we’ll get their room. Sleep in their bed.”

  He dropped our bags. “Would you like that?” He raised his eyebrows and we shared a smirk. For a moment, just a moment, things seemed perfect between us, like the conversation at Divine had never happened. Like we were just a normal couple who’d gotten out of the city for a last-minute mountain getaway. But I couldn’t pretend.

  The night before, when I’d gotten home from Divine, I’d spent an hour on the computer, first Googling Baskens Institute, then rescheduling the rest of my appointments for the upcoming week so I could leave the next day.

  The search results were sparse: there was no official website for the retreat center and only a smattering of pieces written about it, most of them years old. One, an article in the Wall Street Journal about Baskens’s reputation as a center for platinum-level relationship rescues, emphasized the exclusivity of the place. Nondisclosure agreements prevented clients from leaking any details about Cerny’s unconventional methods, but rumors of juicy scandals abounded—celebrity dirt or perverse deeds the Baskens surveillance cameras may have captured.

  I moved on to shuffling the upcoming week’s tasks onto Kevin and Lenny. I dashed off a succinct, overly cheery email to each of them, glad that it was late enough not to have to deal with a million questions I didn’t want to answer.

  Yes, Daphne Amos, who scoffed at psychotherapy, was accompanying her fiancé up to the mountains for a full week of it. No, I wasn’t taking part; I was tagging along to cheer him on and, in the process, dumping a crap-ton of extra work onto my partner and our employee. I could practically hear Lenny screeching in disbelief when she read the email.

  Moving on to my final task, I opened Instagram, and, holding my breath, typed in a name. I’d heard it only once, from Lenny, that very first day I’d met Heath. Annalise Beard.

  On Instagram, she was @fairlyweirdbeard, and she was a prolific poster. Of frosty, fruity drinks, beach sunsets, and a wan-faced cocker spaniel, mostly. The scattered selfies showed a long-limbed woman with tangled blonde beach hair, a knowing twist to her lips, and an impressive collection of fedoras and ankle boots. Actually, she looked a bit like me. Or maybe my prettier, more socially confident sister. I followed her, then clicked over to type in a message.

  After I was done, I powered down the computer, tucked it in the bottom drawer of my desk, and went to bed. Later—much later—Heath slipped between the covers and curled against me. He was cold and smelled like the autumn night air and fallen leaves. He must’ve been out walking, not h
anging out in the bar, drinking, like I’d been imagining and worrying about.

  In relief, I rested my hand on his bare chest and draped a leg over one of his. I told him that yes, I would go with him to the retreat, but I still refused to meet with Dr. Cerny. We made love for the first time in weeks. As I drifted off to sleep, I tried not to think about pretty Annalise Beard, whose help I now so desperately needed.

  Heath slept peacefully the rest of the night and woke in a good mood. Which was something, I guessed. And on the way up to the mountains, he’d seemed unusually lighthearted, chatting and singing along with the radio. Now, standing in front of the rambling crimson Baskens, I resolved to act supportive, even if I didn’t feel that way. Even if I was low-level panicking at the very idea of being an overnight guest at a relationship-research facility.

  I inhaled and sent Heath a sly grin. “If sleeping in the same bed where Bill and Hillary slept is what it takes to save us, I will do it,” I said. “I will find it ironic, but I will do it.”

  He caught my wrist and pulled me closer. I buried my face in his shoulder and inhaled his scent—soap and deodorant and the stuff he put in his hair. Who needed therapy when you had your own personal, six-foot-two mood stabilizer?

  The whiskers on his jaw scratched my temple. “Always us,” he said in a low voice.

  “Always us,” I replied. “And Bill and Hillary, if need be.”

  A young man with a shiny face, tortoiseshell glasses, and a swoop of muddy brown hair shouted a greeting at us from the porch. He hadn’t been there when we’d first driven up. Maybe he’d seen us approach on the hidden cameras. He bounced down the porch steps and across the expanse of grass.

  “Ms. Amos? Mr. Beck?” The man extended a plump hand toward me. Crescents of sweat stained the underarms of his starched oxford button-down, and his khaki chinos were just a hair too short. “Dr. Reginald Teague. Reggie, though, please. Welcome to Baskens. I’ll have your car parked around back, if you don’t mind.”