Today, she was working alongside Betsy who hailed from Texas; she was planting out baby lettuce. They made great companion plants, Betsy informed her, while setting about her task. She looked to be around the same age as Isla, but she already had the haunted, bruised look of someone who’d packed in a lot over the years and led a hard life.
Isla was enjoying the peaceful setting as she settled into a pluck-from-the-pot and pop-into-the-soil rhythm. It was beautiful here, she thought. There were only twelve women in residence at Break-Free at any given time. She’d been lucky that there’d been a cancellation, otherwise, she’d have had to go on a waiting list. Twelve women here as guests, or inmates as they liked to joke, and four staff who were also all women. The only male she’d seen since leaving LA was the driver, who’d met her at her hotel.
Perhaps that was the answer, she mused watching a bee buzz lazily past in search of nectar. Maybe she should set up an all-women Amazonian style sanctuary deep in the heart of New Zealand’s West Coast. They could be self-sufficient. She warmed to her theme. If anybody felt the need for any of that other business she’d sworn off for the foreseeable future, they could always pop into town and drag some young buck back from a local bar. She grinned. Where on earth did the word buck come from? It was like something her gran would say.
‘My mom’s boyfriend raped me when I was twelve.’
Isla’s grin was wiped from her face, and her hand froze over the little hole she’d been about to drop the beetroot seedling into. Betsy didn’t look at Isla as she continued her story in her soft Texan drawl, carrying on with her planting while she talked. Her mother hadn’t believed her when she’d gone to her and told her what happened. She hadn’t believed her or hadn’t wanted to believe, Betsy said, but either way she’d left home by the time she was fifteen as a result. By twenty-one, she’d had three kids to three different fathers and had lurched from one bad relationship straight into another until this year when she’d told herself, enough was enough. The only good things that had happened in her life to date were her kids, and that was why she’d come to Break-Free.
‘I’ve made some bad choices along the way, and I want to start making the right ones. I don’t want what that bastard did to me to shape the rest of our lives. He doesn’t deserve that kind of power.’
Isla wondered how as a single mum she could afford it here and Betsy must have sensed her curiosity.
‘My mom saw the light one day, and when she died last year, she left me her house. I sold it, bought a place for my kids and me, and here I am. I’ve gotta do my best here for their sake because they’re my world you know?’
Isla nodded. She didn’t know, but she could imagine. ‘Who’s looking after them? You must be missing them.’
‘Oh yeah, I am, but they’re fine. My friend Joanne, the kids call her Aunty Jo, she’s staying with them. She’s been like a sister to me. They’re in good hands. What about you, you’re a long way from home with that funny accent of yours. Why’re you here?’
‘Um, I’m kind of a work in progress, but I suppose the trigger point for me coming here was my last relationship. It wasn’t healthy. He didn’t abuse me or anything, well not physically anyway but he had this knack of making me feel like I wasn’t good enough without actually ever saying so.’ Isla glanced at her nails; they’d been chewed down to the quick when she left Toad but were starting to grow again now. ‘And since I’ve been here, listening to you and the other girls as well as talking to Rita, I’ve realized that he was very good at it.’
‘He was a bully.’
‘More of a control freak with manipulative tendencies.’ The two women smiled in mutual understanding at the counselor lingo. ‘He chipped away at my confidence in such a subtle way that I used to wonder if I was being overly sensitive and imagining it.’ Isla had realized while she’d been at Break-Free that she’d been on eggshells trying to please Tim. To be skinny enough, bright enough, funny enough for him, but never quite measuring up. All the while her work commitments were pushing and pulling at her until she’d reached snapping point.
‘Yeah, I know the type. I’ve been there, done that, and got three kids to prove it,’ Betsy said. ‘You don’t need to hit to hurt.’
Isla nodded her agreement with the sentiment before realizing it was time for her one-on-one session.
Half an hour later, Rita, the White Feather Programme Co-ordinator, was listening to Isla in her therapy session. ‘The wrong kind of man and career burnout are what pushed you to the edge sweetie-pie. I’m thinking you’re suffering from this thing called Rushing Woman’s Syndrome. It’s not something we normally see in a woman your age with no kids, but from what you’ve told me about your lifestyle, it fits.’
They were seated opposite each other, enveloped in the squidgy bean bags that you had to roll out of onto your hands and knees to stand up. From Isla’s vantage point she could see out of the open window to the sequoia forest. The room was not at all clinical, with a Navajo rug dominating the wooden floor space between the orange coloured bean bags. The walls were painted a neutral taupe colour, and a massive artwork dominated one of them. Rita told her it had been donated by a former guest
It depicted a peace lily with the giant Californian redwoods, or sequoia as was their first given name, that formed a backdrop to the land on which Break-Free sat illuminated in the background by an orange sunset. It was almost half past three, Isla saw, glancing at her watch. She’d never worn a wristwatch before but had purchased one in LA, as cell phones were banned at Break-Free. She’d handed hers in after a quick call to Maura to let her know she was doing okay. Isla liked to know what the time was. It gave her a modicum of control over her days.
It had been a light bulb moment sitting on that beanbag, to hear a label that did not involve the word nerves or breakdown. She didn’t get the Russian connection though. ‘Russian Woman’s Syndrome?’ The mind boggled.
Rita smiled, and Isla thought she had the kindest blue eyes. She also noticed that there wasn’t a single grey hair in amongst her blonde mane. So much for a steel grey smart haircut stereotype.
‘R-U-S-H-I-N-G honey, Rushing Woman’s Syndrome. Dr. Libby Weaver, she’s a Nutritional Biochemist who hails from your part of the world and has written a book on the subject. She believes it’s a modern-day scourge for women, and so do I.’
Isla listened as Rita filled her in on the ins and outs of the condition, mentally ticking off all the things she could relate to. Yes, she was always in a mad rush to get the job done whatever it may be. Yes, there were never enough hours in the day. Yes, she’d gone off sex in the latter months of her relationship with Tim and had to keep pretending he was Hugh Jackman to get the job done. Yes, she did feel wired most of the time but strangely fatigued too. Yes, she felt bloated and sick on occasion. Yes, around that time of the month she could happily wreak havoc on anyone who crossed her path. Yes, she’d lie in bed at night finding herself unable to switch off. The list went on, but Rita was ready to summarise. ‘Basically honey, your body has been running on adrenaline and not much else. It’s telling you it’s had enough.’
Okay, so now that she knew what was wrong with her, Isla wanted to know how she was going to make it all better? It was time for Rita to produce her magic counseling wand and fix everything. The next thing Rita said, however, was not, ‘Abracadabra, so this is what you’re going to do now Isla,’ but rather:
‘So what’re you going to do now Isla?’
Isla looked at her, startled. That wasn’t in the contract. ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I want you to tell me what I should do next.’
Rita laughed. ‘Oh, that’s not for me to say, sweetie, but I think it might be time for you to re–evaluate exactly what it is you want from life. The pace hasn’t always been that hectic for you so why don’t you start