Sarah Pearse - The Sanatorium

Adele loves her son wholly, absolutely, but sometimes she struggles to remember who she was before. What her world was like before it had been deconstructed, reassembled into something else entirely.

Responsibilities. Worry. Collection letters stacking up on her desk. This job; the mundane rhythm of her days—changing sheets, wiping surfaces, the sucking up of other people’s debris.

Adele swallows hard, bending down to plug the vacuum into the wall. Straightening, she looks around. It won’t take long , she thinks, assessing the damage.

Adele likes this bit, the calculation of time and effort required. It’s an art, the one part of the process that requires her to engage her brain.

Her eyes slide across the minimalist setup: the bed, the low-slung chairs, the abstract swirls that count as paintings on the left-hand wall, the cashmere throws in muted shades .

Not bad , she thinks.

These people were neat. Careful. The bed is barely rumpled; the complex arrangement of throws arranged across the bottom still undisturbed.

The only visible mess is the half-empty cups on the bedside tables, a black jacket slung on the chair in the corner. She studies the woven badge on the upper arm. Moncler . Probably three thousand francs for that.

Adele always thought that kind of carelessness—flinging the jacket on the chair—only came with wealth. It was the same with the rooms. Most of the guests seemed oblivious to the intricacies and detail that elevated these rooms—the bespoke furniture, marble bathrooms, the tufted, handwoven rugs.

She was always dealing with somebody’s thoughtless filth—stained bedsheets, sticky food trodden into rugs. Adele pictures the slimy, wrinkled sack of the condom she’d fished out of the toilet last week.

The thought stings, like a graze. Adele pushes it away, plugs her headphones into her ears. She always listens to music when she works, fixes her tasks to the beat.

Her favorite playlist is old-school rock, heavy metal. Guns N’ Roses, Slash, Metallica.

She’s about to switch it on, then stops, noticing a change outside, a subtle darkening to the sky, the very particular leaden gray that precedes heavy snowfall—ominous in its uniformity. Snow is already falling relentlessly, drifts forming around the hotel signage, the cars parked out front.

Tiny darts of anxiety flicker in her chest. If the storm gets any worse, she might have problems getting home. Any other night, it wouldn’t matter—her childcare was flexible, but today Gabriel leaves for his week with his father.

She needs to be back in time to say good-bye, a good-bye that always sticks in her throat as Stephane watches, face impassive, his hand already enclosing Gabriel’s.

A dark, irrational fear engulfs her each and every time he leaves—that he might not come back, might not want to come back, that he might choose, after all, to live with Stephane.

Adele can see that fear now, reflected in the glass. Her dark hair is scraped back into a high ponytail, revealing a pinched face, her almond-shaped eyes narrowed with worry. She turns away quickly. Seeing yourself like that, shadowy, distorted, it’s like looking into the darkest parts of your soul.

Glancing back at her phone, she’s about to press play when, from the corner of her eye, she notices something on the balustrade.

A sliver of something shiny among the snow.

Adele pushes open the door, curious. Freezing air fills the room along with tiny flakes of windblown snow. Walking over to the balustrade, she picks it up.

A bracelet.

As she turns it between her fingers, she can see it’s made of copper, similar to the ones people wear for arthritis. Tiny numbers loop the interior. An engraving.

It must be one of the guests’, she decides. She’ll put it on one of the bedside tables so they’ll see it when they come in.

Adele goes back into the room, closing the door behind her. Putting the bracelet on the nearest table, she steals another glance at the heavy snowfall, the growing drifts circling the balcony.

If she’s late, Stephane won’t wait for her. All she’ll find is a silent apartment and an emptiness that will consume her until Gabriel is home.

4

Elin, are you going to come . . . ?” Will’s last word is lost against the sound of the flag above, flapping in the gusting wind.

Thick flakes of snow plummet from the sky, settling on her face.

Her stomach clenches. Despite Will’s presence, and the hotel in front of her, she can’t help but be struck by their isolation—the absolute remoteness of the location. The drive from town had taken more than an hour and a half. With each minute ticking by, the winding roads drawing them farther up the mountain, Elin couldn’t shake her growing sense of unease.

The journey was protracted because of the snow, but she still can’t escape the fact that they’re a long way from civilization. Apart from the hotel, all she can see is a mass of trees, snow, the shadowy bulk of the mountains looming over them.

“Elin? Are you coming?” Will starts walking, bumping their cases across the snow toward the entrance of the hotel.

She nods, hand locked tight around the strap of her bag. Standing there in front of the hotel, she can feel the strangest thing—a disturbance in the air, a curious restlessness that has nothing to do with the falling snow.

Elin looks around. The driveway and the car park beyond are empty.

No one’s there.

Everyone from the funicular has gone inside.

It’s the building , she thinks, absorbing the vast white structure. The more she looks, the more she senses a tension.

An anomaly.

She hadn’t noticed it in the brochure Isaac sent. But then, she thinks, those photos were taken from a distance, highlighting the scenic backdrop; the snow-covered peaks, the forest of white-frosted firs.

The images hadn’t focused on the building itself, how savage it looks.

There’s no doubting its past—what it used to be. There’s something brutally clinical about the architecture, the air of the institution in the stark lines, the relentless rectangular planes and faces, the modernist flat roofs. Glass is everywhere, dizzying, whole walls of it, allowing you to see right in.

Yet, Elin thinks, stepping forward, something’s at odds with that clinical feel, details not visible in the brochure—carved balustrades and balconies, the beautiful stretch of wooden veranda on the ground floor.

This is the anomaly, she thinks, the tension she’s picked up on. This juxtaposition . . . it’s chilling. Institution butting up against beauty.

Probably deliberate, she thinks, when they designed the building; the intricate decor an attempt to conceal the fact that this was not a place where someone came for fun.

This was a place where people struggled with illness, a place where people died.

It makes sense now, her brother celebrating his engagement here.

This place, like Isaac, is all about façades.

Covering up what really lies beneath.

5

Shit,” Adele mutters, wiggling her key in the lock. Why wouldn’t it turn? It’s always like this when she’s in a hurry . . .

The door to the changing room swings open, a rush of cool air. Adele flinches, drops her keys.

“You okay?”

A flicker of relief. She knows that voice: Mat, a white-blond Swede, one of many foreign staff whom the hotel employs. He works behind the bar. Overconfident. Pale green eyes that first rake over you, then look right through you.

“Fine.” She crouches, scoops up the key fob. “I’m in a rush, that’s all. It’s Gabriel’s week with his dad. He takes him to his place tonight. I wanted to be back to say good-bye.” Finally managing to open the locker, she pulls out her bag and coat.