I grabbed the one I was reading anyway, stuffing it into my bag for possible private reading at the retreat. I figured there would be scheduled group activities followed by periods where we could mingle if we wanted to, or possibly do other sorts of unplanned group activities. I, however, would opt to spend that time alone, recharging. These people knew me, they would understand without getting offended. It was the reason I had decided to go instead of create some made-up excuse for why I had to stay in Navesink Bank, everyone knowing I was lying, but too kind to call me on it.
"It will be good for you, honey," my mother had told me when I'd first gotten the invite, a little last-minute on a Friday night when we were set to leave on Monday. I guess that was why I hadn't heard anyone talking about it at work.
Fee wasn't exactly an absent-minded boss, but she was often spontaneous, so she probably threw it all together as a surprise.
And it left me very little time to freak out and talk myself out of it.
I'd done some of the freaking out, of course. It was my nature, after all, when faced with uncertain circumstances. So I did my usual routine of calling my mom, talking it out, listening to her calm, reassuring voice, then feeling brave enough to shoot Fee a text telling her I would be there.
Once the text was out, there was no turning back. So I spent my weekend researching weather patterns for this time of year in Washington state, then packing accordingly, putting self-waterers into my plants, even though I asked my mom to drop in to check them. I had a particularly problematic Fiddle Leaf Fig that I was worried about, and had put too much work into to let die over the five-day trip. I cooked what was left of the perishables, freezing what I couldn't eat. Growing up with a single mom on a tight budget, I learned not to waste anything. And then I'd watched video after video online about traveling by plane. I'd done it once or twice as a kid, back when we used to travel to visit my grandparents, but back then, I'd had none of the anxiety that came with when to arrive, how to get through security, what to expect.
I liked being prepared. Overly so, if at all possible.
But it was bright and early Monday morning, the sun nothing but a wish and a promise on the horizon, and my mom was waiting for me down in her car, being nice enough to drop me at the airport just so I could avoid having to get a car to drive me on top of everything else.
That was one of the things I appreciated most about my mom. She would push me in some ways, like encouraging me to take this trip—but also ease the transition—like she was doing by driving me.
I grabbed one extra book-a romance, but not one of the ones with the half-naked men or embracing couples on the cover, shoving it into my carry-on, then grabbing my suitcases, and heading down.
My mother had always been lovely. There was no other word that seemed to adequately describe her. She wasn't stunning or stop-you-in-your-tracks beautiful, but there had always been something about her warm brown eyes, her generous mouth prone to smiling, about the honey highlights in her brown hair, in the subtle curves of her thin body. She looked, dressed, and acted as the sweet, caring, loving kindergarten teacher that she was.
Today, she was dressed in a floor-skirting off-white linen skirt with a subtle pattern of birds in a golden brown color that matched her roomy sweater she wore up top.
I didn't get much of my mother's loveliness, her open, animated nature, or her fashion sense. Clearly. Since I was wearing wide-leg black pants and a graphic tee under an oversize white cardigan.
"Dressing in layers was smart," she told me as she helped me get my luggage in the trunk of her hatchback. "You can never tell if you are going to be too hot or too cold on a flight."
Though, to be fair, I was always cold. As was she. It was one of the few traits I had inherited from her.
"You ready?" she asked, slamming the trunk.
"Yes. No. I don't know."
"Hey, but you're doing it. That's the important thing. I think this is the perfect kind of vacation for you. Calm, quiet, with only people you are close with around. It's going to be great. I'm kind of envious. If you like it, maybe we can go back for a vacation together someday. Though, let's face it, neither of us are all that outdoorsy, so if it entails cutting our own firewood or something like that, I think we can find somewhere else just as cozy."
The hour-long ride was full of small talk which was my mother's somewhat obvious attempt to keep my mind from racing in too many directions, that would eventually leave me begging her to turn the car around and take me home instead.
In the end, she got me to the airport, and I managed to get myself through security and into my seat—by the window, thank goodness—without any problems or any more anxiety than I'd already anticipated.
I made the next seven hours slip away by my book, before resorting to daydreaming, thinking about what might be in store for all of us when we got there.
Would we do cheesy trust-falls like I'd seen in the movies? Blindfold each other and be led through the woods in blindness? Would someone set up hundreds of cups filled with liquid on the ground, cover our eyes, and have our teams navigate us through the makeshift minefield?
And after all those trust-building exercises were completed, how would everyone want to spend their time? Would there be group activities? Canoeing on the lake? Long hikes through the woods? Binge-drinking and getting crazy?
I had no idea.
Usually the not-knowing was enough to send me into a tailspin, leaving me fidgety and anxious.
But, I reminded myself as the plane descended, I wasn't going to let my mind run away with itself. This was going to be a fun trip with people I already knew I liked and was comfortable with. Whatever we all ended up doing, I was sure it would be fun. And I could always fake some sort of injury to prevent myself from being dragged to do something truly torturous like group exercise.
I navigated my way through the airport after arriving, getting my bags, and making my way to the car rental area where I picked up the car Fiona had reserved for me.
After I got the car loaded and sat down in the driver's seat, I took my first real, deep breath since I left New Jersey.
The hard part was over.
Judging by my GPS, it was a solid two and a half to two-hour drive, depending on traffic to get from the airport to the cabin. Which gave me just enough time to decompress from the whole flying thing.
Once I was outside of the city where the airport was located, the landscape got more and more rural until all there was to be seen were trees and hills and a narrow two-lane road leading out to the middle of nowhere.
About twenty minutes from the actual destination, my wifi cut out, making me really thankful I had taken a second to glance at all the directions, or else I would be stranded in the woods with no way to reach anyone, just praying someone would come along and find me.
The days were getting shorter, so by the time I found the turnoff- a simple gravel road with a set of reflective markers stationed at each side—the sun had already set low.
I thought I would find it scenic, cozy. Instead, as I drove along, white-knuckling the steering wheel, I felt an odd sort of creepy dread settling upon me.
It only intensified as I got to the cabin, and found no other cars around.
Granted, I had set out early, always preferring to be early rather than late. The others might not have been so keen on getting up at three in the morning to get their days going.