The View From Who I Was by Heather Sappenfield Page A

considered that people lived this way in America.
    Just before the road curved left, a crisp black-and-tan sign announced Sego Ridge School. A paved road branched right, and Mr. Handler turned onto it. The Prius bucked, tires ringing, over a cattle guard. Sudden loud silence filled the car. The asphalt’s smoothness was unsettling.
    Corpse closed her eyes and tried to slow the rushing in her ears. She rubbed her eyelids, and the ache of her fingers and toes returned.
    The Prius tilted down.
    Corpse opened her eyes to a panorama of successive pine ridges, each a shade lighter till they merged with the horizon. A valley lined with reaching bare branches rose around them. On the right, nestled against the earth, an adobe building materialized. It matched the dirt’s red color so closely she might have missed it if she wasn’t watching. Another low building appeared on the right. Another. A common area, the lawn dormant, with a dry swimming pool and tennis courts bordering it.
    â€œThis looks like one of Mom’s spas,” Corpse said.
    Mr. Handler nodded. “It’s a corporate retreat. They’ve leased it to the school as a tax write-off.” He steered the Prius left into a five-space parking lot in front of a building crowded against the hillside. A white sign above its door read Office .
    â€œOkay,” he said and unbuckled his seat belt. “Home sweet home.” He climbed from the car and stretched the six-hour drive out of his limbs. Leaning down into his open car door, he said, “Come on.”
    Corpse scanned around for students. Staying right there in Mr. Handler’s Prius might be just the plan for the whole week.
    â€œThat dog back there might bite you, but nobody here is going to,” Mr. Handler said.
    He knocked on the screen door of the office. Corpse set the pretzels back on the console and climbed out. She squinted up and saw wings circling, blocked the sun with her palm. I tried to make out what type of bird it was but could discern only its silhouette.
    â€œWell hello, Perry!” a woman said. “Welcome back! You don’t have to knock.”
    â€œOona?” Mr. Handler held open the screen door. Corpse eyed his black golf shirt. She closed the car door and walked toward him.
    The office had a reception counter across the back like a hotel. Perpendicular to it was a desk with a computer on one side, piles of papers and college brochures balanced on the other. Two upholstered chairs occupied the lobby’s other side. A copy machine and printer were stuffed behind the counter.
    A stout woman in a purple broom skirt and a white blouse said, “You must be Oona. We sure can use the help.”
    Corpse glanced at Mr. Handler. How was she supposed to help anybody, wreck that she was? She hadn’t agreed to anything.
    â€œI’m Louise,” the woman said. “Just Louise. No Mr. or Ms. in here. Right, Perry?”
    Mr. Handler nodded.
    â€œNot much has changed since you were here last. You’ll be in this back room again.”
    I hovered just above the beaded barrette that clasped Louise’s ebony hair in a bun as they followed her into a small office with an empty desk. Shelves brimming with college brochures lined one wall. Corpse tried to place Louise’s familiar, clean smell: Ivory soap.
    â€œYou were such a help, such a great mentor last year. I’m really looking forward to this,” Louise said. “Do you need to put anything in here now? Otherwise I’ll show you to your rooms.”
    â€œShow us our rooms,” Mr. Handler said, glancing at Corpse, who looked like she might run for the hills. “I’m sure Oona could use a rest.”
    â€œDo you remember where the dorms are?”
    â€œI do,” he said.
    â€œDrive on over. I’ll get the keys and meet you there in a minute.”
    When we were in the Prius, inching past the common area, I slunk to the back seat. This was going to be a