The second the transport drops me off at Desert Oasis Treatment and Commune, I inhale a cleansing breath. This is where I need to be. Besides the aesthetics of the compound, it is open and airy. Most of the spaces for the treatment are outside. I don’t feel cooped up.

When Celia told me about this place, I used one of my weekly phone calls to contact the director of this facility, and though I knew my father would pay for any treatment, I want my recovery to be on my terms.

When Anders Charmaine shared with me over the phone of his own story and how he almost ended his own life, too, I knew this was the place for me. I was almost positive I would get some flak from Ty and my dad. They should know I never do anything traditional.

It may seem selfish to everyone. I’m sure those are just some of the many words they are using, but my recovery is too important to me not to have what I need. As much as I want to repair my marriage with the one man I have loved in my life, I need to do this for me. Then maybe, one day, I can repair what is broken with Tyler.

Anders Charmaine is at the front office waiting for me, and by the way he described his own brokenness, I thought he’d be older, but he’s not. “Mrs. Hunter?” he asks.

“Yes, but please call me Emma.”

He leads me into the common area of the main house and has me sit at a large circular table. With my cashier’s check in my purse for the balance of my payment to the facility, I sit as he explains his vision, which I knew for sure my father would call a hippy-dippy facility just wanting to get my money.

The one reason this place appealed to me is, with the brief history Anders shared with me, I know money is not an issue. Granted, the facility is not cheap, but we pay one fee, and that fee covers me for up to two years. The average stay is six to nine months. With the facility staffed with doctors, psychiatrists, and nurses, I know this place can offer me some sort of healing.

“Emma, the doctors were able to get your medical records, and they will be meeting with you soon for an overview of your treatment. But first, I need to share with you my vision for this place.” I see his eyes darken as though he’s about to relive a memory he’d rather forget.

“Seven years ago, I woke to a morning like any other morning since getting married, settling down, and having a baby.”

At the words ‘a baby,’ the hair on my arms rises, and I want to fast forward through any part of the story with a baby in it.

“My son, Xavier, named after my love for the X-men, and my beautiful wife, Yolanda, were my world. We were living in a small town off the Gulf in Texas. I loved everything about my life. On this particular Saturday morning, I woke up, fixed Xavier and Yolanda pancakes, and then we drove to the marina where our boat was kept. X was three at the time, and Yolanda was five years younger than me. She was a beauty with flaming red hair, and she owned my heart. When we were on the water, there was nothing better for us. I had anchored the boat, and I was on one side fishing. Yolanda was holding X, who was asleep in her arms. Out of nowhere, a boat three times the size of our boat T-boned us close to where X and Yolanda were sitting. The crash hit so hard that it knocked them into the ocean. Yolanda, who was a stickler about X wearing his life jacket all the time, had it on him, but the hit was too much for his body to take, and he died on impact, though I didn’t know that at the time. I swam to get him first, and as Yolanda was passed out; she started to sink.” He wipes the tears from his eyes at the retelling of this story. “I chose to try to save my baby boy while his mom drowned.”

Raking his hand through his hair, he continues, “My life was over, and I decided to drown my sorrows in alcohol. And when I couldn’t drink the pain away, I tried to kill myself.”

I sit here, absorbing his whole life and the circumstances that shaped him. Seeing him on the other side of tragedy gives me hope. But the journey to get to where he is now had to be horrendous, marked with firsts of all he was missing. In his problems, I see that my own problems don’t look too bad.

“Emma, I know where you are right now. You can’t say I didn’t go through the same fucking shit you went through, so this will be a cake walk.”

What the fuck? How did he know, and before I can ask if he’s the next fucking Sylvia Browne, the psychic, he continues, “Everyone thinks their stories are not as bad as mine, but at the end of the day, something horrible in your own eyes has landed you in a place where you can’t cope. That is where we come in.”

I start to cry because I want it simple; I want to go back to Tyler, and I want to love that baby I brought in the world. I was happy, I really was, and I want it again. I’m sitting in silence when he continues his spiel. “I’m not a doctor, and I don’t claim to be. My job here is administration and groundskeeper, but this place is different. Beside our addictions program, you are free to roam the grounds. You can come and go with the permission of your treating physician. Even in the addictions program, after detox, everyone mingles. We don’t separate those with depression from those with postpartum or eating disorders or anything that can land you here. We have simple rules. First, this facility runs because we all help. You will be assigned chores and expected to complete them unless you are sick and given instructions otherwise by the on-call physician. You will most likely have a roommate unless your treatment plan is designed around you needing your space. And, this is the most important, Emma. We never threaten those around us. Even for those who have harmed themselves, like you and me, we both have seen the value in our life moving forward.”

He pauses. “Your recovery is of the utmost importance, so if your medical team deems yoga is something that will benefit you, staying here gives them permission to add what they feel is needed for your recovery. Make no mistake, they will challenge you, but, Emma, I trust them, and these are some of the same doctors whose unorthodox measures saved my own life, so keep that in mind.” He stands, and I follow suit.

“You will meet with your medical team first, then we will take you to your room. After you get settled, we will take you to the common area where, three times a day, we come together for the welfare of this retreat. That is when we do chores and manage the upkeep of this facility. Afterward, we eat together.” My eyes again ask the questions he has an answer for. “If for not this one major part of our program, the one where we all pitch in, our fee would be an extra ten thousand dollars. As it is, major charities and the fact our land, dorms, and treatment camp are fully paid for offset the cost.”

For thirty thousand dollars, I wasn’t expecting to be little orphan Annie for the next six to nine months; however, that still gives me ten thousand in case of additional costs.

He moves to the doorway of the admin offices, taking me through the open land of the retreat to the treatment camp. Sure enough, it looks like a campground with open-air classrooms and two large bays, one marked on-call Physician and Treatment classrooms. Yes, there is no doubt my dad would call this a hippy-dippy place.