by Erin Spencer
I think I’m handling this okay. Tough love is hard and yes, there is a part of me that wants to go pick her up so we can eat ice cream in bed together and watch Mean Girls for the millionth time, but she’s going to have her period every month for the next few decades and I don’t want to make it a dramatic, or traumatic, thing.
Maddie, on the other hand, doesn’t seem consoled by my words in the slightest.
“Mom, how am I supposed to swim? And what about the relay? What is everyone going to think when I’m not in the water? I can’t wear a pad!” Her momentary indignation collapses into tears again. “You have to come pick me up. Now!”
“Maddie, honey, calm down. You can handle this. I know you can. You can wear a pad, and not swim, or see Nurse Jo about a tampon.” With a supportive smile I add, “You’ve got this, I know you do.”
But Maddie isn’t having any of it. She angrily wipes the back of her hand across her nose and with red eyes stares pointedly into the phone. “You’re abandoning me when I need you the most! You are a horrible mother!” And with that, she hangs up.
Dramatic much? I think. She’s treating me like I’m Joan Crawford!
I send her a quick text reminding her that I love her and that I am always here for her. I see the bubble of typing on her end, but she doesn’t end up sending a reply back to me. I do feel like a horrible mother for a moment, but I’ve prepared her for this moment the best I could.
With a sigh, I roll over and turn off the bedside light, waves of alternating guilt and resoluteness washing over me. I reach out for the phone and send a message to Nurse Jo to let her know what’s happened. Jo has seen Maddie through five years of summer camps and all the insect bites, sprained ankles, and upset stomachs that entails. I trust her with Maddie and know that she’ll help her out.
God, sometimes I can’t believe how tough it is to be a mom. It’s hard to know what the right thing to do is. Looks like I’m going to need some yoga and meditation more than I could have imagined.
Chapter Ten
Downward (Hot)Dog
LIV
With a yawn and half-closed eyes, I feel around blindly for my phone in the tangled folds of the comforter. 9:42 a.m. Damn you, jet lag. I’ve been in LA since Friday and I still feel like I’ve been hit by an eighteen wheeler. And yet, I’d rather feel this way than be slinking into the office for a Monday morning of forced cheerfulness.
I pad downstairs in a borrowed robe from the guest room closet. It’s almost like I’m back in Bex’s childhood home. I half expect to see her mom at the kitchen table, plumes of smoke streaming from her ebony cigarette holder.
Bex’s chatter from the kitchen grows louder with each step. Standing in front of the kitchen counter, one hand resting on her hip, the other holding a cup of coffee, Bex is staring intently into the iPad on FaceTime with Maddie.
“So, are you sure you’re okay? I knew you could handle this. Now go have fun.” Bex gives a firm nod and smiles into the screen at Maddie.
I love to see Bex in mom mode. There’s so much of her life that I’ve missed out on. She’s bossy but in a good way, a firm hand at the helm on what has surely been choppy waters.
“What? Don’t make that face,” she says, and for a second I think she is talking to me. She hands me a mug of coffee across the counter without even asking if I want one. The morning choreography of a real friend who knows I’m not exactly the rise and shine type, with or without jet lag.
“Thanks.” I blow softly into the mug to cool the coffee. “Hi, Maddie.” I peer into the screen, trying not to say what everyone says when they see a kid after a long time. But the resemblance to Bex is crazy and Maddie really is growing up.
“Hi, Miss Liv.” Maddie waves at me.
“You know you can just call me Liv. Your mom and I aren’t that old,” I say, even though without makeup I’m sure I look about eighty-two. “How’s camp?” I cringe at such a lame question. What do you talk to a thirteen-year-old about?
“It’s okay. So, did you find Mom a boyfriend yet?” Maddie sounds only slightly enthused.
“Working on it.”
“Cool. Okay, I gotta go.”
“Hey,” Bex calls out. “Don’t forget to write Grandma a postcard. Not a text but an actual postcard, paper with a stamp. You know how much she loves hearing from you at camp,” Bex gently commands. “And, I love you. I’m proud of you.”
“Okay, I won’t forget, jeez. Love you, too, Mom. Bye, Miss Liv,” Maddie says it sarcastically but also sweetly, waving bye with a smile.
Bex takes a swallow of coffee. “That’s about as much as I get these days, a two-minute call. Even when she’s here at the house, it’s like she has zero attention span for human interaction. But put a phone in her hands and she’ll text to no end.”
“She’s a teenager. Remember how we were at that age? We were on the phone with each other all the time, and that was before cell phones. I guess it’s not easy when they start to pull away. You’re a wonderful mom.” I feel pride bursting through my heart for Bex, thinking of the highs and lows she must go through on her own with Maddie.
“There are times when I sure don’t feel like one.”
“What’s up? What happened?” I say in between sips of coffee.
“Maddie started her period last night.”
“Wait, what? Wow. I can’t believe she’s growing up so quickly.”
“She was in a state. Wanted me to come pick her up from camp. She was crying and everything. But we’ve talked about this moment a million times and I knew she could handle it on her own.” Bex sounds as if she’s trying to convince herself.
“It’s okay. Remember how weird and scary it was getting your period for the first time? It’s like all of a sudden we weren’t in control of our bodies anymore.”
“Please don’t remind me. I still don’t want to think about it. Even to this day I hate the sight of a volleyball,” Bex says. “And Coach Bryant was way out of his depth. Told me to get cleaned up and get back on the court like a man. What a dinosaur.”
“Look, I’m sure Maddie is in good hands at camp. Thankfully, things have evolved since we were in seventh grade volleyball with Coach Bryant. I think you’re a badass mom, you know that.” I walk around the kitchen island to give Bex a hug.
“Thanks, that means a lot. It really does.” Bex gives me a quick hug back, then seems to shake off the emotional heaviness. “I’ll tell you what, this badass mom could do with some more coffee. I feel like I have a hangover.”
“I know. Me, too. It’s a sad day when a few glasses of Chardonnay leave you feeling this way. I blame it on wandering around the estate sale in the sun and that damn traffic. But, you know what’s good for a hangover? Bex’s blueberry pancakes. With lots of bacon.”
“I don’t feel like cooking this morning.” Bex scrunches up her nose.
“Pleeeeeaaaaase. You don’t know how impossible it is to get good pancakes in London. Or American style bacon, for that matter.”
“Come on, Maddie’s away and I could use a break from being a short-order cook. Don’t make me cook when I don’t have to. Besides, I don’t have buttermilk. Here, eat this. It’s healthier.” Bex hands me a plate with a grapefruit cut in two.
I take a bite and recoil, overwhelmed by the bitter taste.
Bex takes a big scoop out of hers. “It’s an acquired taste. Put some salt on it.” She slides a little bowl of sea salt across to me.
“Salt? Don’t you mean sugar?” I stare at her like she’s lost her mind. “You’ve been living in California for too long.”
“No, I mean salt. NPR did a story on it last year and the salt cuts the bitter flavor. Try it. You’ll see,” she says with the authority of Julia Child.
“Boo! I need carbs! Pancakes, please, please, please, make your pancakes.” I sound like a grumpy four-year-old, but I don’t care.
“There might be some bread in the pantry, just have some toast. Besides, we don’t have time for pancakes. We’re going to
yoga.”
“Really? So you’re still up for it!”
Bex laughs. “Yup. We need to be there by eleven, so we should leave the house soon. Let’s get moving.”
Upstairs in the guest bedroom, I heave my suitcase onto the bed. I wasn’t planning to work out during this trip, nor am I what you’d call a practicing yogi. I do my fair share of walking (more like running to keep up with the fast moving chaos of London sidewalks) but that’s basically the extent of my fitness routine. The dreary weather, the pubs, the fact that most of the year people are clothed in layers upon layers. Winter coats can hide a lot of sins. And let’s just say, I have a few winter coats.
I have no workout clothes on me but I did pack a swimsuit. Who doesn’t bring a swimsuit to LA? I dig around and fish out the bikini top. I guess this triangle top will have to do for a sports bra, not like I need much support, sadly. I throw on an old T-shirt that I sleep in and pull on a pair of sweatpants. This is gonna have to do.
I hurry out of the room and nearly crash into Bex on the upstairs landing.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Bex looks at me in bemusement.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” I eye Bex up and down. She has on a purple tank top, with straps that crisscross over her shoulders into an intricate pattern on the back. The matching purple leggings have a stripe of lace inlay running down the side of each leg. “Does everyone in LA have haute couture sportswear?”
“Oh, come on. I got it at the outlets. Does everyone in London have—well, I’m not sure how to describe your sportswear. ‘I heart sports, birds, and beer’?”
I look down at my ensemble that’s bordering more on grumpy old man loungewear than gym bunny. “What? I didn’t bring any workout stuff. Isn’t yoga supposed to be non-judgmental and non-materialistic? Besides, this T-shirt is really comfortable. It’s an old thing Ethan wore for one of his friend’s bachelor parties ages ago.”
“Birdwatching and beer? That’s what British guys do for bachelor parties? Sounds crazy,” Bex says.
“No, birds as in girls. You know, slang for girls.”
“Hmm.” Bex squints at me. “Well, these birds are going to be late for class. And does Ethan even let you in bed with that thing on?”
I know where she’s going with that question, so I ignore it. And yes, I do sleep in it. Half the time Ethan comes and goes without even waking me up. He doesn’t know what I am (or not) wearing in bed. It’s an issue, to say the least.
We hustle into Bex’s car and in her haste to put her phone in the hands-free holder, the entire contraption falls off the dashboard.
“Shit, here hold this.” She hands me the phone as she backs out of the driveway. “I already typed in the address. It should be fine. Just tell me which way to go because the navigation voice thing isn’t working.”
We drive for a while through the heavy traffic of a late Monday morning, passing block after block of taco stands, nail salons, health food stores, and the occasional psychic storefront. All under the umbrella of that bright blue LA sky, fringed every now and then with towering palm trees.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” Bex says. “I thought it was somewhere off Olympic. Here, give me my phone, let me see.” She reaches out to grab the phone.
“Hold on, hold on!” I squeal, pulling the phone close to me like a hand of cards I don’t want anyone else to see. “Hands free, it’s the law! We don’t want to get pulled over. Um, okay, Olympic, where are we…” I try to switch back to the navigation map. I’ve been secretly looking through the dating apps on Bex’s phone. She may have changed her passwords, but all’s fair if she gives me her phone. “Yeah, left here and then take a right at the next light.”
“Okaaaay.” Bex turns up the radio and sings along to “You Can Go Your Own Way.” “Yoga cult, here we come.”
I quickly scroll back to Tinder and adjust Bex’s criteria, lowering the age range to twenty-five. Bex had it at forty to fifty! I practically shout it out loud. Bex is in her thirties—thirty-nine still counts as thirties!—so she should definitely see what’s on the market below forty. Why should it only be older guys who can date below their decade? Didn’t Demi Moore make this a trend? And Kylie Minogue? Okay, let’s go shopping, I think to myself as I look through the growing number of potential matches that are now coming through. I see a guy that kind of looks like Channing Tatum. Yes, that’ll do just fine. I swipe to indicate interest and almost instantaneously the phone chimes with a loud ding.
“What’s that?” Bex gives me a quizzical glance.
“Oh, I think the navigation alerts are working again. Keep going straight.” I quickly mute her phone.
Whoever Jason aka Mr. Channing Tatum Look-alike is, he’s definitely on his phone all the time. He’s a match with Bex! I send a message.
Hi! You look hot.
God, I think to myself, how is this supposed to work. This is like sending notes back and forth in junior high. Should I write “circle yes or no”?
Immediately a response comes through,
Hi there. Drinks on Wednesday? Come to the upstairs bar at Glamour & State. 9:30.
I message back. See you then and there!
Maybe my wingwoman skills are improving. So that’s Wednesday night sorted. Tuesday I have something in the works, and as for today, well, I think we can consider Monday morning yoga courtesy of Hot Biceps Alex a Yes even if it’s not a date.
“What?” Bex catches me looking at her.
“Nothing, just feeling happy on a beautiful LA day with my best friend.” I flick back to the navigation map. “I think we’re almost there. Just up two more blocks on the right.”
“Okay, I see it. LoftYoga. Now, where are we going to find parking? Wish my car could do yoga and bend into a spot on the sidewalk. I don’t see any street parking. Looks like it’s going to be valet. There’s only, like, five minutes until class starts.”
“Valet? At a yoga studio? What kind of place is this?”
As we would soon find out, it’s the kind of place with two-hundred-dollar yoga leggings and a menu of international bottled water. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a water sommelier on staff.
“Namaste and welcome to LoftYoga,” A slender, super toned and tanned young woman purrs to Bex and me as we enter the airy reception space, almost bowled over by a wall of incense-laden air that smells like the lobby of a medicinal marijuana dispensary.
“Hi,” Bex says with a fake smile.
“Wow, what’s that smell?” I say, trying to decide if I love it or hate it.
“It’s palo santo and sage. Isn’t it beautiful? Totally chakra cleansing and it clears out all the negative energy. Not that we have negative energy here. Guru Stan provides such a positive space. We sell it for twenty-five dollars per stick if you’d like to clear your domestic dwelling.” She displays an incense stick like it’s an Oscar statue.
Bex’s eyes bulge at the price and her fake smile gets even faker. “Um, that’s nice, but no thank you. Alex left me two guest passes for the yoga class at eleven o’clock.”
“Alex…such a pure soul.” The woman sighs. “What’s your name?”
“Summer,” Bex says.
“Her name’s Summer Moon Lotus,” I step in and say somewhat loudly. There’s no way I’m letting Bex out of this one. “And I’m her spiritual sister, Kitty Aura.” I stifle a laugh and try to keep my face as deadpan as possible.
“Okay, here you go, Summer Moon. What a beautiful name. Who gifted it to you? I’m waiting for Guru Stan to gift me with a name. Until then, I’m Jennifer.” She says it with such sadness that I almost feel sorry for her. “You and Kitty are booked in for Skip Stone’s eleven a.m. Hot Karma Movement and Meditation. Guru Stan will join to lead the meditation.”
“Hot?” Bex says.
“Yes, we have an infrared studio. It warms your body from the inside. You’re going to feel amazing. It’s not like other studios that just blow hot air, like you’re under a blow dryer. This reall
y gets into your body, your soul. You will feel like you’re glowing,” Jennifer enthuses in her airy voice.
“Glowing like an ember in hell,” I say under my breath to Bex.
“I didn’t know it was hot yoga. That seems a little intense for me.” Bex takes two steps back toward the door.
“Yes, we didn’t know it was oven yoga. Please tell Alex thank you from us.” I think to myself that we could be at a diner eating pancakes in less than fifteen minutes.
“Are you sure? Infrared heat improves skin tone and also promotes weight loss,” Jennifer says.
“Okay!” Bex and I quickly say at the same time, then laugh. Well, what have we got to lose—a few pounds and a few wrinkles? I guess it would be good to sweat out the wine from yesterday, and the G and Ts from Saturday.
“Here are your mats, a complimentary perspiration towel and my blessings for a good class. If you’d like another towel, it’s five dollars. A vegan lunch will be served after meditation. Guru Stan encourages all of his devotees to embrace the vegan path.”
Bex leans in to whisper to me as we make our way up to the studio. “A perspiration towel! Vegan lunch? Oh boy, this is gonna be fun.”
“Hey, at least you look hot before we get hot.” I playfully pull on the strap of her tank top. “Skip Stone? Sounds like a sexy construction worker on a soap opera.”
“Breathe in to the count of four, breathe out to the count of four. Expel anything in your life that you don’t want. Breathe in two…three…four. Out…two…three…four. Now longer. Six counts in, six counts out. You’re entering a new world of consciousness with each breath.”
In the midst of Skip’s breathing instructions, he motions to Bex and me as we pause tentatively in the doorway. The class is packed. If parking a car in LA is hard, then parking a yoga mat is even harder. Maybe we will be eating pancakes soon, after all, I think optimistically. He signals that we should come up to the front of the studio and put our mats down beside his. We both shake our heads and survey the studio, hoping that miraculously some space will have opened up, preferably at the back.
