by Tracy Weber
“Thank you, Kate. You’re doing the right thing.”
I hoped, for everyone’s sake, that he wasn’t mistaken.
I had my car towed to a body shop, then spent the next sixty minutes entering new students into the database. As promised, Rene arrived with Sam’s car over an hour before Prenatal Yoga. She parked the red Camaro in my now-glass-free parking spot.
“Are you sure Sam is okay with me driving his car?”
“I didn’t ask him.”
If Rene didn’t ask, it was for only one reason: she knew the answer would be a resounding no.
“Rene … ”
“What? You think I want dog hair caked all over the back seat of my Prius? Besides, Sam installed an ultra-high-tech security system in this baby. I’m pretty sure that if anyone even looks at it cross-eyed, they’ll be teleported straight to a jail cell. If the car prowler comes back here looking for trouble, he won’t be able to touch it. Besides, I hate driving this car. I’m getting so big now that I can barely fit behind the steering wheel. The girls don’t like to be squished.”
A leering, middle-aged man turned away from his own car, looked solidly at Rene’s breasts, and smirked.
Rene pointed at her stomach. “These girls, not the ones you’re looking at, mister.” She pointed to his ample beer belly. “And you wouldn’t fit behind this steering wheel any better than I do.” She turned her back to him and shook her head. “Men. They’re all the same. I’ve got a belly the size of a small towing barge, and they still go all gaga over a couple of glorified baby bottles.”
She tossed me the car keys. “The Camaro is all yours until your car is fixed. Or until Sam finds out that I loaned it to you, whichever comes first.” She looked at the drooling fur-beast tugging at the end of my leash. “What do you want to do with Bella?”
It was a good question. I wasn’t comfortable keeping Bella alone in the garage again, at least not until I talked to Tiffany. Who knew what Eduardo might try next? On the other hand, I couldn’t leave her at my house without risking the lives of the construction workers. And with Bella’s separation anxiety issues, she might panic if left alone at Rene’s.
I called her vet, who came up with a compromise: give Bella a half-dose of the prescription happy-dog pills she took on the Fourth of July and lock her in a small room. There was no appropriate room at the studio, but Rene’s soon-to-be nursery would work nicely. I hated to drug Bella, but I didn’t have a good alternative. At least on medication, she wouldn’t panic and hurt herself.
An hour later, after our quick trip to Rene’s house, my friend and thirteen other pregnant women stretched out their bodies in Prenatal Yoga. The class was arranged in a wagon-wheel-like circle, with my meditation rug at the hub and the students’ mats pointed diagonally out from the center.
Teaching yoga to expectant moms presented a variety of unusual challenges. The first of which was keeping them in the room. Pregnant women didn’t usually have good bladder control, so from my position in the center of the circle, I often felt less like a yoga teacher and more like the center of a revolving door that led to the bathroom.
Then there was the room temperature. No Hot Yoga here. Even when I set the thermostat so low that my toenails turned blue, my expecting moms still complained that the room was oppressively warm. I’d resorted to wearing slipper socks twelve months a year.
But by far the biggest challenge was choosing and adapting the poses. Pregnant women weren’t supposed to lie on their bellies after the first trimester; resting on their backs could be equally problematic; their feet and legs ached if they stood for too long. And after the second trimester, many of the women hated going to and from the floor, so once they got down, good luck getting them back up again. I had to creatively choose poses that honored those restrictions, mitigated pregnancy’s negative effects on each expectant mom, and honored the needs of the baby growing within her. In spite of its challenges, I loved teaching the class. I wasn’t ready for children myself, but I enjoyed helping future moms find peace and physical comfort.
The next pose on the docket for today’s practice was Anantasana, a side-lying leg stretch also called Vishnu’s Couch Pose.
“Okay ladies, lie on your left side and rest your head on your arm. Bend your right knee and loop your index finger around your right big toe.”
A new student gave me an odd look, which didn’t surprise me. I’d received this reaction before, though it wasn’t warranted. The pose—even though it sounded challenging—was surprisingly accessible to most students, whether they were expecting or not. If I could get them to try it, that was.
I flashed what I hoped was an encouraging smile. “When you inhale, straighten your right leg and press your heel up to the sky.”
The new student released her big toe, pushed herself to sitting, and grumbled, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Rene, never one to miss a moment in the spotlight, yelled from the opposite side of the circle, “It’s easy, watch!” She quickly grabbed her big toe and thrust her heel to the sky, forgetting that she needed to move slowly in order to remain balanced. Her body wobbled; her top leg teetered.
“Kate, help!”
I arrived too late.
Rene rolled onto her back and remained there, waving her hands and legs in the air like a stranded turtle. “I’m capsized!”
“Maybe we should try something else,” I suggested. “Everybody, press yourself up to hands and knees, rest in Child’s Pose for a few breaths, and then come to your feet.”
Lots of groaning and a couple of assists later, all fourteen women were standing.
We did several poses designed to strengthen each mom-to-be’s body for labor and delivery. Half Squats, Half Forward Bends, Goddess Pose, and a Warrior Pose variation that strengthened the upper back. Fifteen minutes later, I ended the class in a modified Savasana.
I asked the students to rest on their sides and helped them position several yoga props that would help them relax more comfortably. I gave each woman a neck pillow and two bolsters—one to place between her knees; the other to hug between her arms—and slid a folded blanket underneath several of the larger bellies. Finally, I fluffed up a blue cotton thunderbird blanket and draped it over each resting woman.
The setup took longer than the rest period itself, but it was worth it. All of the women, even the newcomer, left looking paradoxically relaxed and rejuvenated. I ushered the final student out of the door, looked at my watch, and turned to Rene, who had just returned from her fourth trip to the restroom.
“Bella’s drugs should keep her calm for at least three more hours. Do you have time for a cup of coffee? I need a sounding board.”
We wandered across the street to Mocha Mia, where Rene ordered a decaf triple grande extra chocolate mocha, two peanut butter cookies—one for each twin—and a large piece of cinnamon crumble apple pie a la mode. I ordered a tall, fully caffeinated coffee and stirred in two packets of Splenda. Calories had to be conserved somewhere, right? I tried not to take the I’m not short, I’m concentrated awesome coffee mug that the barista gave me personally.
We grabbed an open booth by the window. I pointed at the smorgasbord Rene had assembled on her side of the table. “Rene, I know the doctor wants you to gain weight, but I don’t think this is what he had in mind. You’re going to eat yourself right into gestational diabetes. Do you ever actually get any nutrition?”
“You’re wrong. First, I had an awesome doctor’s appointment today. My blood sugar is completely normal, and I’ve gained two pounds in the last week.”
Two? I would have gained five pounds looking at all those desserts.
Second, this is a completely balanced meal,” Renee continued. She pointed to each item individually. “The mocha and the ice cream cover the dairy group. The pie has fruit in the filling and complex carbohydrates in the crust. The cookies have peanut butter, w
hich is an awesome source of protein. This might be the most nutritious meal I’ve eaten all week.” She dug her fork deeply into the pie, shoveled half of the slice into her mouth, and started chewing. “Now, stop criticizing my third lunch and tell me what’s going on.”
I ignored the ice cream smearing Rene’s chin and filled her in on my Internet research. I started by telling her about the El Paso fires and my theory about the connection they might have to Raven’s death.
“So now you think Dharma is a pyromaniac?”
“I did at first, but I’m not so sure anymore. After I read the article about the El Paso fires, I spent the rest of the night reading about arsonists. The profiles I found online are biased because most arsonists never get caught. But when they do, ninety percent of them are male.”
Rene frowned. “So? That means that out of a thousand arsonists, one hundred of them are women. And maybe female arsonists are better at hiding their crimes. It certainly doesn’t leave Dharma out.”
“There are other characteristics that don’t fit.”
“Like what?”
“Unless they’re setting fire for money—like an insurance scam—arsonists also tend to be socially isolated and of below-normal IQ. Fire is their way of lashing out in anger. Many of them have OCD.”
Rene grinned. “You know, that would explain a lot. I always wondered why you had so many neuroses. Now I know. You inherited them from Dharma.”
I reached across the table and slugged her in the shoulder. “Knock it off, Funny Girl.”
She ignored me and broke her first cookie in half. I kept talking.
“I haven’t spent enough time with Dharma to know if she’s neurotic, but she seems intelligent to me. I can’t imagine Dad marrying someone with significantly lower than average IQ.”
“It still doesn’t count her out. Sam always says that stereotypes exist in order to prove themselves wrong. You haven’t ruled out Eduardo, for that matter. Didn’t you say he was in that Texas photo, too?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t anywhere near the dumpsters when the fire started. I saw him with the rest of the protesters, on-leash, no less.”
“He still might be responsible. I’m sure there are lots of ways to start fires remotely.” Rene narrowed her eyebrows. “Why don’t you tell all of this to the police? They’ll know whether or not it’s worth following up on.”
“I can’t. Not without implicating Dharma.” I absently stirred my coffee. “Besides, now I have a whole new problem.”
I pulled out Dharma’s formerly unopened letter and slid it across the table. Rene unfolded the page, scanned it quickly from top to bottom, then began at the top again and read it more slowly.
Time seemed to crawl as I watched her face, attempting to gauge her reactions while controlling my own. I tried focusing on the bittersweet smell of Mocha Mia’s molten chocolate lava cake, but I was wound up so tightly that not even dark chocolate could make me feel Zen. By the time Rene finished reading, the pressure inside me had risen so high, I felt like a blowfish about to explode.
Rene wore a blank expression. She carefully refolded the paper, placed it in the envelope, and handed it back to me. The silence between us felt deafening.
“Well?”
She looked down at the table and chewed on her lower lip. When she made eye contact again, she seemed to carefully consider her words.
“How much of this did you already know?”
“None of it.”
Rene raised her eyebrows.
“I mean, I had to have known, but I either blocked it out or I forgot. I still don’t remember.”
“No wonder your father was so overprotective. Do you think this is why he became a cop?”
“I don’t know. But the thought occurred to me last night, too. Whenever I asked him about joining the police force, his stock answer was that he was born to ‘protect and serve.’ Now I suspect there was more to it than that.”
Rene opened her mouth, then closed it again. She picked up her mocha and took a long, slow sip. After what felt like a century, she set the mug on the table and squared her shoulders. “Kate, you’re not going to like what I’m about to say. I know we’ve argued about it before, but do you honestly think seeing a counselor would be such a bad thing?”
“Rene, I don’t need—”
She held up her hand. “Hear me out. That letter proves that you’ve suffered a past trauma, and anyone with half a brain can see that something’s been going on with you lately. Over the past six months, I’ve watched my best friend wither away to a skeleton wearing someone else’s clothes.”
If the words had come from anyone else, I would have been offended, but Rene and I had always been unflinchingly honest with each other.
“Frankly,” she said, “given what’s inside that letter, I’m not surprised that you have relationship issues.”
“Hey, I’m better now. Michael and I have been together almost a year. That’s over six times my prior record.” I flashed my most mischievous grin, hoping she’d take the hint and change the subject.
She didn’t.
“In some ways, yes, you are doing better, but you still have issues, and something new is going on with you. Something that started on Orcas.” Rene stared me straight in the eyes, clearly telling me that she would tolerate no deception. “Today of all days, Kate, be straight. Don’t lie to me.”
Instead of answering her, I picked up my mug. “I’m going to get a refill. You want anything?”
“This is exactly what I mean,” Rene chastised. “Something is going on with you, and you won’t talk to me. Fine. That’s your choice. But then please go talk to someone else.”
Fiery pinpricks of defensiveness tingled my skin. I wanted to snap at Rene. I wanted to tell her to mind her own business. I wanted to stomp out of Mocha Mia in a huff and avoid the whole conversation. But I couldn’t. Rene was right, whether I wanted to admit it or not.
I stood up, walked to the refill carafe, and drowned my reaction in hot, bitter coffee. When I returned to the table, Rene was wearing the same don’t-mess-with-me-anymore expression she had when I left.
“Okay,” I said. “You’re right. I have been struggling. But I’m not ready to tell you about it.”
“Fine. Then you’ll call a counselor?”
I sighed. “I’ll think about it.”
Rene wrinkled her forehead. “I said, don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not. I’ll think about it. I promise.”
The answer seemed to mollify her, at least momentarily.
“What did Michael have to say about all of this?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
Rene shook her head, looking disappointed. “You’re not being fair to him, Kate. He deserves to know.”
I held up my hand. “Hold up there on the judgments, Girl Chick. I’m not hiding any of this from him. I’m giving him a few days to focus on his own family’s problems. As soon as his father’s health stabilizes, I’ll tell Michael everything. Right now he’s suffering enough.”
“Are you going to ask Dharma about the letter when you see her tomorrow?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t decided. Reading it has left me with tons of questions, but frankly I might not want to know the answers. Some wounds are best left scarred over.”
Rene finished the last bite of pastry and drained the dregs of her mocha. “Well, whatever you decide, you shouldn’t have to deal with all of this alone.”
I grinned. “I’m not. I’ve got you.”
“Damned straight you do.” She stacked her now-empty plates, crumpled her napkin, and tossed it on top. When she looked up, her expression invited no argument. “Meet your new roommate. I’m staying at your place until Michael gets back. You’d better have cleaned since the last time I visited you two.”
I involuntarily flinched. I
loved Rene, but when she had that stubborn look in her eyes, the only logical defense was to retreat. I couldn’t do that with her snoring on the bed next to me.
“Thanks Rene, but you would be miserable. My place is covered in construction dust and dog hair.”
“Nice try, Kemosabe. I’ve got enough Benadryl on hand to dry me out through October, which is exactly how long I’m prepared to bunk at your place. You’ll get rid of me when you start seeing a counselor or Michael comes back. Not one day sooner. Fair warning, I get dibs on the bathroom. When the girls tell me I’ve gotta go, I’ve gotta go.”
She stood up and looped her bag over her shoulder. “Now drive me home so we can pick up Bella. I need to grab some clothes and pack a couple of snack bags. We’re going on an adventure.”
I narrowed my eyes. “An adventure?” Whatever she had in mind, I had a feeling I wouldn’t like it.
“Kate, my friend, we girls are going on a stakeout.”
Eighteen
Rene reached into the paper bag at her feet and pulled out a party-sized bag of nacho cheese tortilla chips and a container of cheap onion dip. She cracked open the plastic tub, filling the car’s interior with the smell of powdered fake cheese and onion-contaminated mayonnaise. Bella pressed her nose between the Camaro’s bucket seats, obviously hoping she’d soon share Rene’s onion breath.
“Not on your life,” I said to the drooling wildebeest. “You have enough trouble digesting real food.” To Rene, I said, “Really? Less than two hours after gorging yourself at Mocha Mia?”
Rene dragged a burnt orange chip through the pale, oily-looking goo, popped it in her mouth, and chastised me between crunches. “Everyone knows you’re supposed to bring food with you on a stakeout. Just wait. You’ll be begging me for some of these chips when you’re starving at midnight. “
I looked at my watch. Six o’clock. I had a twenty-dollar bill in my purse that said she’d never make it to six-thirty. Rene had the attention span of a terrier in a squirrel sanctuary. She’d be lucky to last fifteen minutes, which was the only reason I’d gone along with her harebrained idea in the first place.
