by Tracy Weber
“I don’t think he’s a fan of yoga, either.”
“He’s not, which is another reason Greg’s visit today was such terrible timing. Sam and I snuck your yoga classes in under the radar. If Chuck convinces Greg to bring it up at the board meeting, they might force me to cut it.” He frowned. “Maybe I can sell your classes as vocational training. Can you train the participants to become yoga instructors?”
I wasn’t sure teaching homeless kids a profession that guaranteed a lifetime of poverty was the best idea, but I didn’t say that. “Learning to teach yoga is more complex than you think. It takes a minimum of two hundred hours of training.”
“Seriously? I had no idea it was that complex.”
I grinned. “It’s more complicated than stretching, that’s for sure.”
I spent the next thirty minutes filling out new employee paperwork and listening to a heartbreaking list of dos and don’ts for interacting with teens at the facility.
“Your goal is to develop a healthy relationship with your students,” Gabriel said.
“No trouble there. That’s always my goal.”
“It may be tougher than you think.”
“Why’s that?”
“These kids are like feral cats. They don’t know who to trust. Believe me, they’ll challenge you. You need to have thick skin and prepare for the unexpected. Grab a staff member if any physical conflicts erupt.”
“Are you telling me I should expect fistfights in my yoga classes?” I grinned to let him know I was joking.
He didn’t grin back. “It’s entirely possible. Conflicts that start on the street sometimes end in this building. I’ll attend your first few classes, just in case something happens that you’re not trained to handle.”
The don’ts were even more sobering.
“Many of our clients have been sex trafficked. Others have been forced to trade sex for food or shelter. You need to make them feel safe. That means no touching and no standing behind them. Avoid poses that mimic sexual positions. Otherwise you might trigger a flashback.”
My heart broke at the very idea. Practicing yoga should feel, above all else, safe.
Gabriel continued. “Remember, these kids didn’t end up here on purpose. They’ve made bad choices, but we all have. The rest is bad timing, bad luck, or bad circumstances.”
For a few seconds, my mind wandered. When I was seventeen, I had a couple of beers at a party and fell asleep driving home. The car drifted right, and I woke up in a ditch. Nothing—other than Dad’s Explorer and my social life for the six weeks I was grounded—had been damaged.
If the car had drifted left?
How many of these kids had simply ended up on the wrong side of that metaphor?
Gabriel’s voice startled me out of my thoughts. “Any questions?”
“I’m sure I’ll have hundreds, but for now, I think I’ve got it.”
He reached out his hand, and we shook. “Awesome. I’ll see you next Wednesday.”
six
I arrived home to Bella’s patented feed-me-now dance. “Sorry, sweetie. Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes.”
Bella knew our meal preparation routine as well as I did, but that didn’t stop her from trying. She suffered from Exocrine Pancreatic Insufficiency, an autoimmune disease that left her unable to digest food without special medication, but you’d never know it to look at her. Her teeth were bright white, her coat shone, and her ribs were covered with a healthy layer of fat. She barely resembled the emaciated animal I’d taken in three years ago.
I spent the next thirty minutes grinding, medicating, and incubating Bella’s kibble, feeding Mouse a tin of organic salmon cat food, and nibbling a vegan protein bar. Lunchtime duties complete, I sat down to work.
I had less than three weeks until Some Like It Hot Yoga’s grand opening, and I needed to decide how Serenity Yoga would respond to the new competition. I could never match their ten-classes-for-ten-dollars deal—at least not while paying my employees anything close to minimum wage—but perhaps I could offer a small discount to our current students.
I frowned. A small discount wouldn’t be enough. If Some Like It Hot Yoga stole—I mean, recruited—our current students, I’d have to tweak our offerings. Hot Yoga had many benefits, but it wasn’t appropriate for everyone. I could add to our therapeutic offerings and build our prenatal program. How about yoga for menopause? I didn’t know from experience, but surely hot flashes and 105-degree exercise were mutually exclusive.
Before I knew it, it was almost five o’clock and time for me to head to the studio. My first class didn’t start until six, but I wanted to fit in a short personal practice first. I gave Bella an extra-large ostrich tendon, rubbed catnip on Mouse’s scratching post, and drove to the studio. I’d barely rolled out my mat when the front door’s lock clicked open.
The smell of full-bodied caffeine wafted into the studio. Tiffany’s voice called out. “It’s me, Kate. I saw you drive in and thought you might like coffee.”
If you’d asked me two years ago, I’d have assured you that Michael’s assistant, Tiffany, would never give me anything but a migraine. When the twentyish blonde bombshell started working at Pete’s Pets, she and I were rivals for Michael’s affection. Forced time together, a couple of ill-conceived adventures, and a number of stern lectures from Michael had convinced us to give up our feud. Now I considered Tiffany a friend. She even worked part time for me at Serenity Yoga.
Still, dropping by unannounced, bearing my favorite guilty pleasure? The girl was sweetening me up for something.
I abandoned my mat and joined her in the lobby. Tiffany sported another new yoga outfit. Today’s ensemble consisted of strappy black sandals, pink capri leggings smothered in smiling French Bulldogs, and an uncharacteristically loose black T-shirt. The words Crazy Cat Lady covered her breasts. To my knowledge, Tiffany had never owned a cat. Then again, why should that be surprising? She didn’t practice yoga, either.
“New pet store outfit?” I asked.
Tiffany glanced down, as if she couldn’t remember what she was wearing. “Um, yes. It’s not my style, but it beats wearing one of those ugly Pete’s Pets T-shirts.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing an earring in the shape of a Boston terrier.
“Cute earrings,” I said.
She nibbled at her lower lip, uncharacteristically quiet.
“What’s up?”
“I brought you a triple soy macchiato. Enough caffeine to keep you buzzing till a week from Saturday.” Her hand trembled as she handed me the cup. “I … um … I need to talk to you about something.”
I peered at her over the cup while I sucked up foamy, full-bodied stimulants. I’d been mistaken. Tiffany wasn’t here for a favor. The girl’s entire body radiated pure, unadulterated guilt. What trouble had she gotten into this time? She’d matured considerably since she’d started dating Chad, her yoga-teacher boyfriend, and I’d firmly believed that her Kate-annoying, car-vandalizing, Michael-tempting days were over. Evidently I’d been wrong.
“It’s about Chad,” she continued. “I mean, about me and Chad. I mean … Oh, shoot. Michael told me he should talk to you, but I wanted to do it myself. Now I’m messing it all up.”
If Michael wanted to be Tiffany’s and my go-between, whatever she was about to confess had to be awful. The skin on the back of my neck prickled with worry-laced annoyance. “It’s okay, Tiffany. Tell me. Whatever you did, we’ll figure out how to deal with the fallout later.”
Tiffany looked confused. “What I did? Fallout?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, no. I didn’t do anything. Not on purpose, anyway. I mean, of course I did something, but …
“Out with it already!”
Tiffany closed her eyes, then swallowed. Five full seconds ticked by before she opened them again. “I’m pregnant.”
That simple, two-word s
entence dropped an anvil onto my heart. I wanted to hug my friend and assure her that I was delighted at her good news. I wanted to tear the child out of her womb and implant it in my own. I wanted to drown myself in the studio’s table fountain. Instead, I kept my facial expression neutral and tried not to burst into tears.
Tiffany stared at her burgundy-lacquered toenails. “It was an accident.”
An accident. The most unfair phrase in the English language.
“Chad and I wanted to have kids someday, just not yet. The timing is terrible, but we’ll make it work.”
“I’m happy for you.” I hugged her, but the embrace felt wooden.
When I pulled away, Tiffany’s eyes were wet. “Kate, I know we’ve been stupidly competitive with each other in the past, but this time I truly didn’t mean to upstage you. I know you probably can’t have kids, and—”
I stumbled several steps back. “You know? How?”
Tiffany’s cheeks turned as red as her toenails, but she didn’t reply.
My words came out in a hiss. “Michael told you, didn’t he?” Michael had sworn to me that he wouldn’t tell anyone about my infertility. He’d sworn. Sure, I’d told Rene, but Rene was family. Tiffany was … Tiffany.
I’ll bet he would have kept his trap shut if his superhuman sperm were the issue.
“Please don’t be mad at him, Kate,” Tiffany begged. “He’s been so gloomy lately, and I was worried. I practically dragged it out of him.”
My fingernails dug into my palms, but I pasted on a fake smile. “I’m delighted for you and Chad, really.” Deep down inside, it was the truth. As desolate as I felt for myself, I was truly excited for her. And frustrated. And angry. And desperately jealous.
Tiffany didn’t look convinced, but she pressed forward. “I need to talk to you about something else.”
What? Did she win the lottery, too?
“Michael said he’ll give me three months of maternity leave, but he’ll need to hire temporary help, so he can only afford to pay my salary for six weeks.” She paused as if carefully considering her words. “Babies aren’t cheap.”
Tell me about it. Be glad you don’t need to finance fertility treatments.
She continued. “Chad says he’ll never make enough money teaching yoga to support a family. I knew he’d started applying for full-time jobs, but I didn’t know where until this morning. I swear, Kate, if he’d told me, I never would have let him.”
The slow-moving cogs in my brain finally clicked into position. Chad wasn’t simply a yoga teacher, he taught hot yoga. As in Some Like It Hot Yoga. I had a feeling I knew where Tiffany was headed, but I asked anyway. “You never would have let him do what?”
She took a deep breath and held it, as if bracing herself for an explosion. “Chad’s going to be the studio manager of the new Some Like It Hot Yoga.” She held up her hands. “He didn’t put those flyers on the cars in the parking lot. That happened before he was hired. But Kate, his boss expects him to aggressively recruit new students. Half of his salary is based on the number of memberships he gets in the first six months.”
Logical Kate knew that Tiffany wasn’t to blame for my new business competition. Chad wasn’t, either. If Some Like It Hot Yoga hadn’t hired Chad, it would have been somebody else. Illogical Kate still felt betrayed.
“Kate, I’m sorry. Do you want me to tell him to quit?”
My plastic smile widened until my teeth hurt. “Of course not. Full-time jobs are hard to find in the yoga industry. I’m glad for him.”
Tiffany’s body relaxed, but her face still looked tentative. “Maybe it will be a good thing. Serenity Yoga doesn’t offer Hot Yoga, so you and Chad will be going after completely different students. Maybe it’s like restaurants. More on the same block increases business for everyone.”
“Maybe.” My fake smile remained firmly in place, but my gut wasn’t fooled. Serenity Yoga was in trouble.
I taught my six o’clock All Levels and my seven-thirty Yoga for Relaxation classes on yoga teacher autopilot, cycling emotionally between worry, depression, and frustration. Part of me wanted to hurry home to confront Michael. The other part wanted to hide in the supply room and pretend my conversation with Tiffany had never happened. At ten-fifteen, I ran out of excuses and was forced to go home, where I was greeted by a spotless kitchen and the aroma of freshly baked vegan brownies, sure signs that Michael knew he was in trouble.
He waited in the living room, perched awkwardly on the edge of the sofa while pretending to read Seattle Dog magazine. His gorgeous blue-green eyes watched me warily. He grabbed a newly opened bottle of Chardonnay, poured an extra-large glass, and handed it to me. “Anything interesting happen at the studio today?”
“If you mean did Tiffany tell me she was pregnant, yes. If you mean did I find out that my husband was a tattletale-ing traitor, yes to that too.”
“Kate, we need to talk about—”
I thunked the glass on the end table and held up both hands. “Oh, you bet we do, mister, but not now. I’m ovulating. Time for some hot, scheduled, angry sex.” I stomped halfway up the staircase, then turned and growled over my shoulder, “It had better be good.”
Michael looked longingly at the wine bottle, then followed meekly behind.
Twenty frustrating, no-baby-making minutes later, we skulked back downstairs. Michael avoided eye contact and sat stiffly on the couch. Bella jumped up next to him and rested her chin on his lap.
I flopped on the overstuffed chair across from them both, smiled at my calico fur child, and patted my thigh. “Here kitty, kitty.”
Mouse flattened her ears and hissed. Figured.
“Sorry, Kate,” Michael said. “I don’t know what happened. I’ve never had … performance issues before.”
I picked up the still-full wine glass, downed the oaky gold tranquilizer in three long gulps, and refilled it. Good Wife Kate would have assured Michael that Mister Mopey was no problem. And of course, it wasn’t. Until our fertility issues surfaced, Michael and I had enjoyed a fabulous sex life.
Good Wife Kate wasn’t in the room, however. Shriveled Shrew Kate was. I couldn’t assure Michael that tonight’s botched lovemaking was okay, because it didn’t feel okay. Mister Mopey was one more piece of evidence that I was no longer desirable. No longer a real woman.
I took another large swallow of wine. “Why in the hell did you have to talk about my fertility issues with Tiffany? Don’t you know how stupid that makes me feel?”
Michael nudged Bella off his lap and stood. “They’re not your fertility issues, Kate, they’re ours. You can’t seem to understand that. Frankly, you don’t seem to understand much of anything anymore. I told Tiffany I should be the one to tell you about her pregnancy. I knew you wouldn’t take it well.”
“I’m not upset that Tiffany got pregnant. I’m upset that you blabbed to her that I can’t. Michael, that information is personal. How would you like it if I ran around telling everyone that you’re impotent?”
Michael shrank like a slug doused in table salt. “Tonight was one time, Kate.” He shook an index finger in front of his face. “One. Performing on demand with someone who’s pissed at you isn’t easy, you know. And Tiffany isn’t everyone.” He made finger quotes around the last word. “She’s my friend.”
I felt like a jerk, which was appropriate, since I’d just acted like one. I abandoned the chair, grasped Michael’s arm, and guided him next to me on the couch. “I’m sorry, Michael. That was uncalled for. But don’t you see? That’s how I feel all the time. I feel impotent. Like I’m not a real woman.”
“Kate, honey, that’s ridiculous. You’re gorgeous, sexy, intelligent, funny, and … ” His voice trailed off.
“And?”
“And sometimes unreasonable. Lately, you’re self-centered. We’ve always fought, but it used to feel fair. Now everything has to revolve around y
ou and your insecurities.”
My eyes burned, but I remained silent. Michael continued. “I know this is hard for you, but honey, it’s hard for me, too. You’re not the only one in this relationship who wants a child. I never should have promised to keep our fertility issues a secret. I need to talk about it. Tiffany may act immature sometimes, but she’s surprisingly easy to talk to. She’s the closest thing to a confidant that I have.”
I hated to admit it, but he was right. “Michael, I’m sorry. I can be a jerk sometimes.”
He didn’t disagree. Then again, I didn’t want him to. We were finally being honest with each other.
Fifteen more minutes of conversation, another glass of wine, and a much more successful baby-making attempt later, Michael and I went to bed. I stared at the ceiling until his soft snoring lulled me to sleep.
seven
The next week passed in a paradoxically sluggish flurry of activity. I taught yoga classes, filled out loan applications, and had more sessions of mechanical, scheduled sex with Michael. The doctor had said that our chances of conceiving naturally were slim to none, but a girl can pray for a miracle, right?
On Wednesday afternoon, I said goodbye to Bella and Mouse, grabbed my purse and a boom box I’d borrowed from the studio, and headed back to Teen Path HOME, feeling simultaneously excited and nervous. I’d pored over research on yoga for posttraumatic stress disorder and carefully designed a class that would engage teenage minds. I knew yoga could help these kids. The question was, could I get them to practice?
I spent almost a half hour looking for an affordable parking spot, then jogged to the center’s entrance, arriving a scant fifteen minutes before my class was scheduled to begin. The sidewalk in front of the building was empty. No teens gathered outside the front door or chatted in groups around it. Was that a good sign or a bad one?
A brightly colored sign was taped to the front door. Yoga class today at 1:30. Join us! A clip-art woman in Downward Facing Dog decorated the bottom half of the sign. A naked, hand-drawn man joined her from behind in a pose straight from The Kama Sutra.
