She’s lying on her mat now, propped up with a bolster under her hips and a block under her forehead, both of which Lee put into place. Basically, she’s not doing anything. She didn’t even have to do much to get into this position since Lee manipulated her arms and legs. And yet, she’s having such a hard time remaining still, she’s afraid she’s going to burst into tears.
“Whatever comes up for you in these poses,” Lee says, “try to let it go. Maybe anxiety? Maybe sadness? Anger? They’re just thoughts. Let them go. They only control you and have power if you let them. They’re parasites—they can’t live on their own.”
In the time she’s been coming to the studio, Graciela has started to wonder if Lee is a mind reader. In many ways, she’s better at judging Graciela’s moods and feelings than the tarot card reader she goes to.
“Remember The Wizard of Oz? ‘Your magic has no power here. Be off with you!’ Negative thoughts? Fear? Self-loathing? They have no power here. Be off with you!”
What’s coming up for Graciela is Daryl, and more specifically, what really happened when she screwed up her Achilles tendon. The way he pushed her, the way she’s pretty sure it wasn’t really an accident, the weird way his face got contorted right before it happened and she found herself on the floor. Or is she just imagining the whole thing? Did she just trip? Was he just trying to help her, like he claimed? She felt that pop in her ankle and the combination of pain and awareness of what it meant for her whole career just took over and everything went a little fuzzy.
Lee comes over and lays her hands on the small of Graciela’s back. Just her touch—warm and reassuring—is enough to make Graciela let go of the tension she’s been holding in her shoulders. Her weight drops down onto the bolster. Okay, she thinks, she’s going to let the floor do its work and her body melt. It’s so bizarre to be in a room with people doing physical activity (the rest of the class, anyway) and not have any competition or showing off, not even having the option of showing off or strutting your stuff that it’s almost confusing. Yoga’s about union, Lee once said. Union of mind and body. But not your mind and someone else’s body. That was a revelation. And now, really, this is all that’s expected of her? Sink? Drop? Let go?
But thinking about that, feeling a kind of crazy gratitude, all while Lee is pressing into her back, tears start to come. And before she knows it, she’s all-out weeping. Actual sobs. There’s no way Lee can miss this, but somehow, Graciela has enough trust in her to just let it go.
“Were you in pain?” Lee asks after the class.
“No,” Graciela says. “I mean, I haven’t been in pain—much pain—for the past week almost. I got a little emotional.”
Lee is looking at her with a smile, her head tilted, almost as if she’s asking her for more information. Unless maybe she really can read Graciela’s mind and is sympathizing with her. Lee has some crazy combination of wholesome beauty—the clear skin, the bright eyes, the fine bone structure—and an undercurrent of quiet fire that makes it hard to take your eyes off her. She looks like she came from Connecticut, as Stephanie told her she did. Not that Graciela knows anything about Connecticut. She’s spent her entire life here in L.A.
“That happens,” Lee says. “It’s not a bad thing. Just let it all out.” She touches Graciela’s hair and winks. “It’ll help heal your ankle.”
Graciela is tempted to say something about Daryl, but she feels funny already about accepting Lee’s generosity. She isn’t going to exploit her kindness any more by laying that on her.
Lee looks at her watch and does a little double take. “Shit,” she says. “I have to run. I’m due at the kids’ school in half an hour and I don’t want to be late.”
“Let me give you a lift,” Graciela says. “Please.”
“Are you going in that direction?”
“Whether I am or not,” Graciela says, “I wish you’d let me.”
Before coming to yoga, Graciela hadn’t spent any time in Silver Lake, quite possibly hadn’t even been to this neighborhood. She and Daryl share a loft downtown, in a great old building that gives them more space than most of her friends. She’s been there for five years and let Daryl move in when one of his roommates got married. It was supposed to be for a couple of months, but it has pretty much worked out. As much as she likes the grit and old-L.A. glamour of downtown, she has to admit it’s nowhere near as relaxed and welcoming as this neighborhood.
Graciela’s still driving the beat-up VW Golf one of her girlfriends sold her for two hundred dollars right before she moved back east. Graciela doesn’t even know what year it is. She looks inside as she’s unlocking the door.
“Sorry about the mess,” she says to Lee. “My boyfriend’s a deejay, and he tends to leave a lot of stuff in here between gigs.” She tosses a box of CDs into the backseat. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to offer Lee a ride.
“I have twins,” Lee says. “You call this a mess?”
“Yeah, but kids are supposed to be messy. It smells like he was eating popcorn in here, too. Sorry.”
“You are so hard on yourself, honey. Will you stop?”
Graciela wants to apologize for that, too, but manages to keep it in check.
“How long have you two been together?” Lee asks.
Graciela fills her in on the details as they drive down around the reservoir, the sun glinting off the silvery surface of the water, the air hazy and warm. As she’s talking about Daryl—mother with drug problems; made a career for himself with raw talent, charm, and drive—she feels a swell of pride and love for him and, at the same time, has the uneasy sense that she’s leaving out the most important details.
When they get to the school, Lee asks her if she’d like to meet her kids.
“I’d love to,” Graciela says, “but I’m supposed to go visit my mother. Since I was forbidden to rehearse for a while, I’ve been trying to help her out. She’s going through a rough period. My stepfather died last year, and she’s still trying to make sense of things.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Lee says. “And Graciela, honestly, I’m proud of what you’re doing. This is going to work out fine. Believe me. And I love your car! Popcorn and all.”
As Graciela is driving off, she calls Stephanie, but once again, her phone is shut off. She’s been trying to get in touch with her for two days. Usually she’s the type who’s glued to her phone. It’s also starting to worry her that she hasn’t shown up at the studio in almost two weeks.
So what do you do in these yoga classes?” Conor asks. “Is it like aerobics or Tae Bo or something?”
“I think you’re just going to have to come to class and find out,” Katherine says. She looks across the table at the restaurant and smiles at him, then bites her lower lip. She either hates or loves the fact that she feels so flirty with this guy, in a silly way, almost like she’s back in high school. It’s got something to do with his combination of burly, towering machismo and shyness.
When he came by the studio to meet her for coffee, he stuck out his hand to shake hers and said, “You’ve got a great bicycle there,” and she said, “I was hoping you were going to compliment my thighs,” and he actually blushed, his pale skin flushing almost as red as his hair. Katherine found it so adorable, so sweet, especially on a guy who’s easily six foot four, she’s been on her best behavior ever since.
“Don’t tell me none of your girlfriends back in Boston did yoga,” she says.
“How many do you think I had?”
“I’ll bet you’ve broken a few hearts in your time, Mr. Ross.”
“Maybe I had my heart broken.”
He gazes off over her shoulder as he says this, and Katherine has the feeling this is exactly what happened to him. He looks so wistful, she says more quietly, “Is that why you moved out to L.A.?”
“Let’s go with: I got tired of the snow,” he says. “I have a buddy who moved out here a few years ago, and I decided to visit for a few weeks.” He shrugs. “One thing led to anoth
er.”
“How do you like it so far?”
“Depends on the day,” he says.
“Today, for example?”
“Oh, man,” he says and gazes at her with those huge blue eyes. “I’m really loving today.”
If Katherine had heard this from most of the men she knows, she’d cringe. But coming from Conor, it sounds so sincere, she feels herself go a little limp. There’s that funny Boston accent (Maybe I had my haaht broken) that makes everything sound sincere, like a haahtfelt declaration, and the innocent look in his blue eyes that makes Katherine think he’s probably one of those upstanding guys who’s incapable of telling a lie. She can tell he thinks she’s out of his league. After dating a bunch of actors and athletes who strutted around as if they were doing her a favor by going out with her—and guys like Phil, another category of ridiculous altogether—it’s kind of nice to be with someone who’s actually looking at her. Fortunately, there’s only so much he can see. She can’t be sure how he’d react to her past, so if this has any chances of going anywhere, she’d better keep a few little things quiet. (Like that little five-year period of mistakes and bad choices.)
“You always wanted to be a fireman?” she says.
“I liked the trucks,” he says. “I was in the National Guard for a few years and got some training.”
“Were you in Iraq?”
“I love being interrogated,” he says, “but you haven’t told me anything about yourself. I don’t even know where you’re from.”
Most guys wouldn’t think to ask, but now that he has asked, Katherine feels cautious and shy.
“Let me take you back to the studio,” she says. “I’ll show you where I work. If you’re a nice guy, I’ll give you a back rub.”
“A nice guy,” he says, “would give you one.” He reaches across the table and takes her hand in his. He has a big calloused hand that completely envelops hers. “Let’s go,” he says. “We’ll compare technique.”
Lee arranged to meet the folks from YogaHappens at her house instead of at the studio. She doesn’t want to risk more rumors, especially since she has not made up her mind about this or is even close. It isn’t entirely clear what’s being offered to her. Alan’s been in and out of the house to pick up and drop off the kids and to try to maintain a semblance of normalcy for their sakes, but the two of them haven’t been in the house alone together since his disappearing act. The excursion to Garth’s opening was the most time they’ve spent together, and look how that turned out. She’s feeling edgy.
She dropped the twins off at the studio, where Barrett is keeping her eyes on them. Barrett frequently proclaims that she “loves children” but her clothes, hairstyle, and voice suggest it’s more that she loves pretending to be a child. Still, she’s reliable and the kids love scrambling around the studio and playing with the Iyengar props, and Barrett promised she’d take them to the playground so they could burn off more energy.
Lee finds herself tidying up the living room, stashing toys and games into drawers and on the bottom shelves of the bookcases on either side of the fireplace. The fireplace that made Lee and Alan feel like they had to buy this adorable little bungalow, even though it meant asking Lee’s mother for a loan to get together a down payment. She’s tidying for the YogaHappens people, of course. Not for Alan.
She tosses a couple of identical backpacks into the closet, and when she turns around, Alan is standing there, surveying the room.
“Looks pretty tidy around here,” he says.
“You scared me. Couldn’t you have knocked?”
“Sorry, Lee, but it’s still my house, too, you know.”
“Right. Except it’s also your choice not to be living in it now. So I’d really like it if you’d use the bell next time.”
He sighs and drops onto the sofa, his arms spread out across the back. He has on a navy T-shirt and the calf-length yoga pants she gave him for his birthday because she knew he’d look hot in them. Her bad. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail and unfortunately, he looks great. As usual. One of her med school friends from a million years ago, the most brilliant, crazy, and gorgeous girl Lee had ever met—Russian—had become engaged to a fat man whose looks were—to be generous—unremarkable. “Marry homely,” Irina had said in her thick accent. “They make you look more pretty when you stand next to them, and they are always grateful to have you.”
Maybe she wasn’t so crazy after all.
“I don’t know why you’re being so hostile, Lee. I told you, I just need a little space. It’s not about you.”
“Yeah, but since you won’t tell me what it is about, I can’t help but feel a little . . . implicated? I mean, we’re only married, Alan. How can it not be about me?” This is what she didn’t want to do—blow up. It’s what she’s very carefully been avoiding doing since he walked in. Oh, well. If you get your feet wet, might as well dive in all the way. “And what does that even mean, ‘needing space’? It’s something my mother would have said in her braburning days.”
“Okay, listen,” he says. “All of a sudden, our lives, my life to be more specific, looks nothing like I expected. I just woke up and realized that we’re living out of the loop up here, nice as it is. You’re running a yoga studio, and it’s taking up all my time. ‘Can you build another closet?’ ‘Can you redesign the website?’ ‘The toilet needs to be snaked out.’ I’m not singing, I’m not devoting any serious time to music at all. I’m the fucking handyman, Lee. I realized I was on a runaway train, and I had to get off just to catch my breath.”
Lee looks at him more closely. Is that all there is to it? She can live with that if it’s a temporary pause. Catching his breath. She’s come to realize that yoga is her calling, the way to blend her healing instincts into something physical and emotional, even she sometimes feels overwhelmed. Still, she notices he isn’t looking her in the eyes.
The thing about self-absorbed men like Alan is they think they can get away with anything, so they don’t make much of an effort at being good liars. On the other hand, they’re good at compartmentalizing their feelings, so they partly believe what they say and can occasionally be pretty convincing.
“People love you at the studio. You know that. The workshops are taking off, and every class where you play music is full. So runaway train or not, it isn’t like you’re shoveling coal into the engine all day.”
“In other words, you’re paying the bills, and I ought to be grateful? ”
“I didn’t say that.” And yet, it is true. Alan sold a couple of songs to a series on the WB a few years back, there was that one movie sale, and he still gets residuals. But it’s not like it’s enough to cover the electric bills.
“Do you mind if I ask when you’re thinking about coming back?”
“Let’s take it a day at a time, okay?”
“Like I have a real choice.”
He gives her one of his smiles. “You look so good in that tank top. What time are these people showing up?”
“Cut it out,” she says. But she loves the smile, and it makes her ache to be lying in bed with him right now, and she wishes she didn’t hear the footsteps on their front porch.
The YogaHappens people always seem to travel in pairs. Like nuns and Mormon missionaries and the nice ladies who come by the studio (of all places!) trying to hand out The Watchtower.
The two men who were in her class are at the door, both shiny clean and fit—one tall and all sinew, with every vein showing on his smooth arms, the other a buff little fireplug of a guy, probably a wrestler as a kid, Lee thinks. The sinewy one couldn’t be forty, but has a salt-and-pepper crew cut that draws attention to how handsome and unlined his face is.
“Oh, wow,” the sinewy one says as they take their seats in front of the fireplace. “This little place is just great. I wish I could live up here. Silver Lake is the perfect neighborhood, you know? ”
This is what people who wouldn’t dream of leaving West Hollywood are always saying.
&nbs
p; “It’s a great community,” Lee says.
“You guys want some juice?” Alan asks.
Sinew and Fireplug hold up their hands simultaneously, as if they’ve rehearsed their act.
“So, Alan,” Fireplug says, “I assume your wife has told you what we’ve been discussing.”
“Maybe we should go over it anyway, Chuck,” Sinew says.
It’s fascinating watching them talk, completing each other’s sentences, each knowing exactly when to break in on the other. And they make these rehearsed yoga jokes that aren’t really jokes and draw on the most obvious clichés, but which they seem to find consistently amusing.
Sinew: We all know what’s been going on in the country for the last few years in terms of yoga, right?
Fireplug: Up, up, up, dog.
Sinew: Yeah, exactly, Chuck. Good one.
Fireplug: And the thing is, the demand is getting so big, the smaller studios . . .
Sinew: . . . which have always been the core (patting taut abs) of the industry . . .
Industry? Lee thinks. Really?
Fireplug: . . . can’t handle the volume.
Sinew: Not to mention the expectations, especially in a place like L.A.
Fireplug: People want more than a class. What they want now is ...
Sinew: . . . a complete experience.
He says this last word in a fake reverential whisper, as if he’s just revealed the secret of life, and that makes Lee wish she’d never let them in the front door. They’re probably reasonable guys, and they’re just doing their jobs, but there’s something about their smarmy and rehearsed presentation that reminds Lee of a Mary Kay demonstration a friend invited her to years ago. They go on for a few more minutes, making a case for themselves and the beauty of what amounts to one more corporate takeover. There are multiple references to Zhannette (they spell it!) and Frank, apparently the owners. She reminds herself that being a purist isn’t going to help get the twins into a decent school, and it isn’t going to make Alan feel any more appreciated or less overloaded.
Tales from the Yoga Studio Page 7
