On Grace

by Susie Orman Schnall

  I throw on black leggings and a T-shirt, pull on my Uggs, drain my coffee, and head to the 9:30 class. The room is buzzing and filling up as I grab a mat, two blocks, and one of those colorful yoga blankets and create my own little India in the back right corner of the studio. I choose the right side because in my vast experience with yoga, I’ve noticed the instructors always do the poses facing left first. So, if I’m all the way to the right, I will get a good view of the pose on the first side.

  “Hey, Grace!” I hear a friendly voice and turn to my left. I had been engrossed in folding the yoga blanket just so.

  “Hey, Callie!” I say. Callie Monroe is a petite brunette I have known for five years. She has a kind smile and espresso-colored eyes surrounded by thick, long eyelashes. The kind of eyes that looks better without makeup. Callie’s daughter Amelia and Henry were in the same pre-school class. She and I clicked the first time we met because we were the only two moms who thought a two-week separation program was overkill. But it was the school’s policy so we trudged it out, even though both of our kids separated easily by the third day. We lost touch over the years because the kids go to different elementary schools, but whenever we run into each other, it’s always warm.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

  “It’s my first time in a very long time doing yoga. So don’t laugh at me,” I say with a smile. I’m relieved that I’m next to someone I like. The thought of doing yoga next to someone like Lorna, who would undoubtedly wear fuchsia Lululemon, have a perfect pedicure, and be able to effortlessly reach the floor in the forward-bend pose (my Sanskrit is dusty) is too taxing.

  “I promise, I won’t. And Willow is an amazing instructor. She comes around a lot to make adjustments, and she’s great and patient with beginners.”

  On cue, Willow enters the room. She looks like a sixty-year-old woman who can pass for forty, but you can tell she’s really sixty. Her black hair is long and curly and streaked with grey, and her blue eyes are shiny. She strikes me as the kind of woman who is proud, not ashamed, of the lines on her face. Over the next hour, Willow leads us in a yoga routine, er, practice, that is tough but not impossible. She dispenses clear instructions and poignant nuggets of wisdom.

  “Sometimes when things seem really hard, just breathe, give in to the struggle, and open your heart to the possibility that the hard parts can be overcome,” Willow says in her soothing alto. She has a gift for making everything she says relate to both yoga poses and life. My life. I pay really close attention to her messages. I forget to breathe half the time, I feel nothing like a warrior despite all the poses done in a warrior’s honor, and I can’t “grow my tree,” but I listen. And Callie’s encouraging whispers throughout the class really make it the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had with yoga. I pledge to myself that I will do this every Friday.

  After class, as we’re rolling our mats and refolding our blankets, Callie asks if I would like to join her and her friends for coffee.

  “We go to Le Pain Quotidien in town. It’s a really nice group of women from this class. You should come. We can catch up.”

  “Sure, I’d love it,” I say, before I can decide if I really want to. But I’m glad I blurted that out. It will be nice to get back in touch with Callie. Plus, I love Le Pain Quotidien, or LPQ in local parlance. It’s an outpost of a trendy and healthy Belgian restaurant-slash-bakery. They have the most delicious chocolate hazelnut spread that I love to slather generously on their fresh baguettes, but I have a feeling that with this crowd I’ll not be having any of that.

  As the SUV parade leaves the Wainwright House parking lot, I realize I actually feel happy. It’s reassuring to know that despite the stress I’m feeling about Darren, I have the capacity to feel happy. Hmmm, maybe the yoga works after all! During the end-of-class savasana, when I was supposed to be thinking about nothing, I thought about some of the things Darren said last night.

  I appreciate how kind and honest he was. It doesn’t change the fact that he did a really shitty thing, but he has said and done all the right things since he told me. I’m incredibly angry at what he did, although I’m not angry at the way he’s handling it. But yogic chanting or not, I still have no idea if I can remain married to a man who has the capacity to do what he did. Or am I just making a bigger deal out of something that may have been nothing? Would a divorce be like killing an ant with a sledgehammer?

  I find Callie and her friends at the restaurant right away. They’re easy to spot by their hip after-yoga wear and glowing faces. Callie introduces me around and tells the group where I live, how old my kids are, and where they go to school—the standard mom CV. And by those three facts alone, these other women can surmise a hell of a lot about me. Or so they think.

  After we place our orders, Callie asks about the boys and Darren and then fills me in on her kids, her husband, and her latest endeavor, which is designing and installing residential organic gardens. She’s so excited about her fledgling business and proudly tells me about her first two clients. When she asks me if I’m thinking about going back to work (Callie and I spent hours when our kids were little talking about the whole stay-at-home vs. working-mom issue), I tell her about the column I had been hired to write for the Westchester Weekly and how I lost that job before it even started.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t think of you!” Callie exclaims, turning away from me toward the other women at the table.

  “Think of me for what?” I ask, startled by her outburst.

  “Nicole,” Callie says to the woman across the table and to her left. “Are you still looking for someone for that email job?”

  Of all the women in the group, Nicole seemed the most genuinely happy to welcome a newbie to their coffee klatch. I remember seeing her in class and noticing her long, auburn hair and strong arms; she was in the front row and did the poses effortlessly and elegantly. I actually watched and copied what she did because Willow would often just call out the pose and walk around the class helping pathetic beginners like me. Now, Callie was getting up from her seat, saying something I couldn’t hear to Nicole, and insisting that Nicole sit next to me.

  “So, you’re a writer?” Nicole asks me, exchanging steaming mugs of tea across the table with Callie.

  “Well, I was one in my past life, but, yes, I guess, technically I am a writer.” Way to be confident, Grace, I think. “What was Callie talking about?”

  “I own an Internet company called Well in Westchester. It’s an advertising-supported online magazine filled with health and wellness content, social networking, an events calendar, listings, etc. Our new venture is creating a weekly email blast of short-form health and wellness content, and I’m looking for a freelancer to spearhead the project.” Nicole wraps her hands around her steaming mug and smiles at me. Nice people make me so happy.

  “Wow, that sounds really interesting!” I say excitedly, taking a sip of my mint tea that’s made with fresh mint leaves instead of a tea bag.

  “I told these ladies about the job last Friday, hoping one of them might know someone. I’ve placed ads, but it’s always nicer to hire someone through a personal recommendation. And I don’t know if you just heard what Callie told me about you, but it was quite a recommendation!”

  Nicole and I spend the next half hour discussing the job and my experience. She says the emails will be about things such as a new yoga studio in the county, holistic suggestions for the changing of seasons, farmer’s market recipes, etc. The job really appeals to me as it brings me back to my roots in health and fitness media, it’s part time but enough time, and it might even motivate me to get in better shape and take better care of myself.

  “Why don’t we do this,” Nicole says. “Here’s my card. Over the weekend email me your resume and some clips of your past work, and we’ll take it from there. I have a couple other people I’m talking to, but I’m planning on making a decision by the end of next week.”

  Nicole hands me her card, shakes my hand,
and gets up to leave, saying she’s got to get to the office. She had told me that she always blocks out Friday mornings for yoga and a quick tea with this group before she heads to work. Sure sounds like the type of boss I’d like to have! I finish my tea and get up to leave, too.

  “Bye, Grace,” Callie says, coming over to give me a big hug. “How did that go with Nicole?” While Nicole and I were talking, I had seen Callie glancing at us like a protective father spying on his daughter’s first date, not wanting to be caught staring too intently but ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble.

  “Great! Thank you so much for making that connection. It could be a perfect opportunity for me. Hopefully, I’ll see you next Friday at yoga. It was so good to catch up!” I say, giving her another hug and realizing I’d missed our friendship.

  When I get home, I spend an hour on WellInWestchester.com. I’m impressed with the quality of the articles, the edgy graphic design, and the amount of activity in their social networking areas. In About Us, I learn that Nicole Winters had a long career as editor-in-chief of Yoga Journal, but decided to create her own business so she could spend more time with her family. I write Nicole an email and attach my resume and clips. I say a little prayer and click send.

  I really hope this job works out. It seems to be exactly what I’m looking for. I just hope that Nicole isn’t discouraged that my most recent writing experience has been about school sustainability efforts for the Midland Elementary School Parent Teacher News. I imagine the other people she is interviewing are young and eager, and haven’t been out of the job market for the last eight-plus years. As I’m wallowing in self-doubt, my email inbox chimes.

  Grace, thanks for your email. It was nice talking with you this morning. Can you come to our office on Monday at ten o’clock to talk a bit more? I’m having all the applicants prepare a 300-word sample piece in line with the topics we discussed at LPQ. You can bring that with you on Monday. I look forward to seeing you again. Please confirm the time. Have a great weekend, Nicole Winters.

  Okay, I think. That settles that. She is considering me. I let out a little yelp and write her back to let her know that Monday at ten is indeed a good time. I get into the shower and let the hot water soothe my aching muscles as I think about a topic for my article.

  After I blow-dry my hair, I go down to the kitchen to prepare a quick lunch. The kitchen is the one room we redid when we moved in. Our home is a 1930s white clapboard Colonial with black shutters—the kind of house I always imagined New Englanders lived in when I was growing up among the split-levels and ranches in L.A. Darren and I fell in love with the house’s mature plantings, original dark-stained hardwood floors, plaster walls, and charming sunroom. Luckily, the previous owners had expanded the master bathroom and updated all the plumbing, heating, and electrical so the house was pretty much in move-in condition, save for a fresh paint job. But I hated the kitchen. Its dark (peeling) cabinets, ugly (peeling) grey vinyl floors, and avocado appliances (all of them) had decidedly not been updated by the previous owners. Considering how tastefully decorated the rest of the house was, I could only assume they weren’t the cooking types.

  When we bought the house, Darren and I agreed that because we were stretching our budget, we’d live with the kitchen for a couple of years and redo it eventually. So you can imagine how excited I was when I opened up Darren’s birthday present to me a few months later and found it was the business card of a kitchen consultant from Christopher Peacock, the high-end kitchen design company in Greenwich. Christopher Peacock is the Gucci of kitchens. I would have settled for the Gap. “Go nuts and have fun,” his card read. And that I did.

  I spent the next several months going absolutely nuts and having giddy fun as I selected white flat panel cabinets and drawers with chrome bin pulls, a white subway tile backsplash, hardwood floors to match the rest of the house, countertops of Calacatta Gold marble (which is white with grey and beige veins), and top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances. I almost slept in that temple of beauty the first night after the installation was complete. Instead, I slept with my husband. The kind of sleep punctuated by moans, not snores. Lots of moans. Practically one for every gorgeous chrome bin pull.

  The phone rings as I make myself a pb&j and banana.

  “Hi, Gracie,” my mom says. I can tell she’s on her cell, and I picture her driving down Santa Monica Boulevard in her gold convertible Beamer.

  My mom and I talk a couple times a week, and I always look forward to catching up with her. She asks me about the boys and the first week of school. She is an amazing grandmother, and the boys adore her. They have a weekly Skype “date” on Sunday afternoons during which the boys do an art exhibit, showing her all the projects they made in camp, now school, that week. It’s very sweet and I’m thrilled that they have a good relationship. Much better than they have with my dad or Darren’s parents.

  “So, get this. I lost my job at the Westchester Weekly, but I have an interview Monday for a new job,” I tell my mom and proceed to fill her in on all that drama.

  “That’s great, Gracie. I just wish you’d give yourself a little break, though. You’re finally getting time for yourself. Why don’t you just relax a little? Take some cooking classes. Join a theater club and get into the city more often.”

  “I can’t do nothing, I need to do something,” I say.

  “Those things aren’t nothing. They’re rewarding and fun.”

  “But they wouldn’t be fulfilling for me. I need to accomplish something. I need to work at something productive.”

  “Okay, well, it was just a suggestion. But you were always so hard on yourself, so I guess I understand. The website job sounds great, Gracie. Right up your alley. You’ll be fabulous.” My mom really likes the word fabulous. As does my sister Eva. They probably use the word fabulous more often than a Beverly Hills wedding planner.

  “I really hope it works out. I might not get it though. She’s interviewing other candidates who probably have more recent experience than I do and are more on the pulse of this wellness stuff.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, darling. And don’t assume that anyone has anything over you. You are fabulous, and you deserve that job. So stay confident and put it out into the universe that you want it, and it will be yours.” I’m assuming the reason she’s driving down Santa Monica Boulevard is because she’s on her way to her guru’s office. My mom employs practitioners in all of the “healing arts,” as she likes to call them.

  At this point, I debate whether to tell my mom about Darren. She is a BFOD—Big Fan of Darren—and she’ll be devastated, but she always gives me great advice, and I know she’ll pull through this time, as well. I’m just not sure if I want to get into it with her.

  “How’s Darren?” she asks, and I decide to go for it.

  “Mom, I have to tell you something,” I say, and I know it sounds ominous. I walk to the couch in our sunroom and sit down.

  Dead silence.

  “What, Gracie. What is it?” she asks, and I hear her voice quaver.

  “Darren cheated on me.” I start to cry—talking to my mom about emotional things has always reduced me to a puddle—and tell her the whole story. She doesn’t interrupt me once.

  “Oh, Gracie. I’m so sorry.” She asks me all sorts of questions: When did it happen? When did he tell you? Was it the first time? And then she surprises me. “I know it’s going to be hard to trust him for a while, but you two will work through it. What you have is too important to give up over one silly night.”

  “Seriously, Mom?” I ask in a sarcastic voice. “You think I should just forgive him and act like nothing ever happened? I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “Of course you can forgive him, Gracie. I’m not saying that you should pretend it didn’t happen. Go see someone together. Work it out. You can’t do that to Henry and James.”

  “I can’t do that?” I start sounding a bit hysterical. “Wouldn’t it be Darren doing that? So now, he did what he
did, and if I decide that I would have a problem being married to a man who goes around sleeping with cocktail waitresses, it would be my fault for screwing up Henry’s and James’s lives? Is that what you’re saying?” I am feeling incredulous at this point.

  “No, Gracie. Take a deep breath, darling. That’s not what I’m saying. And it was only one cocktail waitress, right? I’m just saying that I don’t want you to think there’s anything wrong with taking him back. You don’t need to feel ashamed about that. I’m sure loads of your friends out there have been in similar situations and you don’t even know about it. Just take some time; let him win you back. And then let him back in, Gracie.”

  I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at it, shocked. This is Nina Roseman talking. Strong single mother. Feminist bra burner. Marcher extraordinaire. “I’m a little surprised that you’re so gung ho about me just taking him back, Mom. I’m not saying that I’m rushing out to get a divorce or anything, but I can’t say I’ve entirely ruled it out.”

  “I’ve seen these things happen for years to friends, Gracie. Men have different needs. These things always end up worse when the marriage ends. I have friends who have been in your situation, and when the marriage was good to start with and it was just an indiscretion, the marriage can recover. And the same can happen for you. Just consider it, darling. I wouldn’t want to see the two of you unhappy.”

  Happy. There’s that word again. Why all this pressure in our society to be happy all the time? “I just want you girls to be happy,” my mom would constantly tell my sisters and me growing up. What does that even mean? Who is happy all the time? I guess my mom is, what with her convertible, tanned silver-haired lovers, private Pilates sessions, and “fabulous” life. I realize I’m starting to sound bitter. But I’m just blown away by my mom’s staunch support of taking Darren back.