Red Dress

by Bridget Finklaire

  “Soon, I hope,” gabbled the strangled voice, “at this rate, I won’t fit into the dress!” The appointment was booked. Katy looked down at her thighs and hips. Thank goodness she didn’t have to fit into a wedding dress any time soon.

  Having caught up her admin, she decided to spend the evening researching Akashic Records. She hadn’t been sure, exactly, of what they were, and had been meaning to find out since the Spiritual Response Therapy course. It turned out they were a kind of energetic, coded library of information, holding records of events in another dimension called the astral plane, which itself was an esoteric term for another realm of existence. It seemed that researching one thing always led to another. This arcane stuff was slippery. Late into the evening she was still poring over websites and rifling through the dictionary and the large encyclopedia that otherwise gathered dust in the sitting room. She’d been reading about the Theosophical Society, which still existed. Theosophy was apparently based on the belief that one could use spiritual techniques to ‘experience’ God. Perhaps Helena Blavatsky, its co-founder, had coined the phrase ‘Akashic records’ but Katy stumbled upon references to Rudolph Steiner and Alice Bailey using the same expression. They all seemed to have one thing in common: a belief in another mystical, spiritual world that informed the real world. Interesting though the research was, she couldn’t see the significance of it, until she read a quote by Edgar Cayce, pronounced Casey, according to the website, which said that an Akashic record was a dimension of consciousness that contained a vibrational record of every soul and its journey.

  Every soul? She read on, skeptical at first. An etheric, subtle, of the ether, record, held on another plane of existence, Astral Plane, of everything done, said, believed and experienced by a soul. She wondered how many souls had ever existed. The records related to the future as well as the past, were connected and were interactive. She tried to imagine a computer spread sheet with entries of every thought, word, action, deed and feeling there ever was and ever would be. If you changed one thought in the system, then you’d change the system itself, by putting an etheric spanner in the works. The records weren’t just held in a static repository, out there on the lip of space. Collectively, they were a dynamic force which had some kind of influence over your daily life! That can’t be right, she thought. If I do something to you in a past life, good or bad, it could affect, in this life, you, your family and friends, me and my family, and others on the periphery, like a ripple effect going out through time. The one event would tie together several people and by extension, several records. Maybe that’s what karma the law of cause and effect was about, she thought. Something I did or caused in a past life could affect me in this life. Perhaps that explained why innocent people got caught in the crossfire or died horrible deaths when they’d lived decent lives. The Spiritual Response Therapy had been clearing these records, she realized, the full magnitude beginning to sink in. Imagine the knock-on effect, she thought, it would be like Back to the Future, except worse. Change one thing in time and you have a domino effect on your hands.

  * * *

  Nobody in London wants to see a therapist on a Friday afternoon, so Katy packed up her bags and headed home before the commuter rush. With any luck, she’d have a couple of hours before the kids got back. Changing out of her dusky-pink, wool jacket and muted blue check trousers, she threw on a pink sweatshirt and faded blue jeans. In the kitchen, she picked up the Alan Watts CD. Might as well listen to the rest of it, she thought, slipping it into the player.

  I have realized that the past and future are real illusions, that they exist in the present, which is what there is and all there is.

  Katy began unloading the dishwasher and reloading it and by 3.30 pm, she was mopping the last spillage from the granite work surface and polishing the glass behind the stove. Her mind was on her clients, the children, what they’d have for supper. She caught sight of herself reflected in the polished glass. I’m done with the past, she said to herself, it’s over. She tipped the dirty water away and got the broom out to sweep the floor. I need to count my blessings, she thought, getting out the dustpan and brush, look at what I’ve got right now! She emptied the dustpan, put away the broom and looked around the gleaming kitchen. She had this fabulous house, her children, her work. She needed to start focusing on that. Maybe she should write a gratitude diary; she was always telling clients to start one! Let’s see, she said to herself, stopping for a moment to count three blessings, I’ve got my health, my figure, and Richard, who provides for us – he’s not that bad. I need to heal the rift between us.

  What we have to discover is that there is no safety, that seeking is painful, and that when we imagine that we have found it, we don’t like it.

  Tidying up the snug, Katy wondered if she should get back to Tony, let him know she didn’t think it was a good idea to meet up? She was waiting for the Voice. There was nothing in it, she knew that. She’d married Richard for better or worse and the vows had meant something to her, even though Rich had looked away when she’d said them.

  The sun had disappeared now, and there was a chill in the air. Tying back the curtains and straightening a picture on the wall, recollections came trickling back, of ex-boyfriends and former times. There was one old flame who’d cheated on her for over a year without her knowing. Her face screwed up as the pain of betrayal shot through her. Collapsing on the cushions she’d just plumped, she galvanized herself. She’d process it with eye movements. Looking from side to side, first at the window then at the archway, her eyes darting, her head resolutely still, she worked through her emotions and thoughts. Thank God I’m not with that scumbag, she said to herself, blowing her nose and wiping away the tears. Why on earth so much was coming up from the past, she had no idea. Perhaps it was the Aura-Soma? Anyhow, the kids would be home soon, and she’d better start thinking about supper.

  ‘Clean Kitchen.’ She loved ticking things off her endless lists. If she hadn’t been so damned organized, she’d have drowned in the overwhelm. She had to keep going because nobody else was going to pick up the pieces if the spinning plates dropped.

  It’s better to have a short life that is full of what you like doing, than a long life spent in a miserable way.

  Katy turned the CD off. She’d had enough of Alan Watts and went upstairs to research English holidays. Terry had asked her to take a break and it wouldn’t be long till Easter. A quaint little cottage in the country would be just the thing. Get away from it all, fresh air, long walks in nature, pub lunches and cozy evenings reading by an open fire. While she was at it, she might as well look at hotels and flights for that spiritual conference in May. Shanti had already booked the tickets and they could travel together. The website had an offer on flights to the Yucatan peninsula, she noticed. In fact, there was a hotel and flight deal. She fancied a holiday with some culture as well as sun, sea, and sand. She’d chat to Richard about it later.

  The wind chimes rang out, calling her back downstairs. Tilly’s face was thunder, her jaw set. She’d evidently had a bad day at school. Flinging her bag at the newel post, she missed by a narrow margin, spewing books and pens across the hall floor.

  “I finished with Joe!”

  “Oh!”

  “He’s so immature! I’ve had enough!”

  Stamping into the kitchen, she slammed the door while Katy picked up the scattered pens and exercise books along with a box of tampons. Clattering sounds were coming from the kitchen. “You alright?” called Katy. “Fancy a cup of tea?”

  “No.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  Katy left her to it. It was the second time she’d split up with Joe. He was a lovely young man but probably no match for Tilly, who had bigger ideas. Freddie would be home after rugby practice, and hopefully, she’d have calmed down by then, and they could get into the kitchen. At the top of the stairs, Katy halted at the mirror, closed her eyes and breathing slowly and deeply, dropped into a meditative s
tate. Maybe the Voice would show up if she was still, but nothing was forthcoming. Shutting the door to her office, her thoughts turned to Tilly, who’d be seventeen soon, almost an adult. When she, Tilly, had gone to University, she’d probably miss her. She thought of Joe and then the tampons. Tilly had been seeing him for weeks before she’d asked to go on the pill. It must have happened within a loving relationship, she thought, comparing it to her own disastrous experience – a fumble in the dark at a party and a quick but painful 30 seconds of manic pumping. It had been an invasive, empty experience that was over before it had begun. She couldn’t even remember who it was, until later when it dawned on her.

  Her mother, Ursula, had been useless, impractical and ill-prepared. She couldn’t stop giggling about sex, and how Katy was now ‘a woman’. She could still hear the girlish laugh. Ursula hadn’t even bought her a pack of sanitary pads, and when she did, they were those big, old-fashioned things that her mother had cackled at. “We used to call them bunnies,” she’d said, winking, “because they looked like white rabbits hanging in a butcher’s shop.” Katy’s stomach lurched, her face wincing and flushing hot, just as it had all those years ago. She’d had to find out about periods and sex by herself, using condoms and a wing and a prayer until she was old enough to go to the doctor alone. It may have been the liberated 70s, young women burning their bras and overtly eager to lose their virginity, but sex and contraception had been the teenage Katy’s secret. It hadn’t been like that for Tilly, thank goodness. Katy had been prepared as soon as she noticed the signs of pre-pubescence in her blossoming young daughter.

  A tear trickled down her cheek and she brushed it away with her hand. Not another memory to process? Using a visualization technique, Katy went back in time to the teenage self, took her by the hand and led her away, giving her permission to have a mother who was sensitive, mature and supportive. She healed the child inside and showed her what she’d grown into, told her how proud she was of her, how much she was loved now. Having completed the process, she dabbed her eyes, straightened her hair, and opened the laptop.

  Tony’s email caught her eye. She’d strike a neutral and professional tone, ask about his wife’s business trip, give him some advice about child psychologists and fill him in on her week. Only at the end, did she address the idea of meeting up. Her fingers hesitated for a while as she held her breath. There must be a reason for this ongoing friendship, perhaps it was to do with her work? He’d alluded to the fact he was having a few problems with Amber, but she didn’t specialize in child therapy! Maybe she should meet him just once to find out what it was all about. Beneath her T-shirt, she could feel her heart beating. What if he was boring and they had nothing to talk about? Why waste her time on him when she was so busy? And besides, if they did click...

  PS. It would be great to meet up sometime. Let me know when you’re in town. I’m pretty busy, but I could probably find time for a quick cuppa.

  If he asked, she could say she had no time, and it wouldn’t be a lie.

  Freddie came rattling through the door, knocking the windchimes into a frenzy, carrying his dirty kit bag and an old satchel crammed with tatty books. “Mum?” he yelled up, “I’m starving. When’s tea?”

  Katy came bounding down the stairs just as Tilly opened the kitchen door. “Flapjack?” she said, shoving a plate full of them at her brother, who took three and wolfed them down. The kitchen was a bombsite of pots, pans, wooden spoons, baking trays and dirty knives. Katy bit her lip and clenched her fists, pushing the nails into her palms.

  “Tilly,” she said sweetly, the blood pulsing through her temples, “Thanks for making flapjacks.”

  “S’okay.”

  “Do you think you could help tidy up?” said Katy, nodding towards the mess and faking a smile.

  “I’ll do it later, I’ve got homework,” said Tilly, leaving the kitchen and skipping up the stairs.

  “What are we having for dinner,” said Freddie, rummaging through the fridge. “Anything to snaffle?” He opened some orange juice. “Had to practice in the rain. There was nothing to eat afterwards,” he moaned, swigging straight from the carton as he continued to survey the contents of the fridge. “Oh God, Mum, not vegetarian!” He’d spotted supper on the bottom shelf.

  “I’m trying to cut down on meat, it’s not good for you.”

  “But you love meat,” he said. “You’re such a fraud.”

  “And it’s expensive!”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit, it’s since you started that spiritual stuff, isn’t it?”

  “But Freddie—”

  “It’s ridiculous! I’m not having those Linda McCartney’s, they’re nothing like sausages.”

  “I don’t know what else we’ve got.”

  “I’m a growing boy, you need to feed me properly!” he said, his voice rising in panic.

  Growing boy? Thought Katy, he was already six-foot tall and filling out. She ran her hands over her flat stomach and small frame, wondering how she’d ever produced her son, who was on the 96th percentile even at birth, all coiled over like a swiss-roll. It must have been Richard’s genes.

  “A boy could starve round here, you know,” said Freddie, a cheeky smile lighting up his face and turning it all boyish and innocent.

  “I’ll cook onions, mash and gravy, they’ll be fine,” said Katy, taking the bogus sausages from the fridge.

  Clearing away Tilly’s debris as well as the dirty supper plates, she wondered how many meals she’d cooked and how many more she’d produce before she died. If she added up the average time spent preparing food, what percentage of her life would that be? If she didn’t keep going, she’d be sucked under. And how come Tilly always managed to muck up the house the minute it was tidy? Katy hadn’t been like that. She’d helped her mum, didn’t dare leave dirty dishes, let alone take over the kitchen. Why wasn’t Tilly like that? She knew the answer: Tilly didn’t have an unreasonable and demanding mother. Katy sighed deeply as she wiped the table. Freddie was right, he couldn’t survive on vegetarian food. She should have made him something separate, but she was already working so flipping hard, and it had been a hell of a week, without her feeling like a bad mother.

  After supper, at the top of the house, Katy stood in front of the mirror. “Please!” she said softly, hesitating on the landing before heading into the office. Kneeling on the meditation stool, she closed her eyes. Breath. Hara. She waited for the Voice. “Did I do the right thing?” she whispered, sitting in the silence. Within a few minutes of focusing on the breath, the thoughts ebbed away and were replaced with a warm, blissful stillness that radiated from her core. The top of her head was tingling. The peace that passeth all understanding.

  At the end of thirty minutes, she rose, checked the mirror once more for the Voice, and realized she hated the pink and sky-blue ensemble she’d been wearing.

  I’ll buy myself a new pair of shoes tomorrow, she thought, cheer myself up. I know I’ve got about twenty pairs, but I fancy some navy-blue ones with white edging.

  The final Aura-Soma bottle was dark blue and clear. Clear must mean white, she thought, walking downstairs to the bedroom. Peeling off the pink T-shirt and pale jeans, she folded herself into a white waffle gown before dumping the clothes into the bin.

  She’d already jumped into bed and was pulling the duvet over her when the wind chime clattered downstairs. Moments later, Richard tip-toed into the bedroom, swaying slightly and smelling of alcohol and Chanel No.5. “Had to get the proposal finished tonight,” he offered. “Last minute changes,” he said, unsteadily hopping as he took his shoes off. “Didn’t want to work over the weekend.”

  Katy frowned as he trampled his trousers to the ground and stepped out of them.

  “Quick celebratory drink with Helen and the team.”

  At 3am, a painful throbbing on the right side of Katy’s head woke her. It felt as if a stake had been hammered into the inner corner of her right eye and her stomach was lurching and nauseous. She reac
hed for the migraine tablets on her bedside cabinet and lay in the dark waiting for the searing pain to ebb away.

  “You’ve been overdoing it, Beloved,” said the Voice. “Running around after other people with never a thought for yourself.”

  “I have been thinking of myself,” said Katy in what was left of her mind’s eye, “I did a lot of healing this week, and I booked two holidays.”

  “Still doing, not being.”

  “I meditate, don’t I?”

  “If you want to see changes in your life you have to start altering your mindset, how you think, what you believe, the habits you run.”

  “I’m trying! I’ve been visualizing a happy marriage and a quieter life, but it’s hard, and anyway, where were you when I needed you?”

  The Voice was silent for a moment. “In truth, I’m always with you.”

  “Then why the hell didn’t you answer me?”

  “Hell has nothing to do with it. I tell you, I’m there when you truly need me.”

  “But I needed your advice.”

  “About Tony?”

  “Yes! Why didn’t you help me?”

  “You’re a grown woman, Katy. Autonomous, sovereign, and you have free will. Only you can decide what’s right for you.”

  “But I don’t know what’s right!”

  “Deep down, you do. It’s time to discern for yourself.”

  “How?”

  “Follow your intuitive knowing, rather than what you think and feel.”

  “What?”

  “The first thought, the deep knowing, the small voice within, is usually right. People over-analyze what they think they should or shouldn’t do, and what they feel, and often, that leads away from the truth.”

  “But...”

  “Your thoughts and feelings are a product of your past experience. You show your clients that, don’t you? Show them it’s based on childhood conditioning?”