Soulmates

by Jessica Grose

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “I know that arguing with you isn’t going to work, so I’m saying okay because I don’t want to fight with you. But I want to go on record saying that I think this is a bad idea. I thought you were finally getting over Ethan, and now you’re going to plunge back into all that old news. Are you sure you’re doing this for closure, or is it because you don’t want to think of yourself as someone who could have loved a killer?”

  “Tell me how you really feel, Beth,” I said, stung.

  “I won’t say it again. But I wanted to put it out there. Have a safe trip; call me if you need me.”

  “I will,” I replied, and I even half meant it.

  The Zuni Retreat was a little more than three hours’ drive from the Albuquerque airport. Everything in the landscape looked bright and white and new. The desert sky was clear in a way it rarely is in New York or Minnesota, and the sandy hills reflected the sun so it was constantly blinding me. I kept adjusting and readjusting my visor in the rental car to keep the glare out, but it was mostly futile.

  I was in a daze anyway. I kept turning Beth’s words over while I drove, to the point where I imagined the proper, female British voice that came out of my GPS telling me, “This is a bad idea.” But I snuffed down my doubts. I wasn’t coming out here to obsess about Ethan. I was coming here to do my duty as a citizen and to help with an open murder case. There was nothing wrong with my wanting to make sure the Sagebrush County Sheriff’s Office got a clear picture of the man Ethan was. There was something noble about it.

  At least that’s what I was telling myself as I saw the sign: ZUNI RETREAT: ALL SPIRITUAL TRAVELERS WELCOME. I made the turnoff. The road to the retreat was well-paved and wound through a small valley. I could see the dusty brown hills rising on either side as I drove along.

  As I followed the road up to the retreat, I saw five young women walking in a line, all wearing lululemon. Their perky butts encased in black Lycra reminded me of the rich housewives I’d see leaving SoulCycle on my way to work, with their huge diamond rings glinting in the early-morning light. Some of the young women here in New Mexico had their arms linked, deep in conversation. Others were just smiling gently at the horizon, where the late-afternoon sun was still beaming on the hilltops. I couldn’t tell if they looked relaxed or lobotomized. Their identical demeanors made me anxious about fitting in, an ungainly ten-year-old on her first day of sleep-away camp. Did I have the wrong clothes? The wrong hair?

  I parked in a lot near the main lodge, which was surrounded by three outer buildings, all of them done in a tasteful mission revival style: all courtyards and gentle arches. From the website I knew that one of the buildings was for guest rooms, one was for classes, and one was for dining.

  As soon as I stepped out of my car, I nearly collided with a man. He was so close to me I could smell him. He had the clean musk of someone who had recently showered but didn’t wear deodorant. I hadn’t seen him walk over. It was almost like he’d been spawned by the asphalt, and this silent approach startled me. I registered his gender only because right before I bumped into him, I noticed his hairy toes sticking out of leather thong sandals. Even in the empty space here, I was momentarily claustrophobic.

  “Whoopsie-daisy,” he said. “Gotta watch out for you!” Then he laughed a pleasant chuckle with his mouth open wide. I could see that his teeth were blindingly white, like a reality TV starlet’s veneers. Maybe they looked so bright because the rest of him was so tan. He had an unusual, attractive face, with hazel eyes that were slightly saffron-colored and thick, dark lashes. I wondered if he was part Indian, because his features suggested a perfect mixture of Eastern and Western forebears. His light-purple robe complimented his corporeal color scheme.

  I stuck my hand out to introduce myself, but he had already started to bow toward me. “I’m Janus,” he said. “I’m on staff here. Welcome to your first stay at the Zuni Retreat.” He radiated a contented warmth.

  “I’m Dana,” I said. “How did you know it was my first stay?”

  “I try to keep up with all of our students. Unless I am devoted to our children, I won’t be able to help them progress. And besides, you’re the only one checking in today.” He grinned at me. “Let me help you to the Ganesha desk. We call our reception area the Ganesha desk because Ganesha is the Hindu god of beginnings.”

  I nodded. The lingo sounded ridiculous to me (“our children”?), and the theological references seemed to be a polytheistic muddle. But at least the retreat seemed to be offering a lot of personal attention for the expense. While it wasn’t what I was really looking for, I imagined that personal touch was what the other guests were paying for, and what made them come back. “I’m just going to take my bag out of the trunk,” I told him.

  Before I could move, Janus waved his hand. “It’s my pleasure to help you. Allow me.” I watched him hoist my bag from the trunk in a swift, fluid motion, his defined arms flexing ever so slightly with what seemed to be minimal effort. “Let’s go!” he said, cheerfully. “I can’t wait to help you begin this journey.” He carried my bag into the lodge and put it on a trolley near the entrance before bowing again. “Namaste, Dana. Have a blissful experience.”

  “Namaste,” I said, bowing. The word felt strange in my mouth, but I guessed I’d have to get used to it.

  When I turned toward the reception (“Ganesha”) desk, I was startled. At first I thought it was Amaya standing there. The clerk had the same shade of dirty-blond hair and supple skin. But as I got closer I saw that her nose and mouth were completely different, though there was something similar around the eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was an actual likeness or just a shared expression.

  “Namaste,” said not-Amaya, whose name tag read BAIKA. She put her hands in prayer pose and bowed gently to me. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Yes. Dana Morrison.” On the plane to New Mexico, I had decided I wouldn’t tell anyone that I was Ethan’s wife. There was nothing I hated more than fake pity from random people. My name didn’t connect me to him anymore, and I assumed he hadn’t exactly crowed about the fact that he left me to be with Amaya years ago.

  Baika touched a few keys on her computer, which looked like it had just been taken out of the box. In fact, everything about this building was clean and slick and new. It was decorated minimally—just a few prayer rugs and paintings of what appeared to be various yoga progenitors on the walls and a smattering of fat gold Buddhas lounging in corners. But the walls were painted a bright white, and the floor was a cool light-blue glass tile that must have cost a fortune. It would not have been out of place in a financier’s bathroom featured in an architectural magazine.

  “Excellent,” Baika said. “Your bed is ready right now. Your roommate has already been here for a few days, and she’s a return visitor, so she should be able to show you the ropes.” She reached below her desk and pressed a series of buttons. “I’ve just notified someone to bring her to the front desk, so she should be arriving momentarily.”

  I fiddled with my luggage for a moment in an effort to avoid making small talk with Amaya’s doppelgänger. I braced myself to see one of the lululemonites strolling down the hallway, but when I looked up I saw a woman in her fifties with a mane of wild, wiry gray hair coming toward me. She had a sweet expression and a fluffy stomach, the kind that mothers get after more than three children. “Hi, I’m Sylvia,” the woman said.

  “Dana,” I replied, extending my hand to her.

  “You guys will get along great!” Baika chirped. How the hell would she know? I wondered. But instead of barking at her I smiled back and said, “I’ll bet!”

  “Sylvia, why don’t you give Dana a little tour,” Baika said, her grin widening.

  “My pleasure,” Sylvia responded, and bowed to Baika. “Namaste.”

  “No locks?” I asked, following her inside our bedroom. I tried to sound breezy and jocular but it came out anxious.

  Sylvia shook her head and lau
ghed lightly. “Locks just close us off to each other. Trust me when I say they’re not necessary.

  “Here’s your nest,” she continued with a wink. I put my bag down on the empty bed. Sylvia’s bed was closer to the door and had a purple batik draped over it. Other than Sylvia’s homey touch, the room was quite bare. The sheets and the bedspread were a creamy off-white. I reached down and touched the pillow, which seemed a little lumpy considering how pricey the stay was and how fancy the photos on the website had been.

  “I’ve been coming here for five years, since the retreat opened,” Sylvia explained. “But I’ve been reading Lama Yoni’s writing since the midnineties.”

  “Oh, really?” I knew Lama Yoni as the head of a yoga studio, nothing more. Certainly not someone who was powerful or compelling enough to inspire superfans who had been following him for decades. I thought Sylvia might elaborate on her experience with Yoni in this moment, and was trying to formulate a follow-up question, but before I could come up with anything that sounded casual, Sylvia said, “You can get settled after dinner. I want to show you the rest of the place before the mealtime gong is sounded.”

  “Sounds great,” I said brightly, even though I was tired and hungry and part of me just wanted to lie down on that creamy coverlet until the next morning. But more than that, I wanted Sylvia to like me, and to treat me like any other eager visitor to the retreat. The more I played the part, the more info I could squeeze out of her.

  I followed Sylvia across a stone walkway that seemed modeled after ones you’d see in Japanese gardens. The walkway was flanked by calm reflecting pools, one of which had flashy golden koi sliding against one another. Though she was probably thirty pounds overweight, Sylvia moved with a grace and ease that I almost never saw in New York. Her shoulders had no hunch to them, and her arms swung loosely as she walked. We didn’t see anyone else on the path, and the air was so quiet that all I could hear was the trickling of the water into the ponds from some unseen source. It sounded like the rainfall setting on a white-noise machine, something they’d put on in a cheesy spa.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper so as not to disturb the peace.

  “It’s a rest period. Visitors are welcome to walk the grounds, but most people take the time to meditate in the silent meditation pod, which is in a yurt at the foot of the mountain.” Sylvia gestured to her left, where I could see a dot of white off in the distance. “All of our most prominent teachers attend that particular meditation, but I never do.” From her tone, I extrapolated that the visitors attending the yurt meditation were semipathetic brown-nosers.

  We arrived at a building with big golden doors. “Gold is the color of success and triumph,” Sylvia told me. “You should feel prepared for success and triumph in all your classes here at Zuni Retreat.” She opened the doors and turned left down a long hallway. I could see a sunny central courtyard through a window directly across from me. “These are classrooms for yoga and movement,” Sylvia explained, walking quickly. “These are lecture spaces, where our workshops are given.” She stopped in front of a room that contained only a bright orange chaise longue. “This room is for mind/body integration work. It’s not very popular these days, but I love it.”

  “Why isn’t it popular?” I asked.

  “The instructor, Lo, is in her sixties. She’s been following Yoni’s teachings since the seventies. And she doesn’t have an Instagram account or a website or a public following, not like some of the other ‘celebrity’ instructors here.” Sylvia spit out the word celebrity like an expletive. “Lo does her workshop just once a week, and only at certain times of year, because she’s occupied with other matters the rest of the time. Some of the young ones around here find her methods a little old-fashioned, but she’s doing the real spiritual work. They don’t get it.” I made note of Sylvia’s reverence for Lo and tucked it away for later.

  The fourth side of the building’s rectangle consisted of one large, narrow room filled with bookshelves. Plush pillows in jewel colors—rich purples and dark blues—covered the floor so there was barely a path for walking. “Here is the library!” Sylvia exclaimed proudly. “I’ve done so much spiritual development here. It’s probably my favorite place at the retreat.” She took me by the hand and led me into the room. Her hand felt warm and well-moisturized. I tried to think of the last time I’d had an intimate touch with a human I wasn’t related to, and I couldn’t remember it. I took a deep, slow breath to keep myself from tearing up.

  Sylvia walked purposefully to a group of shelves in the center of the wall. These shelves were painted red, while all the other ones were painted the same gold as the front door. “These are the books that have been generated by Yoni and by the teachers and students here,” Sylvia told me. “Many of them were written in classes here, as part of the spiritual practice of the author.” She dragged her finger over the spines, looking for a particular title. I had no idea how she was going to find anything, since the “books” were a messy jumble of photocopied pamphlets, leather-bound journals, just a few professionally bound books, and even one or two tomes made out of multicolored construction paper tied together with old, curling ribbons.

  “Voilà!” Sylvia exclaimed after looking for just a few seconds. “I wanted to show you this. It’s the pamphlet that got me interested in Yoni in the first place. They’ve bound it into a book since I read it, but back in the nineties it was just a xeroxed bunch of paper that my Berkeley mothers’ group passed around in a brown paper bag. I call it the ‘gateway drug.’” She chuckled, plucked the book from the shelf, and handed it to me with a flourish. “It changed all of our lives. Since this is your first time here, I really think you should read this as soon as possible.”

  I looked down at the slim volume. In Comic Sans font, the cover read My Life’s Journey, by Geshe Yoni. I forced a smile. “Thank you for this. I’m sure it will be very helpful on my spiritual journey.”

  “You’re very, very welcome,” Sylvia said. She leaned forward and whispered, “You’re not really supposed to take books out of this room, but I’ll look the other way if you want to read this tonight in our dorm.” She winked and pulled a green reusable grocery bag out of her pants pocket.

  Gingerly, I accepted the bag and slipped the book inside. Even though I hadn’t found anything suspicious about Lama Yoni on the Internet, it couldn’t hurt to read his story from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. “Thank you. I think I’ll do just that.”

  Sylvia led me down another path toward the third and final building. “This is the dining area,” she said, just as a gong started clanging in the distance. “And that gong means we have perfect timing! I’ll let you find some folks your own age to eat with. You don’t want to be stuck with a bunch of old birds at your first meal.”

  I followed her into the cavernous hall. We were among the first there, but other visitors began to stream in right behind us. Dinner was buffet style, and I passed several big, steaming cauldrons of what appeared to be different varieties of vegetable slop before ladling something that had firm squares of tofu sticking up from it onto my plate. After I finished serving myself I looked around the room for somewhere to sit.

  Like in high school, the tables seemed to be divided into cliques. There were the older hippies, who were mixed in gender. They wore sloppy T-shirts and drawstring pants and the men had unruly beards. Some of them had that dazed, acid-casualty look in their eyes. There were younger people, almost exclusively women, most of whom were lululemonites. They all wore expensive yoga gear and had blowouts and chipping manicures. And then there were the off-duty yoga instructors, who were less polished than the lemonites, wore their hair in buns or dreadlocks, and dressed in ratty hoodies and cropped trousers. But despite their haphazard appearance, they were uniformly beautiful, radiating health and wellness.

  I decided to go sit with a table full of the lemonites who looked like they were around my age. Feeling a surge of adolescent panic, I approached the table with
a bright smile. The conversation halted as I took an empty seat. “Hi, I’m Dana,” I said.

  “Hi,” one of them replied, monotone, without introducing herself. Her hair was the blondest of the bunch.

  Everyone at the table spent another half beat sizing me up, and then, assuming I wasn’t anyone worth knowing, they continued their conversation. I ate a bit of my tofu and as I felt the slimy texture slide down my throat, I glanced around. All the women had salon-straightened hair that fell smoothly down past their shoulders. Each wore perfectly applied natural makeup, so that they appeared to be wearing no makeup at all. They had enviably toned shoulders highlighted by flimsy T-strap tanks with the ubiquitous lululemon logo, patterned yoga pants, and Uggs. I’ve never understood that stylistic choice: If it’s cold enough for Uggs, shouldn’t it be too cold for flimsy tank tops? But looking at these women as a group made me realize the way they dressed was just meant to telegraph their belonging to one another.

  Since they were acting as if I didn’t exist, I had no guilt about eavesdropping on their conversation. “I feel, like, so centered after my class with Marcos today,” one of the lemonites said. “He pulled me aside and congratulated me on my progress.”

  “Oh really?” another one, who had an unfortunately large mole on her left arm, shot back. “He told me I should be taking private lessons with him when we all get back to L.A. He says I’m really ready for the next big step.”

  This sent the first lemonite into a snit. “That’s so awesome, Jenna. It’s so good that you’ll be able to get that extra one-on-one help you obviously need. Especially from a teacher as gifted as Marcos. He should really be able to help you.”

  The second lemonite was silenced by that burn and changed the subject. “Did you try any of the kelp juice at the beverage bar? It’s sooooo good, and Sienna told me it will really get rid of any lingering toxins.”

  Off the rest of them went about their specialized diets and their lists of foodstuffs to be avoided at all costs. I zoned out after I heard the word flax for the sixth time. These lemonites didn’t seem like people who would be helpful to know. They were obsessed with some celebrity yoga instructor. I doubted they had been here before, or would have taken classes with Ethan or Amaya. Not like Sylvia.