Before the meeting concludes, Brenda challenges them to be good to themselves. They might not think they deserve it, but she assures them they do. So please, she implores, be kind. Be gentle.
The circle breaks, and people begin to disperse, folding up their chairs and stacking them against the wall. Kavita remains seated for a few extra moments, wrestling with Brenda’s words about self-compassion.
“How do you feel?” Hawthorn asks as he folds his chair.
She rubs lines up and down her temples. “Like I’ve been snow-plowed.”
“That sounds about right,” he grins. “So, do you think you’ll be back?”
Kavita considers. “I think so. Even though I feel exhausted right now, I also feel a bit…I don’t know how to put it, exactly. I wouldn’t say lighter. I guess like I’ve let something out.” She wants to add that she feels alone but also not alone, which makes sense inside her tired mind, but probably not outside it, so she keeps that to herself.
“Do you want to know what I appreciate the most about group?”
“What’s that?”
“Even if no one in my life understands what I’m going through, even if the rest of the world has forgotten about Sequoia, I know when I come here, I’m surrounded by people that get it. It helps.”
She nods, yes. That’s what she meant. Alone but not alone.
“Are you on your own tonight?”
“No, my husband’s at home.”
“He didn’t come with you?”
“No,” she says, not wanting to elaborate.
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but expect a raging therapy hangover tomorrow.”
“Something tells me I don’t want to know what that is.”
“Think, regular hangover, only without any of fun beforehand.”
She touches her temples again. “I can feel it building already.”
“Take it easy tonight. Maybe get your hub to get you some chocolate or Doritos or something.”
“A fan of eating our feelings?”
“I have an unopened box of Jos Louis at home with my name on it.”
She lets out a little laugh. “I’m not so good at the kindness thing.” She rises her feet.
“Well,” he says, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. “If you’re looking for something to do, why not pop by and take a class.” He hands her a glossy green business card that reads: Hawthorn Woods, Certified Yoga Instructor.
She raises a playful eyebrow. “Yoga teachers have business cards now?”
“They come in handy every now and then.”
“Promise to never say na-mas-té to me and I’ll overlook it.”
“Deal,” he laughs. “The schedule’s online. I teach on Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“I used to go to hot yoga, but I haven’t exercised in months.” She slips the card into the pocket of her jeans. “I’d never make it through a whole class.”
“I only teach yin. But you know, even if you spend the whole time in Corpse Pose, it doesn’t really matter. ” He takes their chairs to the wall and stacks them with the others.
“No pressure,” he adds. “But as a little extra encouragement, I have a book at the studio I think you’ll like. It helped me a lot during my first year. Still does, actually.”
“What book?”
“Ah, well,” he says as starts walking backwards toward the exit. “That’s for me to know. See you tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” she shrugs.
“Maybe’s better than no.” He shakes his fist as if celebrating. “I’ll take it!” Then he turns around and waves her goodbye.
She watches him exit the church basement and disappear up the stairs. A few moments later, she realizes she’s still grinning.
She expects Anchor to pull, and Gloom to bully.
But they don’t.
Not a bit.
33.
KAVITA’S DREAMS THAT NIGHT are a living watercolour of images bleeding into one another, a haunting reel of gunshots, leapers, bloated corpses, hanging bodies, bloodied razors, empty caskets, car windows blackened out with soot and the choking smell of exhaust. Nightmares made all the more frightening by virtue of their truth, their belonging to the other survivors she had met at group and the people they have lost.
Now, as she lies in bed in the sallow morning light and wrestles with the throbbing ache of her first therapy hangover, she realizes something she has felt since Sunil’s passing but hasn’t been able to articulate: Suicide doesn’t end suffering. It spreads it around. It’s that time of January that is synonymous with semi-hibernation, thick sweaters, and peak vitamin D deprivation—a seasonal assault Kavita prefers to wait out within greenhouse-like warmth of her glass-walled condo. Today, however, for the second time in as many sunrises, she emerges from her cave, coaxed not by a change in the nostril-fusing weather, but rather by the possibility of at last finding another bear like her.
With the Styrofoam crunch of snow underfoot, Kavita trudges through shin-deep drifts along quiet residential streets of her neighbourhood, lined with ice-dipped trees, on her way to the yoga studio where Hawthorn teaches. Fat, wet flakes fall like albino moths and wreath her fur-trimmed hood in a sparkling halo. Occasionally, she pulls her gaze from the sidewalk to marvel at the deadly and beautiful icicles that hang from steep-roofed houses, some of them as tall as she is.
Her mat is slung over one shoulder. When she dug it out of the back of the closet earlier, it was covered in a fine layer of chalky dust, a testament to how sedentary she has become. As she turns down the correct street, she notices a green sandwich board a little ways ahead of her on the sidewalk, in front of the studio, that reads, Lotus Yoga Centre, in bold black letters. An elegant white stencil of a lotus bloom sits above the studio’s name, and a picture of a woman balancing on her forearms, below.
Kavita’s stomach seizes. She stops walking. Glances over her shoulder to make sure she isn’t blocking the way. Anything to stall moving any farther. It isn’t too late to make a U-turn, she thinks. She could buy herself a consolation peppermint hot chocolate on the way home and tell herself it’s okay. She isn’t ready yet. Last night was a big enough step. Hawthorn was just being nice to the new girl when he invited her. He doesn’t actually expect her to show up. It would be weird. Seeing him out of context, outside of the church basement, in his real life.
But then, that’s part of the draw. How does he do it? Go to group one night, and still have enough energy to wake up the next day, pert and ready, to teach a yoga class. How did he manage to get to such a healthy place, when she, in comparison, feels barely functional? She needs to see what recovery looks like up close. After all, she promised herself to find a better way.
She pushes onward, past the sign, up the stone walkway that leads to the converted red-brick century home, before she loses her nerve. A bell chimes as she passes through the first French door into a small closet-like foyer. As she glances at the community board to her left, she notices a poster of Hawthorn seated cross-legged with his hands folded in namaskar, advertising an upcoming karma class. She will have to ask him about it, she tells herself, as she passes through the second French door and enters the studio.
Pushing back her hood, she takes a moment to check out the space. The only place for coats and boots is a row of hooks above a bench to her left. The yoga room itself is large and open, with cork floors and high ceilings, and the usual collection of yoga paraphernalia available for use at the back of the room. A dozen or so people are milling around, fetching props, gabbing, limbering up on their mats, or simply lying still.
But there is no sign of Hawthorn.
She unzips her coat and tugs off her boots and wonders where he is. Is it possible she got her days mixed up when she checked the online schedule? She could have sworn he told her that he works on Tuesdays and Fridays, but to be honest,
last night is a bit of a blur. Mid-way through the process of cramming her coat onto an overstuffed hook, she hears a familiar voice from behind.
“So, you decided to join the fun after all.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she finds Hawthorn beaming a welcoming smile. He is dressed in grey shorts and a teal sleeved shirt. With his arms at his sides, she can see half of his memorial tattoo peaking out.
“Where were you hiding?” she asks.
“I was just signing in a student.” He motions to the desk tucked around the corner. “I knew it was a long shot, but I was hoping you’d show up today.”
“Well, I decided to take Brenda’s advice and give this whole kindness thing a shot.”
He rubs his stomach. “Much better for you than binging on a box of Jos Louis.”
With a half grin, she reaches into her hoodie and hands him a folded paper. “Here you go.”
“A real keener, eh?” he teases, taking the consent form. “We still have a few minutes before class, so I’ll go ahead and put your name into the system. Grab a spot and settle in.”
“But wait, I haven’t paid.”
“Consider it a friend’s discount. Or what my therapist would call good old-fashioned conditioning. Work and reward. Besides,” he shrugs, “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.” A beat. “But I’m sure I’ll regret it by the end of class.”
He smirks.
“What?
“I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That you were funny underneath all the sad.”
She doesn’t know what to say, can’t remember the last time she brought joy to someone’s life, or vice versa.
“I promise to go easy on you,” he says as he starts walking back to the desk. “And hey, remind me to give you that book after class, okay?”
She watches him welcome another student with a hug, then looks for a spot, noting the slight cushion of the cork floor beneath the soles of her feet as she crosses the room. She unrolls her mat in the back corner, and settles into Child’s Pose, focusing on the cool dot at the centre of her forehead as she surrenders the full weight of her head to the floor.
Her back feels stiff. Her ribs, tight. She focuses on her breath. Tries to deepen it. At first, it resists.
It takes a few cycles for her breath to find more room to move inside her lungs, her belly. Soon expansion replaces resistance. After a while, she is just breathing, and it happens, naturally.
After class, as she rests on her mat, splayed like a stickwoman, her body hums with gentle energy. A pleasant fog clouds her mind and slows her thinking. For the first time in a long time, she feels peaceful.
During the class, as she listened to Hawthorn’s softly-spoken guidance, and settled into each pose, she discovered something more surprising than her body’s lack of suppleness. It was a feeling. A feeling that undulated through her in waves, back and forth, back and forth, as if she could feel the very water that was such a part of her makeup moving through her. About halfway through the class, while she was in Cobbler’s Pose, and her inner thighs finally stopped shrieking, a simple truth opened to her like the amber heart of a lotus bloom, and she finally knew what the feeling was: life. She was alive. Despite everything, still alive.
While the others busy themselves with putting props, and rushing off to their next commitments, she lingers on her mat, staring at the ceiling fans with her palms resting over her sunken stomach, reluctant to let go of the peaceful feeling. Mere days ago, she thought that everything about her, inside and outside, had been ruined by loss. That is what Anchor and Gloom have told her for months, like promises, like truth. That is what Blaze and her shame have burned and chilled into her marrow. And for months, she believed them.
Now, she isn’t so sure.
By the time she rolls up her mat and limps over to the desk where Hawthorn is busying himself with boiling water for tea, the studio has emptied. On the floor in front of the large bay window overlooking the street, he has arranged a couple of bolsters for them to sit on and gathered a few woollen blankets, too.
“I have ginger lemon and blueberry green tea.” He holds up a box of each. “Personally, I’m a fan of the ginger.”
“I’ll try that one, please.” She lowers herself onto a bolster, sits cross-legged, and drapes one of the blankets over her legs. Then she peers through the window. The snowfall has tapered to a shimmery dusting.
“So,” he asks. “How was the class?” He drops tea bags into a couple of green earthenware mugs. “Do you hate me?”
“A little bit,” she grins as she kneads her fist into her lower back. “But really, it’s not too bad. I expected to be a little sore. Otherwise, I feel good. Relaxed. You’re a good teacher.”
With a self-effacing grin, he hands her a steaming mug. She notices for the first time a comma-like dimple denting his left cheek. She wonders if Sequoia had the same feature, then remembers that fraternal twins don’t share identical genetics. Still, she can’t help but wonder what his sister looked like, this person who feels both known and unknown to her.
“Well,” he says as he grabs a chunky green cardigan from the back of the desk chair and pulls it on. “If you’re in the mood for more I’m teaching a karma class this Sunday afternoon.” Mug in hand, he eases onto the bolster across from her and covers his legs with a blanket.
“I saw the poster when I came in.”
“It’s pay what you can. I’m raising money for the bereavement group.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“I’m lucky to be able to give back.” He takes a quiet slurp of tea, declares it’s “Still too hot,” and places the mug on the floor.
She bobs her tea bag up and down. “Teaching must be rewarding.”
“It is most of the time. But teaching’s nothing like taking a class. Sometimes I get a little burned out.”
“At least you’re helping people.”
“Not as much as they help me. I’m hooked on that instant gratification you get from adjusting someone’s pose or seeing them finally get quiet enough to sink into Savasana. It’s awesome.”
“I wish I had that kind of skill. All I seem to know how to do is write briefing notes. I’m a civil servant. Well, I used to be anyway. I’m not sure if I’m going back.”
“What would you do instead?”
“I have no idea.” She pauses. “Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be able to hold down another job. It just seems so…enormous. I don’t know how I ever did it before.”
“That’s just because you’re a little overwhelmed right now. You won’t always feel that way. But it takes some time. It’s supposed to.”
“Time heals all wounds?”
“Personally, I call bullshit on that one.”
She laughs.
“The way I see it,” he goes on. “All time ever gives you is an opportunity. It doesn’t do any of the work. That’s up to you. And it’s the work that matters in the end. It’s the work that’ll save you.”
“Well, that sounds exhausting.”
This time, he laughs. “All I’m saying is when you’re ready, all the things that feel impossible now will start to feel a little less impossible, and bit by bit, you’ll start working towards whatever new goals you’ve decided on, and before you know it, you’ll be a yoga teacher with a beard, who volunteers at a bereavement group once a month, and keeps an apiary on the roof of his apartment building.”
She touches her chin in mock self-consciousness.
“But chances are, you aren’t going to go climb Mount Everest or save the world tomorrow. And that’s fine. You’ve got enough going on. Maybe the day after, though.” He winks at her.
“The thing is, no one else in my life seems as messed up as I am. They’ve all been able to move on in some way. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I
’ve been so stuck lately.”
“Well, sometimes getting stuck is necessary. Without it, most people wouldn’t stop for long enough to really look at their lives. Everyone deals with loss differently. Just because you’re struggling doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you. Maybe you’re the only person in your family who’s actually paying attention to what’s happening, instead of being in denial. Maybe you’re the only one who’s taking the time to deal with your shit.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” She thinks of the centre of her left palm, her scar. “I’m definitely not the poster child for good coping skills.”
“Well, it’s hard to wake up every morning and remember that your brother took his life. It’s hard to face a life you didn’t want. It takes a lot out of a person.”
She stares into her cup.
“You aren’t weak, Kavita. You just have more to carry than the average person. That’s what you’ve been carrying: your brother.” The invisible weight crushes against her, as it has since she found out Sunil took his life, the only difference being, for the first time since it settled upon her like a burden, it wasn’t invisible, Hawthorn could see it, along with, she suspects, the shake of her joints. He could see her. “But you’re doing it,” he continues. “If that isn’t strength—if that isn’t hopeful—then frankly, they don’t exist. So, do me a favour and stop being so hard on yourself, okay? You’re being a real downer.”
She grins, faintly. His eyes are dark and soft and open. She sees something in them she has been searching for in everyone else she knows, but she can’t name it yet.
“I just wish it was over. I want to be on the other side of this. All figured out.”
“Who wouldn’t? But the thing is, you’re healing, even if it doesn’t seem like it. There’s a ton of stuff happening under the surface. Soon enough you’ll start to see little green shoots popping up from the dirt.”
“Are you comparing my life to dirt?”
“Hey, that’s where the story is, friend.”
“I should’ve known you’d say something like that. You know when I first saw you, I nicknamed you Granola Guy.”
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