Karma's a Killer

by Tracy Weber

  That is, if it didn’t outright kill me.

  Before Dharma had gotten out of the parking lot, I’d run to the studio, called Rene, and begged her to meet me across the street for an emergency girls’ date at our favorite coffee shop, Mocha Mia. Now, forty-five minutes later, I stood at the counter, trying to look inconspicuous while Rene alternated between browbeating me and adding items to her characteristically complex and calorie-laden order.

  I muted my voice, hoping our audience would lose interest. “I already told you. Dharma is not my mother. At best, she qualifies as an egg donor.” I looked pointedly at the barista. “Let’s talk about it after we sit down.”

  The barista took the hint. Sort of. She turned her back to our conversation and poured my drink into one of the café’s diverse collection of second-hand mugs. Her choice for today was a cream-colored ceramic mug with the caption Happy Mother’s Day.

  Classic.

  I spied an empty table by the window. “I’ll save us a seat. Try to leave some food for the rest of the neighborhood.”

  I tucked a dollar in the tip jar and wove through Mocha Mia’s eclectic collection of mismatched chairs, scarred wooden tables, and Tiffany-style lamps. The garage-sale decor usually amused me, since it so closely matched the not-quite-up-and-coming vibe of my studio’s neighborhood. Greenwood was famous for aging antique shops, trendy art galleries, and crumbling, dive-bar-like restaurants whose patrons started the day drinking rotgut whiskey with a caffeine chaser. Walking past the bus stop any time after noon gave the term “breath of fire” a whole new meaning.

  Today, however, Mocha Mia’s eclectic decor seemed like a painful symbol of my own jumbled life. After two years of self-imposed solitude, I’d finally scrounged up enough hope to build a future with a man that I loved, only to have it darkened by shadows from my past. If every life had a purpose, mine was obviously to be the butt of some karmic practical joke. Frankly, I wasn’t amused.

  I absently stirred my coffee and stared across the street at my yoga studio, wishing I could cancel my evening Yoga Nidra class. I had no desire to teach. I didn’t even want to be seen in public. I wanted to slink home, hide in the closet, and not come out until Dharma left town. Instead, I picked at the unappetizing whole wheat bagel on my plate and shredded my napkin into hundreds of tiny pieces, waiting for Rene and hoping—praying, even—that she would somehow come up with the magic words that would put Dharma’s revelation into perspective.

  Rene waddled from the checkout counter to the table, carefully squeezing her hugely pregnant body through the crowded café while balancing a double-sized slice of eight-layer chocolate decadence cake, a bagel, two packets of cream cheese, and a decaf double fudge mocha.

  I added an extra packet of Splenda to my soy latte, just for the indulgence.

  Rene thumped her pastries onto the table and scowled. “You know, I’m beginning to get annoyed with that barista. What is this, a restaurant or a comedy club?” She pointed an accusing finger at her mug. “I mean really. Hungry Hippo?”

  I suppressed a grin. The waitress’s antics seemed significantly funnier when they were directed at someone else. “Well, you said you wanted a double extra grande. Maybe that’s the biggest mug they had.” I paused for effect. “Besides, it kind of fits.”

  Rene swatted me with her napkin. “Keep it up, funny girl. I’m here to do you the favor, remember?” She slid her fork through eight layers of chocolate flavored calories, lifted it to her mouth, and chewed, wearing an expression so sensuous, it was likely illegal in most southern states. “Oh my lord, that’s good.” She laid the fork back on the plate, careful not to disturb the heart-shaped caramel swirls the barista had drawn along its edges.

  “That should give me enough strength to get to the bathroom and back.” She looped her shoulder bag over the back of her chair. “I’ll be back in a minute. Remember, I’ve got dibs on your story. Don’t you dare tell it to anyone else before I get back.”

  Like that was a big risk.

  She gestured to the collection of plates, napkins, condiments, and silverware that she’d accumulated on her side of the table. “And don’t even consider touching my food, especially the cake. I have that fork mark memorized.”

  The scary thing was, I believed her.

  She returned five minutes later, still grumbling. “I swear, I can’t go ten minutes without peeing these days.” She slowly lowered her rear to the chair. “Oomph!”

  I bit my lip to keep from smirking. “Geez, Rene. How will I ever get you back up?” I pretended to scan the restaurant. “Maybe I should rent a crane.”

  Rene ignored my teasing, picked up a butter knife, and slathered pineapple cream cheese all over her jalapeño cheddar bagel.

  “Rene, that’s disgusting.”

  “It’s not my fault,” she replied, pointing down at her belly. “The girls want what the girls want. And I have to eat more. Doctor’s orders. She says I’m not gaining enough weight. Besides, I had to give up caffeine and alcohol. I’ve got to fuel myself somehow.”

  Now that she mentioned it, Rene did look awfully thin for a woman six months pregnant with twins. Her belly was growing, sure, but the rest of her body was still a highly toned size four.

  “Not gaining enough weight? Are you and the twins okay?”

  “Chill out, Kate. I’m fine. I’m sure it’s all those smoothies Sam keeps forcing down my throat.” She turned to the side and pretended to gag. “I tell you, it’s not natural for humans to drink anything that green.” She took a huge bite of bagel and continued talking as she chewed. “Thank goodness I talked him into going to that conference in Tokyo. Now maybe I can eat in peace.” She licked a wad of pineapple-encrusted cream cheese off of her lower lip.

  “The doctor says the girls look perfect.” She dropped the oozing concoction onto her plate and wiped her hands on a napkin. “Ooh, hang on, I’ll show you. Sam and I sprung for a 3-D ultrasound a few days ago.” She rooted around in her purse and pulled out two brown-and-black photos. “Kate, meet Twin A and Twin B.”

  I stared down at the sickeningly cute faces of my future tormentors. The one on the left clearly had Rene’s evil grin. The one on the right seemed to be rubbing her palms together, already plotting her strategy. No doubt about it, I was in trouble.

  “They’re gorgeous, Rene,” I said honestly. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

  Rene wiggled happily. Her deep brunette hair bounced off her shoulders. “I know. Aren’t they adorable? I wish I knew whether or not they’re identical, so I could start planning their outfits.”

  “But you already have four dozen dresses!”

  “I bought a few basic items, sure, but I haven’t even considered accessories.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Seriously,” she continued. “It’s more complex than you think. If the twins are identical, their outfits will be especially important. Do I dress them alike, match their hats and booties, or make them entirely unique?” She shuddered. “And the hair bands I’ve found so far have been simply atrocious.”

  “They’re babies, Rene. Not runway models.”

  She looked down and softly patted her belly. “Don’t listen to her, girls. It’s never too early to start building good fashion sense.” She pointed at the coffee stain still splashed across my shirt. “You don’t want to end up being a slob like your Aunt Kate.”

  I swiped the air with an imaginary sword. “Touché.”

  Rene grinned. “Ooh—and I found the cutest Roberto Cavalli leopard-print bottle holders. They only had one color, though.” She paused and pursed her lips. “You don’t think the twins will mind if their bottles holders match, do you?”

  I groaned and covered my face with my hands.

  “See? It’s complicated. It would be so much simpler if we knew whether or not the girls are identical.”

  It was easier to concede
the point than keep arguing. “When will you know?”

  “The doctor can’t be sure based on our sonogram. She said we might not even be sure after they’re born. In that case, we’ll have to do a DNA test.” Rene took a huge bite of cake, smearing a thick chocolate mustache across her upper lip. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. Identical or not, my sweet little parasites have both inherited my metabolism. In the first trimester they stole my beauty; now they’re snarfing up all of my food. Ever since I got over the morning sickness, all I can think about is eating.”

  So what else was new?

  She pointed to my coffee cup. “But enough about me, Ms. Mother’s Day. Let’s get back on topic. We’re here to discuss Mommy Dearest, not my food-sucking progeny. You’ve had a tough day, so I’ll forgive you this time. But admit it—you lied to me. You told me your mother was dead.”

  “First, stop calling her that. I didn’t have a mother. A mother doesn’t take off when her child is a toddler, then drop by unannounced thirty years later because she happens to be in the neighborhood.”

  Rene remained silent.

  “Second, I didn’t lie to you; I simply skirted the truth. The last time I saw Daisy, Dharma, or whatever her name is, I was barely three. After that, she was too busy saving the world to spend time with me.” I couldn’t keep the resentment out of my voice. “As far as I was concerned, she was dead.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair,” Rene chided. “And bitterness doesn’t suit you. Seriously, why didn’t you tell me about her? I thought we shared everything.”

  I couldn’t explain my relationship with Dharma to myself, let alone anyone else, but I had to try.

  “Honestly, Rene, it didn’t seem important.”

  Rene leaned back and narrowed her eyes, clearly skeptical. “What kind of kid thinks her mother isn’t important?”

  “You’re right. When I was young, I did care. I wanted to see her so much that I ached.” I swallowed to clear the tightness in my throat. “I dreamed about having a mother. I made up fairytales to justify her absence. When I got old enough to understand that none of my stories were true—that she’d simply abandoned me—I got mad. Anger was less painful than feeling rejected. When the anger died down, all I had left was indifference.” I shrugged. “By the time you and I became friends, it didn’t seem relevant.”

  Rene arched her eyebrows.

  “Or that’s what I told myself.” I took a long drink of my lukewarm latte.

  “Does Michael know?”

  “Not yet, and don’t you tell him, either. He’d just insist on having some sort of family reunion.”

  “I thought you promised not to keep secrets from him anymore.”

  “I did, and I won’t. I’ll tell him all about Dharma just as soon as she leaves town.” I frowned. “Trouble is, she wants to get together.”

  Rene’s reply was uncharacteristically soft. “What are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea. Ignore her and hope she goes away? Invite her over to bake cookies? Go to the Greenwood Spa and get matching mani-pedis?” I tossed what was left of my napkin onto my plate. “Part of me wants to tell her to leave Seattle and never come back, but I can’t. I keep thinking about George.”

  “Your friend that was killed last year? What does he have to do with your mother?”

  “George deserted his daughter when she was a child, too. I know he screwed up, but he was a good man, and when he finally reached out to his daughter, she turned him away.” Tears burned the backs of my eyes. “I don’t blame her. That’s my first impulse, too. But if she hadn’t, George might still be alive. How can I do the same thing?”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing. I froze. I stood there like an idiot with my mouth hanging open. Dharma told me to think it over and let her know. She’s coming back tomorrow after my Flow Yoga class.” My lower lip trembled. “Why did she have to come back now? I haven’t seen her in almost thirty years.”

  Rene stalled for time by taking a long drink of her mocha. “I hate to say it, but you should prepare yourself to be disappointed. She probably wants something from you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe she needs money. Isn’t that what long-lost relatives usually come looking for?”

  “If she’s come to harvest the money tree, she’s going to be sorely disappointed. It’s been completely picked dry. Michael and I have put every penny into the kitchen remodel.” I pushed my uneaten bagel to the side. “With my luck she needs a new kidney.”

  Rene reached across the table and took my hand. “How can I help?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. I’d hoped that talking with you about it would make me feel better, but nothing has changed. Every time I think about Dharma, all I feel is anger. I can’t let myself get angry anymore. After Orcas … ” I looked down at my hands.

  “Kate, you didn’t cause Monica’s death.”

  I looked up. “I know that.”

  I wasn’t lying, simply avoiding the truth—again. Monica’s murder wasn’t the death on Orcas that plagued me. Not the only one, anyway. I still felt responsible for the other fatal accident that weekend. If it was an accident. My angry outburst may not have caused Monica’s death, but it set in motion the events that led to another.

  A familiar churning agitated my stomach. I had to do better—to be better, not just for myself, but for Michael, Bella, and anyone else I might hurt. My angry outbursts had already caused more than enough suffering. And, as The Yoga Sutras asserted, future suffering should be avoided.

  Refusing to cross emotional minefields—like opening up to your estranged mother—might be a good start.

  “Kate, are you listening?”

  I jumped at the sound of Rene’s voice. “No, sorry. I tuned you out for a second.”

  “I said you should meet with your mother and tell her how you feel. Go ahead and get angry with her. Yell if you want to. Tell her how much she hurt you. You’ve kept way too much bottled up inside lately. Releasing some of those pent-up emotions might do you a world of good.”

  Rene meant well, but I couldn’t risk it. Not again. The collateral damage might be too high.

  I smiled, looked my friend straight in the eyes, and lied. “I’ll think about it, I promise.”

  Eight

  The rest of the afternoon was blissfully uneventful. I went back to the studio at five-thirty to check on Bella, only to find an empty car and a note from Michael saying that he’d taken her home with him. I left a vague message on Michael’s cell phone telling him that I’d be home late because I had some “things” to do at the studio. After a year together, Michael could read me almost as well as Rene. Until I was ready to tell him about Dharma, my best strategy was avoidance.

  I plastered on my most soothing smile and greeted the fifteen stressed-out yogis who came for six o’clock Yoga Nidra—the comforting meditation sometimes called the Divine Sleep. Truthfully, I taught that class completely on yoga teacher autopilot. Physically, my students and I shared the same space. My body sat at the front of the room, shadowed by flickering candles; my voice filtered through the darkness, creating a soft, spoken lullaby; but my mind never entered the building. It remained out in the parking lot, staring into those eyes so uncannily like my own. What could Dharma possibly want with me after all of these years? And was I even remotely capable of giving it to her?

  Fortunately, my students didn’t seem to notice my mental distraction, or if they did, they were kind enough to not say anything. Yoga students were lovely that way. I said goodbye to the last straggling practitioner, locked the door behind her, leaned against it, and sagged to the floor.

  Dad’s voice scolded from inside my head. Get it together, Kate.

  In a few minutes, Dad. I promise.

  I allowed myself twenty minutes to wallow in self-pity, then forced myself to take action.
I symbolically cleared my mind by cleaning the yoga studio. I scrubbed the sink and the toilet. I vacuumed the lobby. I swept and reswept the already clean hardwood floor. I pinched the brown leaves off my jungle of house plants and fertilized the orchids. I folded and stacked the blankets, organized the blocks, and wound up the yoga straps. None of it mattered. No matter how orderly I made the space surrounding me, my mind still whirled in a disorganized mess. I laid out my mat and tried practicing some focusing, breath-centered asanas, but my mind and my body refused to connect.

  Even Buddha must have had an off day every now and again.

  I gave up and trudged to the front desk. If I was going to be miserable no matter what I did, I might as well do something I hated. I’d already cleaned the bathroom, so bookkeeping would have to do.

  Next to paying the quarterly taxes, bookkeeping was my least favorite business activity. Immersing myself in the numbers always reminded me how vulnerable Serenity Yoga was financially. I wasn’t exactly immune to financial challenges. Any Girl Scout raised by a single-parent cop earned her coupon-clipping badge at a very young age. But that didn’t prepare me for the realities of being a small

  business owner. Steady paychecks—not to mention frivolous benefits like health insurance and disability leave—were luxuries I’d lost when I opened the studio three years ago.

  Part of me—probably the delusional part—knew that Serenity Yoga would eventually make it. The first person I’d hire on that glorious day would be my very own bookkeeper. Until then, performing the odious task when I was already in a bad mood would have to do.

  I spent the next 173 minutes immersed in number-crunching torture. I budgeted the next six months’ rent payments. I paid every bill and entered every petty cash receipt. I created a monthly budget for candles and cleaning supplies. At midnight I finally gave up and drove home.