Separation Anxiety

by Laura Zigman

  Gary and I make Save me! eyes at each other, while Gregory and Sari air-kiss and whisper into each other’s hair, like they’re at a cocktail party. Which they kind of are: within seconds they see more-important friends and drift away from us. Gary and I move toward each other like magnets.

  “I hate them,” he whisper-blurts.

  “Me, too!”

  “He asked me if I wanted to drive his BMW. Which is sad, since it’s a 3 Series. I mean, it’s a nice car, but nurses lease 3 Series! What’s the big deal?”

  “Did you drive it?”

  He shakes his head, lowers his voice. “We got high before we left the house and I didn’t want to be responsible, so he took their Prius.”

  “So the trip hasn’t been a total loss for you.”

  “Some free shitty pot notwithstanding, Judy, it has been a total loss. No visit with my mother, which always yields some highly entertaining gossip about my sisters. No opportunity to meet chicks.” We both laugh. “Seriously. What are we doing here?”

  “I have no idea. It’s all my fault.”

  “Yes! It is!” He stops, in delayed shock. “That was so truthful! You’re never that truthful! What happened?”

  “I don’t know! It’s just—I shouldn’t have spent all that money on this stupid weekend.” I don’t want to admit that I think he was right. That this whole thing feels phony. That Sari Epstein’s creativity retreat is just a slick way for her to make money off vulnerable people who think they need her help. Which I do, but still.

  He looks around the store and signals to me: they’re heading back our way, slowly threading a careful route through farm tables laden with foods marked as WEEKEND PROVISIONS. “At least my exposure to them will end tomorrow.”

  I ask him what he’ll be doing while I’m busy.

  “Taking a tour of the glassblowing mill and visiting the local lutherie—the guitar-building school,” he says. “My own personal creativity retreat.”

  * * *

  Back at Sari’s house, we wait in the living room for dinner, looking at their books, mostly of the health and wellness variety, and at their photos—some little, some big, some hanging on the walls and some lining bookshelves and in silver frames adorning side tables. We see Sari and Gregory through the years: her hair morphing from long to short to long again; Gregory from bearded, to clean-shaven, and back to bearded; together and apart; with students and without. We walk around the room as if we’re in a gallery that’s showing art we’re not sure we like—we look, move along, look again. We see their marriage, vacations, work, evolve, in pictures; and yet who knows what happened in between the seconds caught on film. How it all wove together to make the whole of who they are. I think of our house, how we have only a few family pictures on the walls downstairs or on the bookshelves. Most are upstairs in my bedroom, photos of Teddy when he was two, and three, and five; asleep in his bed in plaid pajamas; pushing a toy plastic shopping cart in Gary’s mother’s yard; sitting on Gary’s lap on a bench by the Charles River with his hand inside a bag of Goldfish. If strangers came in one day and tried to figure us out from the photos on the walls, what would they learn? Would they be able to see the holes in our cloth? Would they be able to tell that we’re not at all who we seem to be?

  Sari and Gregory go out to the barn. We watch them through the big windows, setting up the chairs and creativity stations—drawing pads, writing pads, little metal buckets full of crayons and markers and colored pencils. It looks like the setup for a big birthday party or an after-school daycare center—but instead of readying the room for hyper six-year-olds, they’re prepping for expressive adults in desperate need of artistic guidance. While I watch them drag cushions and mats and heavy woven blankets out of storage closets, then arrange them masterfully in a pile that looks inviting but not messy, I’m uncomfortably conflicted: drawn to the possibility of being helped; embarrassed by the props and tools to be used in that effort. Instead of naps and sippy cups, it will be guided meditations and Noble Journey–branded reusable water bottles.

  Eventually we’ll sit down in the dining room, where Andy will lay out dinner—a big green salad, a platter of grilled fish, a bowl of ancient grains, along with the weekend provisions we’d gathered. In spite of ourselves, Gary and I will get through the meal without incident. At one point I think it’s even possible that we’re almost enjoying ourselves. As we help clear the dishes, Sari will get a text on her phone—a cancellation for a spot in the weekend workshop—and she’ll turn to Gary and invite him to take it, for free, a gift from them to us to celebrate our new friendship.

  “Sometimes things happen to make the impossible suddenly possible,” she’ll say, with a heavy sigh of mysticism. “Clearly it’s a sign that Gary is meant to be here tomorrow, too.” And that is how Gary and I will end up attending the seminar together.

  Before we can think of a way to say no, she and Gregory will turn to each other and kiss on it. As we watch their lips touch, Gary and I will smile awkwardly, then look away. We never like being reminded that other couples still feel and do what we don’t anymore.

  Noble Journey

  Before we sit down at the tables Sari and Gregory arranged last night, we—the attendees—approach a low teak credenza in the barn, in search of our place cards. They are arranged on wooden slabs, like cutting boards, formally but casually, as if we’re about to be seated for a wedding reception or luncheon. Each of the off-white cards has a raw edge and is written in Sari’s perfect script, which I recognize from her calligraphy posts on her Instagram feed. They are like little tiny individual works of art, and I wonder how long it took her to make them.

  “Nice font,” I say under my breath, to Gary, who I realize too late is not the one behind me.

  “It’s called Noble Journey,” Gregory says. “Sari designed it herself. She takes great care with every aspect of the workshop. Nothing is an accident.”

  “Wow,” I say, my voice full of wonder.

  “People want a completely curated experience when they come here.” He drones on like a press release. “That’s what they pay for and that’s what they get. It’s her brand.”

  “That’s why Judy’s here!” Gary says, rescuing me finally. “She loves curated experiences.” We look for our cards, and when we find them, we realize that we’ve been separated, seated at opposite tables.

  “You’re at table two and I’m at table one,” I say.

  “It’s probably a mistake,” Gary says. “I’m just the last-minute add-on.”

  Gregory, who has remained within earshot of us to my great annoyance, shakes his head. “No mistake. We always separate couples. They need to learn how to disconnect from each other and form bonds with other people. To achieve their own noble journey. It’s all part of the creative process,” he says, drawing out the alllll. “Learning to trust others and to trust ourselves instead of always leaning on our spouses.”

  We both laugh.

  “What’s so funny about self-differentiation?”

  Gary fills a heavy earthen mug with coffee from a thermal pitcher and grabs a sticky bun from a platter that no one else has touched. There are small bowls of brown sugar and honey and what I think is agave, and I pray that he doesn’t accessorize his bun with condiments clearly meant for the beverages, something he often does either accidentally or on purpose because he loves sugar so much.

  “It’s just a private joke, my dude,” Gary says humorlessly, his voice edgy, then reaches to grab a napkin. “Judy and I aren’t like other couples. We’re actually quite disconnected from each other already.” It sounds like a joke, and Gregory’s face softens just enough to assure me that we’re not going to be asked to leave. “In fact,” Gary continues, his tone slightly warmer, “we’re experts in ‘self-differentiation.’ We’re officially separated but we can’t afford to live separately, so we just live in opposites parts of the house so that we can continue to co-parent our son as if nothing’s wrong. So if you guys get tired later we could probably
run things for a while.”

  I’m grateful when Gary finally bites into his sticky bun and stops talking. And then I do what I always do when things get awkward with people we barely know: I thank Gary for his honesty.

  “We’re supposed to be honest here, aren’t we though?” he says, suddenly loud enough for everyone at the place-card coffee table to hear. Clearly he’s been triggered and we’re not done yet. “Why shouldn’t Gregory know the truth? I’m not ashamed of us, Judy. Are you?”

  “This guy!” I roll my eyes and laugh, then motion for him to wipe the crumbs and stray pecan from his chin. Of course I’m ashamed!

  People are staring now. They always stare. Today it may be because Gary is the only male seminar attendee, or because he is the only one eating the proffered carbs. But usually it’s his energy and the differential in our demeanors. He vibrates with the hypervigilance of the superanxious—his eyes are always scanning a room, assessing his fight-or-flight options, while I’m completely contained, almost reptilian in my stillness. Which is my own version of hypervigilance: I’m always waiting for Gary to panic, to make a scene, so I try to take up less space and air than he does. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath since we met, unable to fully inhale or exhale; as if there isn’t enough room in the world for both of us.

  Two small wiry women with short gray hair wearing big sweaters over black leggings and clogs with wool socks stop to pick up their cards and heavy mugs of tea. I feel an instant wave of something—sadness—jealousy—anger. They look like Glenn before she got really sick; what she would still look like now if she weren’t sick. Four more younger women, all blondes, wearing thick knitted ponchos and shawls and pom-pom hats like some kind of private tribe, pick up their cards and beverages. Another group of women, weekend warriors in fleece and boiled wool slippers here to tap into their potential, find and hand each other their place cards, then pass around the basket of protein bars. Each group is separate but together, looking after each other, getting ready for the day ahead, like they’re at base camp, preparing to summit.

  Sari finally appears, in leggings and a white cashmere poncho-cape. She smiles wanly as she moves through the room, catching up on what she’s missed. Gregory fills her in like a senior aide to a politician whose been working the room in her absence; she nods as he whispers in her ear, then cues up her response: first going over the basic logistics of the morning session, the “creativity warm-up,” and then addressing the elephant in the room.

  “We have one couple here today, Judy and Gary, but I know that many of you, if not most of you, are married or have been married at one time, so it’s worth talking about the role that relationships play in the creative process,” Sari whisper-lectures. “The culture wants us coupled, and yet coupling can often keep us from our true noble journey—our creative process. Our spouses mean well, but in the daily dance of marital obligation we can get locked into unproductive cycles.” She clasps her hands together. “Unproductive cycles that we need to break out of.” She pulls her hands apart. “Which is why you’re here. And why I’m here. And why Gregory is here.” Here she cracks a wry half-smile. “He knows firsthand how hard it is to be married to a creative person.”

  Gary shoots me a look, and we lock eyes. If he could, he would move a finger toward his mouth. If we’d been allowed to bring our phones into the seminar, he would be texting me our favorite emoji or our second-favorite . He’s dying to leave early and so am I, but there is no way out. Yet. But despite his misery, I suspect there’s a part of him that’s into this, that deep down he wants to form bonds and connect with people other than me. He’s already going back for a second sticky bun and making conversation with one of the tribes of women.

  Sari touches my arm with a mixture of kindness and sympathy. I assume it’s because my husband is embarrassing me—she must know the feeling, given her own husband’s omnipresence, even if they do present as a team. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m great!” I chirp. “But I hope Gary will be okay.”

  We both watch as a group of women surrounds him, then quickly absorbs him as one of their own. Someone hands him a big mug of tea and he takes a tiny tasting sip, then shakes his head in disbelief. “Who needs sugar when there is ah-gav-AY!” he exclaims.

  “A-GAH-vay!” they correct, before all dissolving into laughter.

  Sari tilts her head. “Gary seems to be doing just fine.” An understatement. “I don’t think you need to worry about him.”

  I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about me. I wasn’t planning on him tagging along. I wanted to focus on myself, not spend my day worrying about him fitting in and finding common ground with a bunch of weekend artists he’s never met.

  “This is an opportunity to disconnect from your daily life and reconnect to your inner life so that you can eventually push past your creative block.”

  I nod. I’m trying to disconnect, but I can see him and hear him. I feel like we’re home except we’re here, wasting time and money. Now, on top of being blocked, I’m worried that I’ll have gotten us further into debt for nothing.

  “Just let go, Judy. Let it all go.” She takes a cleansing breath, touches my arm again, then lifts her hands out from under her poncho-cape to capture the scene with her phone. I know that shortly she’ll post pictures and videos in all of her social media feeds, braying about another group of brave souls embarking on their noble journey, and that within minutes hundreds of people will respond with thousands of emojis. Only this time, instead of being at home lurking and feeling envious, I’m actually here, about to experience the magic firsthand. So why do I still feel separate?

  Turning now toward the attendees, her sinewy arms once again appear out from under white cashmere when she raises them to motion us into the room with the crayon tables. “Let’s get started.”

  * * *

  “Starting” starts with sitting on the floor, on meditation cushions, in a silent group “breathe”—a way for us all to get centered “together and apart” to start our “sacred work.” Sari and Gregory take their places on pillows with us. I can’t quite keep my eyes closed during the five-minute meditation, and neither, it seems, can Gary—we catch each other peeking several times a few minutes in, and then point at each other, silently, through clenched teeth, to stop fucking around. But then, something happens: Gary succumbs to the meditation. I peek a few more times to see that his face has softened, giving way to the appearance of complete relaxation. Gone is the furrowed brow, the darting eyes, his tense shallow breathing. Practically snoring, he has surrendered to the first steps of the noble journey. He is letting go. He is all in. I have never been more tense in my life.

  Once the meditation is complete, we take our assigned seats at the round tables. There is the noisy removal of clogs and slippers and moccasins, the guzzling of water bottles, the loud sipping of tea, the rewrapping of woolen wraps as Sari stands before us, about to guide us through our first creativity exercise. People hold crayons and markers above their sketch pads. Through several heads of hair I see Gary, fully engaged with the women on either side of him. They are helping him choose a crayon because he can’t decide on his own. “The colors are all so beautiful I can’t pick just one!” he says, his voice a sudden joyous soprano, and the table erupts in laughter. He is like an ebullient child they are all looking after. I roll my eyes to the woman next to me.

  “Sorry!” I say.

  “For what?”

  I shrug, then point. “My husband. He wasn’t supposed to be here but we had kind of a travel emergency.” Then I whisper, by way of explanation: “He’s not even really a struggling blocked artist.”

  She tilts her face at me, bird-on-the-head style. “But he told us on the way in that he’s a musician who doesn’t play anymore,” she says gently. “Being here could be a really transformative thing for him.”

  A complete stranger—part of the group of women who taught him how to correctly pronounce a natural sweetener this mornin
g—sees him for who he is: the creative person he once was but stopped being. But making such an obvious connection hadn’t occurred to me. I stare down at my empty pad, blinding in its whiteness from the tiny halogen spotlights high up along the exposed ceiling beams. I pull out a red crayon. What. Is. Wrong. With. Me? Though I hadn’t planned on it, this creativity retreat has suddenly turned into a private hellish marriage workshop, one I’m not quite ready to surrender to. I rip out the page from the sketchbook and fold it up. Then I sit on it.

  The first hour is spent doing various ten-minute exercises—using writing and drawing prompts that Sari delivers (“Draw your earliest memory.” “Write ten five-word plotlines for the directions your life has taken.” “What color is your mood right now?”). Then we return to the floor for a longer guided meditation on creativity, and a thirty-minute mini yoga class. While Sari leads us through each activity, Gregory prepares the necessary props and tools: setting out and putting away pillows and mats; replenishing art materials; refilling water bottles and tea mugs with cold and hot water. While I’m coloring or writing, and later when we break for lunch—helping ourselves to plates of vegetarian salads and stews—I can’t help but watch how the two move around the room, silently doing what needs to be done with barely any words. Their communication seems effortless, nonverbal, entirely spiritual. I am both full of disdain for and deeply jealous of their apparent connection. The only person who would understand my feelings is Gary. I long to catch his eye, but he is fully absorbed by the latest activity: creating something—a drawing, a poem, a story, anything—to express one of our biggest frustrations.

  I’m still struggling with what I’m working on—a combo-prose-poem-cartoon of me struggling, and failing, to write—what else?—when Sari reappears, calling us all together on the pillows on the floor.

  “It’s time to share.”

  At first there is nothing but silence. Then shy giggling. Then Gary’s hand shoots up. “I’ll go first.”