Miraculously, there’s a rattle of chains from inside, and the door swings open. Before Graciela has a chance to register on Stephanie, she’s greeted by a wave of warm, stale air that carries with it a stronger version of the kitty litter odor and the unmistakable smell of alcohol. A skinny little orange and black cat struts out into the hallway, and then Stephanie, acting as if everything is totally fine, stands in the doorway and says, “Graciela. What are you doing here?”
Except her mouth is so dry, it’s hard for her to pronounce consonants, and the words are garbled.
“She’s worried about you, that’s what she’s doing here,” Billie says. “And looking at you, I don’t blame her.”
“I hadn’t heard from you in a few days,” Graciela says, “so I got worried.”
Stephanie’s short hair is matted to her head, and her eyes are so red and swollen, Graciela can almost feel an ache in her own eyes when she looks at them. She’s wearing a sweatshirt that’s dirty in ways Graciela doesn’t want to speculate on and a pair of nubby black sweatpants covered in a layer of cat hair and crumbs.
“I’ve been working,” Stephanie drawls, the least convincing thing Graciela’s heard in a long time.
“I figured it was something like that. I know you’ve had a lot on your plate. Mind if we come in?”
But before Stephanie can answer, Billie has pushed her way into the apartment and, emboldened, Graciela follows. The apartment doesn’t look any better than Stephanie herself—newspapers and take-out food containers are scattered everywhere, and on a coffee table near the sofa, there are more empty wine bottles than Graciela cares to see. There’s a pile of blankets and rumpled sheets on top of the sofa, meaning Stephanie has been sleeping there. The TV is playing with the sound off, and after a minute, Graciela realizes it’s Silver Linings.
Most unsettling of all is a big pile of kitty litter in the middle of the room, as if Stephanie was too out of it to fill the box and just dumped it out of the bag onto the floor.
A little gray cat scoots out from under the sofa and rubs against Graciela’s leg. She bends down and picks up the sweet little thing.
“Oh, Marlene, there you are,” Stephanie says. “I’ve been looking for her. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to tidy up today. I was on the phone, and I was just about to do a yoga tape.”
Graciela thinks about the last time she saw Stephanie. It doesn’t seem possible that it was only about two weeks ago. She’s suffered such a steep decline, and it’s so visible, Graciela feels sick to her stomach. She holds the little cat up near her shoulder and rubs her face against its fur for comfort.
“Stephanie,” she says, “I don’t . . . what happened? How did you . . . ?”
But Stephanie has such a far-off look in her eyes, seems so clearly to be not there that Graciela knows she isn’t going to answer. Even if she herself could formulate a coherent question. Billie has installed herself in the one chair in the room that’s relatively uncluttered. “I love this chair,” she says, patting the arms. “Did you get it at Ikea?”
What are you supposed to do in a situation like this? It would almost be simpler if Stephanie were passed out; then Graciela could at least call an ambulance. What Graciela really wants to do is run away and forget she saw any of this. But she can’t do that. She owes Stephanie. She drops the kitty down onto the floor and walks slowly toward a glass door. She slides it open, and there’s a rush of air into the room that’s so cool and sweet, it makes Graciela think she’s never fully appreciated the air quality in L.A. She steps out onto a little balcony, takes out her phone, and calls the only person she can think of right now.
After many years of some pretty heavy life experience, Katherine thought she was way past shyness and modesty. The list of “Things She Hasn’t Done” would be as short as the list of “Mistakes She Hasn’t Made.” But right at the top of the roster of new experiences would be: “Date a decent, honest guy.” So maybe that explains why she feels so oddly shy about sitting up in front of Conor, half naked and, after twenty minutes of his massage, flushed and blissed out.
“Turn around, Mr. Ross,” she says. “It’s a professional courtesy. I’m teaching you the tricks of the trade.”
He runs his hand down her spine, right to where the curve of her butt begins, gives her a crooked smile, and sits on the edge of the massage table, his back to her. She props herself up and leans against him, so he’s supporting her weight. Katherine can imagine lots worse ways to spend the rest of the day than closing her eyes and staying in exactly this position. And frankly, she can’t think of too many nicer ways. Please don’t fuck this up, she thinks. But she isn’t sure if she’s directing the thought to Conor or to herself, and she’s not sure if there even is a “this” yet.
“I’m so glad you picked up,” Lee says. “I’m up at the house.”
“I know,” Katherine tells her. “Chloe said you’re having some kind of meeting.”
“I was, but I don’t have time to talk about that. I just got a call from Graciela. She’s at Stephanie’s apartment, and it sounds as if Stephanie’s in trouble. Possibly serious.”
As soon as Lee gives her the news, Katherine realizes she’s been waiting to hear something like this for a long time now. Stephanie has the unmistakably fractured energy of someone who’s abusing something and headed for a fall.
“Alcohol?” Katherine asks.
“That and maybe pills, too. Graciela isn’t too familiar with this kind of thing.”
No surprise there, either. Whatever Graciela’s demons might be—and everyone has their own resident devils—they clearly do not live in the neighborhood of drugs and booze.
“She wants me to meet her down there. It’s not great timing, but she sounded pretty worked up.”
“What can I do?” Katherine asks.
Conor, sensing the mood apparently, turns around and starts massaging her shoulders and gently rubbing his cheek along her neck as Lee fills her in. Lee would like her to call Barrett and have her bring the twins back to the studio. Make sure everyone’s settled in for a few hours and give Barrett thirty bucks, in case she ends up having to take the kids out for dinner. Then walk down to the reservoir, where Lee will pick her up. She’s not sure she’s prepared to face this alone.
“I’ve got a little experience in this area,” Katherine says, hoping there’s no follow-up question from Conor later. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she says. “I’m with a friend right now.”
Conor takes this as a cue to kiss her neck.
“Oh, the fireman!” Lee says. “I forgot. Never mind, Kat, you stay there. I’ll be fine.”
“No, I don’t want you to go alone. I’ll meet you down at the reservoir.” She flips her phone shut.
“Problem?” Conor asks.
Reluctantly, Katherine slides off the table and pulls her shirt on. “One of Lee’s students,” she says. “Sounds like she’s been on a binge or something. I’m going out to West Hollywood with Lee to see if I can help. Good Samaritan and all that.” She turns around and Conor is standing, arms across his chest, still grinning. “Can’t you be at least a little disappointed I’m leaving, Mr. Ross?”
“I would be if I weren’t coming with you. Don’t forget I’m a professional Good Samaritan, Brodski.”
Barrett is twenty years old and a senior in college. She’s a short, small woman who, like a lot of girls who trained to be professional gymnasts, looks as if she’s never quite got past age fourteen. She wears her hair in a ponytail, and she talks in a high voice with a slight lisp.
She comes skipping into the studio with the twins and, if she didn’t know better, Katherine would have guessed she was their slightly older sibling. Which, all things considered, is a pretty creepy thought. The twins’ faces are smeared with chocolate, but, knowing Barrett, it’s probably from one of the cocoa puddings they sell at the raw food café down the street. Barrett opens the door to the yoga room and Michael and Marcus dash in.
“Cute,�
� Conor says. “They remind me of my sister’s kids.”
“Your poor sister,” Katherine says.
“Don’t say that! ” Barrett says. “They were better today! Only one fight. Well, only one major fight. They’re really upset about what’s going on with their parents.”
Well, who isn’t?
Marcus is stacking up the yoga blocks in the careful way he tends to do everything. Architect is Katherine’s guess for his future, but in truth, she doesn’t really know a whole lot about kids. As soon as he has a stack nearly as high as his head, Michael makes a beeline from the opposite side of the room and knocks it down. Marcus screams at him and launches into a futile defense of his territory.
“I spoke too soon,” Barrett lisps. She effortlessly pops herself up onto the counter at the front desk.
Barrett teaches a yoga class for kids on Saturday mornings. Half price because she’s not fully certified yet. She’s developing a pretty loyal following of mothers who want to get their kids into something that helps them focus. Katherine observed the class once and couldn’t get past her voice. But there’s room for a little of everything.
Conor walks into the yoga room and the glass doors swing closed behind him. Like most bullies, Michael responds well to a more physically imposing presence. He begins a wary and quiet retreat from his brother as soon as he gets a good glimpse at Conor’s size. Conor kneels down on the floor in front of Marcus and begins helping him stack the blocks. “Hey,” he calls out to Michael, “come over here for a minute. We need your help.”
“Smart,” Barrett says. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do—enlist his help. That way, he won’t want to knock it down. It’s just he doesn’t listen when I tell him.”
“It helps to be six-four,” Katherine says. “And have red hair. And a dick.” She looks at Barrett. “Sorry.”
“I’m not a kid,” Barrett says. “I know what those are.” She pulls both legs up on the counter and bends at the waist toward her feet in the most perfect forward fold Katherine has ever seen. “I’ve even sucked one.”
“Too much information,” Katherine says.
Katherine tells Barrett the new plan of action, without mentioning the real reasons. The fewer people who know about Stephanie’s problem, the less likely a lot of rumors are going to start spreading.
Conor comes out of the yoga room and slips his hand around Katherine’s waist. Why is this all so easy so quickly? “You handled that pretty well,” Katherine says.
“Speaking as someone who’s never done an up dog in his life, don’t you think someone ought to get those kids into a yoga class? ”
Talking to her knees, Barrett says, “Alan tried to get them to go, but Lee doesn’t want to force them into anything just because it’s her field or whatever.”
“Well, it sounds like that’s where you come in,” Conor says. “You’re the resident kid expert, no?”
Barrett pops up and vaults off the counter. “I could give it a shot,” she says. “Even though I don’t have a dick.”
A few minutes later, Katherine and Conor are walking down to the reservoir to meet Lee. It’s a warm late afternoon, and the houses are glowing in the sun. “Are you good at everything? ” Katherine asks. “Are you one of those really nice guys who’s just good at everything?”
“I’ve got my fair share of weak points and fuckups, Brodski.”
“I’m not sure I believe you. Like you had some drunken, drug-ridden past?”
“I’ve had a few beers in my life. But no drugs. My brother fucked up his life on that shit. I spent years trying to keep him clean, he’d get better, and then he’d go right back.”
“I’m sorry. How is he now?”
“Let’s talk about something else,” he says.
Yes, that suddenly seems like a very good idea. “How long are you stationed at the firehouse?” she asks.
“I’m doing rotations of different neighborhoods. I’ll probably end up being here for a couple of months, total. Lucky we met when we did.”
Katherine hopes that’s true. She does want to believe it was lucky.
Late in a long, emotional roller coaster of a day, the sight of Katherine and her fireman sitting on a bench beside the reservoir is a welcome relief. He’s sprawled across the seat with his arms spread along the back, showing off a singularly impressive wingspan. He’s saying something to Katherine, and she’s laughing, really laughing, in a way that Lee rarely sees. It would be nice if something finally worked out for Katherine in this area. It’s the missing piece in the puzzle of her life after all the disappointments and disasters. She can see the two of them glowing when they come over to the car. “I’m sorry to break up your day like this,” Lee says. She almost used the word “date,” but she has a feeling Katherine would bristle.
“Conor’s professionally obliged to have his day broken up by crises,” Katherine says and makes introductions.
“I’d love to come and help if I can,” Conor says. “But if that’s awkward . . .”
“Of course not. It might be helpful to have you there.”
There’s something so reassuring about Conor, the big solid presence of him, Lee agrees to let him drive to West Hollywood. Anyway, he’s much too tall to fit into the backseat comfortably, and she likes the idea of stretching out herself back there. She fills him and Katherine in on what she knows about the situation, and Conor assures them he’s pretty good at handling such things. “I know a lot of people who’ve fucked themselves up over and over again.”
Katherine casts a worried glance in Lee’s direction.
Despite all the progress Katherine’s made in the past two years, and her appealing tough-girl routine, she still tends to take things personally, mostly because she feels so bad about the mistakes she’s made over the years. She feels she should be criticized and punished, and so she’s always ready to spot criticism, even when none is intended. It’s all that good old Catholic guilt that was drummed into her from birth about how unworthy she is of being loved, even though, from the sounds of it, it’s everyone around her who was unworthy of her.
“What do you think of the studio?” Lee asks.
“It’s great,” Conor says. “Very low-key. I like that.”
“Conor’s coming to your advanced inversions workshop next week,” Katherine says.
“Careful what you joke about,” he says. “I just might. I’ve never minded making a fool of myself.”
Lee calls Graciela, and by the time they pull up in front of Stephanie’s building, she’s standing on the sidewalk, her arms wrapped around her, visibly shaken. When Lee goes to hug her, Graciela melts against her shoulder and starts to cry.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m really, really sorry. I probably shouldn’t have had you come all the way out here. It’s just been a long day, and . . .”
“Don’t even think of it,” Lee says. “What’s going on in there? ”
“I don’t even know. She seems out of it and the place is a mess. It seems like she’s dehydrated, and she keeps drifting off. There’s this crazy neighbor of hers. . . . Anyway, as soon as I told her I thought we should go to the hospital, she started getting hostile.” She looks over at Katherine and Conor. “I didn’t mean for everybody . . .”
“It’s all right,” Katherine says. “We wanted to come. This is Conor, by the way.”
“Hi. Sorry to get you down here.”
“Did she hit you?” Conor asks.
Graciela shakes her head no.
“How’d you get that . . .” He points to a small cut on Graciela’s forehead.
“She threw a few things around, but it didn’t seem like she was aiming or anything. It was just an accident.”
“I know a lot of EMTs,” Conor says. “I can call one and have an ambulance down here in no time, if that’s best. We’ll make sure they don’t have the lights on and that the whole thing is done very quietly.”
Lee can see that Graciela is more comforted by the presence
of this big capable guy than she is by either Katherine or her. With her thick, tangled hair and her dark features and perfect complexion, Graciela looks even more beautiful in her exhaustion and weariness than she usually does.
“You don’t think that will make things worse?”
“I’ll take responsibility if it does,” Conor says. “Let’s go in. There’s someone else in there now?”
“Billie, her neighbor. But she can pretty much take care of herself.”
Graciela starts walking toward the apartment building, and Katherine nudges Conor and says, “Go in with her. She’s a mess right now.”
“Come with us.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t overwhelm her with too many people. We’ll call in a few minutes and you can let us in.”
Lee watches them heading into the building, checks out the look of sad resignation on Katherine’s face, and wishes she hadn’t interrupted the date by asking Katherine to come down here.
“Great guy you’ve got there,” she says.
“Yeah. Probably too great for me.”
“No one’s too great for you, Kat.”
Katherine starts laughing. “That’s such a line, Lee. And so not true. He really deserves someone like Graciela—sweet, no past.”
Lee puts her hand on Katherine’s arm. “Don’t do this,” Lee says.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please? For me? Don’t. Now let’s go in and see what we can do.”
PART TWO
Every Tuesday and Thursday morning for the past three weeks, Becky has been picking up Imani and driving her to a yoga class at a different studio somewhere in L.A. While Imani knew it was a big trend and “everyone” was doing it, she had no idea there were so many available options. Becky told her she knows of about 120 studios scattered around the city, and that doesn’t include the private places and the out-of-the-way classes taught in community centers and schools and gyms and the YMCA.
Tales from the Yoga Studio Page 10