The Goddesses

by Swan Huntley

I was also looking at that face thinking what I had thought so many times since it had happened: how could you have done this to me? You, Chuck, of all the husbands I could have chosen—how could you have done this? I had chosen Chuck because I’d thought he was a safe choice. He was the opposite of my turbulent childhood and that’s what I had wanted. I wanted no violence and no neglect, and I had gotten those things. Chuck was never violent or neglectful. He was a good dad. But I also wanted fidelity. Obviously, everyone wanted that. And yes, eighteen years of marriage was a long time and people strayed, but I never expected Chuck to stray. I never expected him to start drinking the way he did either. When the drinking got worse, I thought, Wow, you can make every single choice in life with the intention of not repeating your past, and it repeats itself anyway.

  Finally, Chuck had stopped talking. It took me a second to notice. The waitress was standing there with a dessert menu. “Do you want anything?” Chuck asked.

  I want to go back in time. Start over, make different choices. Maybe choose a different husband.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  We gave the menus back to the waitress, and then Chuck got a look on his face like he’d just remembered something. With his head bowed lower than his new usual way, he asked, “Is it okay if Brad and Marcy come for dinner on Saturday?”

  “Did you already tell them yes?”

  Chuck scratched his neck. “I can tell them to come another time.”

  “It’s fine. We need friends here.” And then, in my new emotionless tone, I said, “All I have right now is you.”

  Chuck looked up at me. “I love you, Nancy.” Several waves crashed in the pause. “You don’t have to say it back. I just want you to know.” Several more waves crashed. The waitress took his credit card. “The way you look at me.” Another wave. “I think you still love me, too.”

  •

  Brad and Marcy on the lanai, taking off their shoes. They looked like they belonged together. Thick necks, small eyes, sandy hair. Their doughy bodies were almost cartoonlike. He wore a too-tight polo shirt and a thick gold watch that was either very expensive or very cheap. She wore a floral tunic and was holding a pie. I wore a pink tunic and khaki shorts—my daily uniform, though the color of the tunic changed—and I’d put on a little makeup for our guests. The house wasn’t messy at all, so I don’t know why the first thing I did was apologize for the mess.

  “Noooo,” Brad said, like he was falling into a well.

  Marcy made a swatting we-don’t-mind motion with her hand. She handed me the pie. “Mulberry,” she said. “It’s fan-tas-tic.”

  “Drove down south to pick it up this morning,” Brad said.

  Marcy and I chatted in the kitchen while the boys set the table and Chuck mixed Brad a vodka drink. “Where’s yours?” Brad asked Chuck. “I’m sticking with soda,” Chuck said too loud. He looked at me for approval and I ignored him. I was trying to pay attention to what Marcy was saying about her lei-making class. Maybe that was something I wanted to do. It sounded a little tedious, but no, maybe it would be fun. Maybe I’d become the type of woman who did crafts now.

  “And afterwards, we can do a power walk,” Marcy said. “That’s what I usually do.”

  The shepherd’s pie looked done enough. I took it out of the oven. Marcy took it upon herself to make the announcement for me. “Dinner’s ready!” she called out like a siren.

  We learned more about our new friends as we ate. Their daughter Elizabeth was a sophomore at UC Santa Cruz. She was “a great kid,” Brad said. “Who dyes her hair such fun colors,” Marcy added. Marcy, like me, had never worked after she got pregnant. “And I love it,” she whispered to me loud enough for everyone to hear. Marcy had been a teacher. “Absolutely not my calling,” she said. “What about you?” she asked me. I told her I’d worked at a clinic. I didn’t tell her it was an abortion clinic, and I didn’t tell her it was absolutely not my calling either. I’d studied sociology in college. I thought I wanted to help people, but I was wrong. The desperation of those women—I think I was scared it would rub off on me.

  We talked about San Diego and how much it had changed since we were kids. The freeways! The traffic! The inferior beaches with their muddy sand and too-cold water. “And kelp vomit,” Jed chimed in.

  “Everything is better here.” Brad looked at his wife. “And we are never leaving.”

  Marcy shrugged. “Kona, who knew?”

  The boys cleared the plates and Marcy helped me with the pie. She had tons of people to introduce me to, she said. She knew how hard it was to start over and make new friends, and she wanted to help in any way she could. Marcy reminded me of the water polo moms back in San Diego. She was a little overbearing and a little insecure and very, very sweet.

  The pie was also very sweet. It was delicious. I ate too much. We all ate too much because we finished it.

  On their way out, Marcy said, “Thank you, dinner was fantastic,” and she promised to be in touch soon. Brad hit Chuck’s arm. “See you at work, my man!”

  And the four of us stood on the lanai like a happy little family, waving at them as they drove away.

  3

  I unpacked. Slowly and carefully and indecisively. I hadn’t moved in eighteen years. And all this furniture was new. I wasn’t used to it. But that was good; we needed new. I would arrange things in a new way.

  I put the mugs in the cabinets facing up instead of down. I arranged the clothes in the closets by color instead of by style. I hung a photo of the four of us above the dining room table. I took it down. In its place I hung a picture of the boys after a game. I took it down.

  I went to the store for nails.

  When I came back, I stepped into my new house with my shoes on because I had forgotten we were following the Hawaiian no-shoes-in-house custom.

  And that was the moment.

  My new house was not my new house. The same photos and the same mugs and the way I had instinctively put the mail on the counter right next to the fruit bowl. This wasn’t new. I’d even saved the pie box Brad and Marcy had brought, so I could use it for the cupcakes I’d make for the team later, just like I’d been doing for years. Why were we always making friends with people who brought us pies? Brad and Marcy weren’t new. They were our old friends all over again. This house was our old house all over again. This was just us, so exactly and predictably us, and this was the moment I thought, Nancy, you have two choices. Get back on the hamster wheel or reinvent yourself ASAP.

  •

  The 7:00 a.m. class was on a swatch of grass right near the beach. I’d read online that yoga had transformed many people’s lives, and I needed a transformation. Plus, I’d been meaning to try it for years.

  I arrived at 6:45 with my new purple mat and watched as people gathered. I was nervous about getting out of the car. These people were in better shape than I was. They plopped their mats in the grass with no hesitation because they knew what they were doing. Maybe I should go home and do some yoga DVDs on my own and come back later.

  A knock on my window. I was so startled I spilled hot coffee all over my hand. I inhaled sharply and put the stupid coffee back in the drink holder and looked up.

  First I saw what she was carrying. A yoga mat and a bulging brightly colored bag with tiny mirrors built into the pattern. Pale hands. Tattoos on her wrists. Tight red shirt with a scooping neckline. Her hair was short and black except for one shocking chunk of neon pink that cradled her face. Her face was open, inviting. Warm brown eyes and dewy skin that everyone in Hawaii seemed to have because it was so humid all the time. She smiled at me. Her teeth were perfect and white.

  I rolled the window down.

  “Hi there,” she said, placing her hand on the car. She looked at the mat in my lap. “You here for class?”

  I opened my mouth, prepared to speak, unsure of what I would say. I was still half planning to go home.

  “The first day is always the worst.” She chuckled. “It’s like being the new kid in school,
right?”

  My mouth was still open and I still wasn’t finding words. I definitely didn’t want to acknowledge I felt like the new kid in school. I was stronger than that.

  “I’m Ana,” she said. She pronounced her name On-a, not the other way.

  I cleared my throat. “Nancy.”

  “Welcome, Nancy,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here.” She smiled again. “I’m going to go set up. I’ll see you over there, yeah?”

  Somehow, that was all I needed. “Yeah,” I said. I grabbed my mat and followed her to the grass.

  •

  Ten minutes after seven, she hit the gong bowl, and when it was done reverberating, she said, “Good morning, yogis. We have a new student today. Everyone, this is Nancy.”

  The chiseled man on my right gave me a little bow. “Welcome.”

  “Nancy, that’s Kurt,” Ana said. “And this is Sara Beth and Patty.” She pointed to them in the row. Sara Beth was young. Bleach-blond pixie cut and her eyebrow was pierced with a hoop. Patty was older, early sixties maybe. She had bed head and wore an oversized T-shirt with a picture of a cat on it and she was tugging at her ear. She waved at me and I waved back.

  “Now,” Ana said, placing her hands in her lap. “Sit up tall. Close your eyes. Imagine your head is attached to a string. Imagine the string is attached to a cloud right above you. The cloud floats up. Your head lifts from your body. Your neck is long, as long as a skyscraper. Length. Lengthen. Relax. Relax your tongue. Relax your throat. Relax all the muscles in your body. Feel as muscle slides away from bone. Feel that tectonic shift.”

  A pause.

  “Lift your heart. Lift it higher. Lift your rib cage. Lift it higher. Imagine there’s a balloon under each of your lungs. Two balloons nestled inside two cages. Fill those balloons. Expand. Expansion. Expand expand expand—now hold your breath at the top and keep holding. Hold it for as long as you can. Hold it for longer than that. Your brain will give up before your body. Always. Skyscraper neck. Unclench your jaw. Lift your heart. Lift your heart. Lift your heart, and when you absolutely have to, let it go.”

  I exhaled, feeling dizzy.

  “Good,” Ana said. “Now in, out. Hear the ocean. Breathe like the ocean.”

  After a few breaths, I peeked to make sure I was doing what she was doing. Her hands were on her knees. I put my hands on my knees. Her face was relaxed. Was mine? I kept studying her. She was pretty. Full lips and high cheekbones, a good nose. Her eyes were deep-set. They made her look like a thoughtful person. Her body was curvy like mine, which was comforting—curvy women could do yoga, too. Her breasts were large, definitely larger than mine. Large and intact and proudly displayed in her plunging red tank top because she was obviously very confident. Mine were covered by the new zip-up jacket I’d bought at Foot Locker in preparation for this.

  “You are at the beach. It is morning. Listen to the sounds.” She paused. “Birds, waves.” A car honked and she laughed. “When your mind wanders, come back. Back back back. You’re not at the grocery store yet. You’re not surfing yet, Kurt.” She chuckled. Then she opened her eyes and reached for a book. “I’m going to quote a little Pema this morning. It’s short.”

  She fingered her bookmark, found the page. “Here it is: The truth you believe in and cling to makes you unavailable to hear anything new.” She paused. Then she said it again. Then she set the book in the grass. “We all have a story about how this day is going to go. How this life is going to go. Cop to your story. Let go of your story. Expect nothing.” Pause. “Expectation is disappointment waiting to happen. It’s bad for your heart. Broaden your chest. Lift your heart. Lift it onto a higher plane.”

  Her words, so unexpectedly poetic, gave me the chills. I felt moved. I felt like more was possible, which was exactly what I’d been wanting to feel. I thought of something I’d heard Oprah say once. We are most teachable during the hard times in our lives. Hard times make us open. They make us available to hear new things. I unzipped my jacket a little and inhaled the fresh salty air and thought: That’s right, Nancy, you are not at the grocery store yet, and you are not trapped, and this breathable jacket you bought was a very good choice.

  “Let’s start with three oms,” she said.

  I was self-conscious at first—my om sounded too high-pitched next to Kurt’s—so I deepened my voice. By the third om, I was thinking: Okay, I can do this.

  We moved on to poses. I copied Kurt when I didn’t know what to do. Ana walked around adjusting our bodies. In downward dog, she said, “Imagine your lungs have migrated south to the space above your pelvis. Now breathe into that southern place.” She pulled my hips back and when my spine cracked she said, “Aah.”

  When Kurt’s leg touched mine by accident, she said, “If you bump into the person next to you, don’t worry about it. We’re all in this thing called life together. We’re all in the same boat, paddling through the same water.”

  She spoke in a soft and confident tone. In cat/cow, she told us to move like our bodies were scraping peanut butter from the inside of a jar. She told us to glom our hands into the mat like we were glomming them into mud. She quoted Lao-tzu and Rumi. She said wise things I agreed with. I’d probably read versions of these things before, but there on the beach with the waves and the birds and the certainty of her mesmerizing voice, every word felt more powerful. She said our thoughts would create our destinies. She said letting go was the bravest thing a person could do. She said wretchedness and generosity needed each other to survive, the same way fire needed water and water needed fire, and the earth needed the sky, and all of it—the whole thing—needed wind to keep moving, to keep breathing. She reminded us to keep breathing.

  As we breathed and moved and the sun rose higher in the sky, I found myself wondering about Ana. Who was this woman with the pink in her hair and the tribal bracelet tattoos around her wrists? And had she always been so confident? That’s what I really wanted to know. She carried her curves without apology. When her tank top rode up her stomach, she left it there to expose her alabaster skin. She wore no wedding ring and smelled deeply of coconut oil, and she kept telling me I was doing great. “Great, Nancy, that’s beautiful, yes.”

  At the end she said, “Peace to all beings, no exceptions.” And as she bowed forward: “And that means no exceptions.”

  She said we could put our ten dollars in the basket. I rolled my yoga mat up as tightly as possible and thought about how nice it was to feel so relaxed.

  Getting to the basket included taking part in a small procession. Everyone had something to say to her.

  “I really needed that class,” Patty said. “I think Marbles is going to die any day now.”

  Ana hugged her. “Oh, Patty,” she said, “you’re suffering.”

  Patty frowned and looked down at the cat on her shirt. Which—oh, this wasn’t a generic cat. This was Marbles. I could now see that MARBLES was literally written across the bottom.

  “We all have our own journey,” Ana said. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, showing Patty how to breathe. “We are born alone and we die alone. That’s just how it is, Patty. There’s only one way to cure your suffering.”

  Patty perked up. “What is it?”

  Ana’s hand on Patty’s shoulder. “Acceptance, my friend.”

  Patty’s whole body slumped.

  “Here,” Ana said, “have a few Red Vines.” She held out the tub, which I knew was a Costco purchase. As Patty reached for her Red Vines, I was reminded of the boys, who used to love it when I bought these tubs—this was before they had switched to Reese’s cups—and I was also reminded of my mother for some reason. Maybe the red straws she used to drink from.

  Patty took a handful, and Ana kissed her cheek. “Enjoy your life, Patty. You only get one.”

  Next it was Sara Beth’s turn. “I adore you, Ana.” Sara Beth draped her skinny arms around Ana’s shoulders.

  Just then Kurt turned to me, extended his hand, and said, “Kurt.” We shook. He flashed a per
fect white smile, made whiter by his very tan skin. How did these people have such perfect teeth? Kurt was maybe fifty-five, and his skin was good-tan, not yam-tan. He had the beautiful, light-damaged eyes of a surfer. They were rugged and pristine like water you might want to swim in.

  “You live here or visiting?”

  “We just moved here,” I said.

  “I moved here from Idaho seven years ago and it’s the best thing I ever did.”

  I didn’t have anything to say about Idaho besides potato, so I just nodded.

  “Well hey, if you’re looking for a dentist, I’m a dentist.”

  “Thank you,” I said, understanding his teeth now. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  When Sara Beth was done with Ana, she circled back to me and said, “Come back, okay?” She gave me a thumbs-up. Her nails were painted bright green.

  What was wrong with these people? They were so friendly! Sara Beth was probably too young to be a friend-friend, but then maybe I could have young friends now. Maybe I could be open to that.

  Kurt thanked Ana. “Gotta shove off,” he said. “The waves are calling.”

  “Take some Red Vines,” Ana offered.

  “Not today.” Kurt patted his abs. “I’m on paleo.” With that smile and that body and the beach behind him, he looked like the star of an energy drink commercial.

  “Don’t you just love perfectionists?” Ana asked, looking at me, and I laughed awkwardly.

  Kurt kissed her cheek and then turned to say good-bye. He lifted his hand as if about to wave, but then he stopped. He looked at Ana. He looked at me. He looked back at Ana. He looked back at me. He said, “You two look like sisters.”

  Ana and I looked at each other. “We do have a resemblance,” she said, and I was flattered. Because Ana was pretty—prettier than me, I thought—and also because she just seemed so wonderful.

  “Aloha, ladies.” Kurt gave us the hang-loose sign and walked toward the truck with the surfboard in the back.

  “Oh, Kurt!” Ana called after him. “My veneer thing!”

  “Call me at the office! We’ll figure it out!”