Chapter Five Tracey
Chapter Five
Tracey
J ane rose early so she could make it to her favorite yoga class—the one taught by Allegra, an instructor with a soothing voice, creamy and mellifluous, and almond-shaped topaz eyes that were soulful pools of equanimity.
On the studio schedule, Allegra’s class was described as “a powerful flow practice”: ideal for Jane, who was trying hard to flow in all aspects of her life.
Allegra played eclectic background music; the morning’s playlist had some Caetano Veloso, Prince, Radiohead, Joni Mitchell.
The music helped Jane push through her physical discomfort, which perhaps wasn’t the way you were supposed to be flowing—pushing wasn’t flowing, was it?
—but if she didn’t attach to the music she’d engage in endless self-critique: her heels weren’t reaching the floor in down dog, her hips weren’t squared properly in warrior one, her back wasn’t sufficiently arched in wheel.
Jane tried to channel the swirl of her thoughts into her movement, to let the music guide her, to tune out all else, but it was a challenge.
It had been three weeks since their fight over his booted car, and Teddy was still staying at Keith’s place.
They’d mutually agreed it was probably good to take a little break from each other.
Pangs of raw feelings from that night were still surfacing unpredictably: fury for not being able to control herself, but also fury at Teddy for being so irresponsible.
He was dropping hints about wanting to start a family, yet didn’t have his shit together enough to pay parking tickets.
When he’d come over to get some of his belongings, their conversation was stilted, both of them choosing their words ever so carefully.
“I feel bad about what happened,” Jane offered.
“Yeah, me too. I’m sorry about all of it.”
“I am too.”
Somehow, they’d both said they were sorry without actually apologizing for anything. This was followed by a moment of unbearable silence, gloomy seconds that lumbered like hours.
“Are you comfortable at Keith’s?”
“Yeah, he’s chill, so... it’s all good.”
All good . These words could mean so much, or so little. They could be a callous brush-off, or simply mean that things were, in fact, all good .
Since then, they’d been having cordial and increasingly infrequent exchanges, mostly via text.
Maybe one day the messages would cease, sparing them a histrionic breakup.
There was no way to predict. Teddy said he and Keith were “getting all kinds of stuff done,” which most likely meant the consumption of copious amounts of cannabis, endless jam sessions, marathons of gaming, incessant talk about crypto, and of course, hours of sports-watching.
Jane was still struggling to assess how she felt about the non-breakup breakup.
There was part of her that enjoyed being entirely self-sufficient, not worrying about what state she’d find Teddy in when she got home.
Another part of her longed for him—but whether for him specifically or just for some form of companionship, she couldn’t tell.
She chased all these thoughts out of her head as best she could.
The movement and Allegra’s soothing voice helped distract her, so the class went by fairly quickly and before she knew it, she was in corpse pose.
Her spine felt liquid, her muscles were pleasantly rubbery, and her brain nestled against the back of her skull.
She felt both heavy and light, like she was sinking into the ground and levitating at the same time.
After class, students would line up to chat with Allegra.
Jane felt strangely shy about it, but today she was craving connection—connection to her yoga practice, to her teacher, to herself?
She didn’t know. But one thing she knew for sure was that she wasn’t happy with her down dog, so she rolled up her mat and waited her turn.
Allegra, seated on a yoga blanket with legs crossed like a pert Buddha, was talking to Christina, a lean, fine-boned blond, hyper-flexible and strong like a dancer, whom she often asked to demonstrate poses for the group.
“Why do I attract all these guys who are clearly using? My profile says ‘sober living.’ What do they think it means?”
Christina nodded emphatically. “They probably want to drag you off the wagon!”
“Yeah, never going to happen. And why are they all like twenty years older than me? I mean, I know I’m an old soul, but I didn’t put that in my profile.”
Jane hovered nearby, feeling awkward and extraneous.
“I feel you, it really sucks,” Christina assented. “So many of these guys, it’s like, why would we possibly be a match? Because we both breathe? I mean, come on, dude, bring something to the table.”
As they laughed, Allegra noticed Jane and gave her a big smile.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to interrupt—”
“No worries. Just the same old bitch-and-moan. Do you have a question?”
Jane took a step closer.
“Well, I feel like my downward dog is off. I’m really straining to get my heels to the mat, and when I try to focus on the root lock, I end up tensing my back instead—”
“Jane, your down dog looks good. Seriously! If you needed an adjustment, I’d give it to you.”
“But I can’t get my heels flat—”
“It’s a little different for everyone. You can’t get hung up on what it looks like, or getting your heels to the ground if they don’t want to get there. Just focus on how it feels.”
Christina chimed in, “She is one hundred percent so right about that!” This only made Jane feel undermined, and more unsatisfied. She persisted.
“It feels like my shoulders get all hunched.”
“Jane, you are so diligent, and I love that about you, but what you need to focus on in your practice is getting out of your head. Don’t worry about nailing the pose.
Your imperfections are what make you perfect.
” Allegra’s equanimity was maddening. “That is really the most essential part of the practice. Especially for you.”
And with that, she turned back to Christina. “I don’t know, maybe my journey is meant to be a solo journey.”
Feeling depleted rather than energized by yoga class, Jane stopped for coffee. As she got out of her car, she noticed a hulking man back a large Yukon truck into a space reserved for the disabled, then swing his door open and bound out, agile and imperious.
Jane froze. Was she going to confront this jerk, who was the size of a pro wrestler?
Yet a permit was hanging from the rearview mirror.
As if that meant anything. There had been a scandal at UCLA: the men’s football team were using bogus permits to monopolize the accessible parking spots on campus.
It was a travesty with layers of repellence.
The people who had the most to be ashamed of had the least amount of shame.
Jane went inside and took her place in line. As she waited, a memory surfaced.
When she was twelve and her brother was ten, their mother took them to a McDonald’s for lunch.
Transporting John—especially in the winter in Chicago—required a lot of planning and effort.
He usually preferred staying home, but today he was excited about the prospect of a burger and fries, so they hoisted him and his wheelchair into their specially outfitted van.
As they navigated the McDonald’s parking lot, the car right in front of them pulled into the one remaining space with a very clear disabled parking sign.
Her mother’s hands—icy white with blooms of red at her knuckles—clenched the steering wheel as a gaggle of teenage girls poured out of the car, brimming with youth and vigor, giggling and shrieking.
“Should we say something, Mom?” Jane asked.
“We could, but you have to learn to live with these things. Even if you hate them.” Her mother turned to John in the back seat. “How about we do drive-through?” She smiled encouragingly. “We can eat in the car, or take it home? It’s so cold anyway, sweetheart.”
“I’m good with whatever,” John answered, genuinely unperturbed.
Jane had burned with shame as well as anger at the injustice.
She hadn’t done anything wrong, so why did she feel ashamed?
Did she wish her mother had done something?
Did she wish she had? She was relieved they didn’t have to go inside the McDonald’s and watch those girls enjoying themselves, sipping milkshakes and munching fries.
This memory was so vivid that Jane hadn’t realized she was next in line to order. The woman ahead of her was dithering, unable to decide between a cinnamon dolce latte and a caffè misto. Why oh why did she wait until she got right up to the counter to decide what to order?
Jane checked the time, then sighed audibly.
The woman turned around. “Would you like to go ahead of me? I’m still deciding.”
“If you don’t mind, I’m worried about being late for work,” Jane explained.
“I wouldn’t have offered if I minded,” the woman replied with a smile, but in a tone that could be either friendly or tetchy. Now Jane was the one who couldn’t make up her mind.
Ventura Freeway was reputedly the busiest highway in the country and if there were actually a busier one, well, good luck to it.
The freeway’s eight lanes were perpetually clogged by battalions of vehicles, all shapes and sizes, belching exhaust, baking in the sun.
Treacherous long-haul trucks, primed to pulverize anything in their path, barreled ahead.
Growling motorcycles perilously darted in and out of traffic, like frantic gnats with a death wish.
It was November. The hellish scorching months of September and October, the time of Santa Ana winds and days that threatened wildfires and apocalyptic clouds of eye-stinging smoke were, Jane fervently hoped, over for the year. Still, it was very hot.