Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
It’s not the meditating I have an issue with—I’ve read enough articles on high-performing CEOs doing it to keep their sanity to knock it—it’s the fact that I suck at it.
“Have you ever taken a deep breath?” Banyan’s voice is just as annoying today as it was yesterday. “Or sat still?”
My eyes fly open to glare at him. “I am taking deep breaths.” I inhale and exhale with sound for emphasis.
“Maybe us sitting cross-legged like a bunch of kindergarteners between grapevines isn’t as helpful as you think.
” My brows lift. “Or, just maybe, us crazy capitalists are onto something with actually working and not spending our time chasing vibes.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” He waves his white-flag hands. “Don’t bring The Man into this. Nobody needs his chokehold and rules. I’m just saying, Big Mama knows when you’re fighting her.”
My palms, currently open toward the sky in order to receive energy, clench into tight fists. “Big Mama?”
“Mama Nature.” He twirls a finger through the air. “All knowing. Responsible for it all.” He drops his head back and breathes deep—sniffs, really—then looks at me as he releases a long “Mamaaaaa. What isn’t the Fire Lady telling us?”
My gaze drifts over Banyan’s shoulder, down the row of grapes, and to the metal building in the distance; the only vehicle parked there is Banyan’s van.
I’m not thinking about the fit of two bodies in a closet or the way I was whispered off a ledge of panic or how a brutish beard can feel like heaven when scraped against skin. “Nothing.”
“Lie all you want,” Banyan says, “but the body keeps the score. Can’t hold on to everything forever.” He squints. “Did something happen? We were making progress last week and now—” His face twists. “This.”
“No,” I snap.
Sure, I ended last week more relaxed than I’ve been in years.
Maybe a decade. And then Gavin showed up and held me and kissed me in a way I very much liked, and it has derailed me for days.
I’m on edge. I can’t think. At night I lie in bed and stare at Joshua Jackson’s face and mutter about what a mess this is then imagine what it would have been like if we had three more hours in that closet.
And so, I’m back to avoiding Gavin and ignoring his bad-joke texts. Even the one that came through just an hour ago reminding me of our pending date.
I’m doing everything right with my eating and exercise; my uterus can overlook my inability to relax.
“Your shirt is buttoned,” I snip at Banyan. “I’d say that counts for more progress than you getting me to sit here and play Zen with you.”
“Play Zen.” He gives me a lazy smile. “I like that.”
I do not.
He taught me about the grapes last week in exchange for me going barefoot. This week he vowed to keep his entire shirt buttoned and teach me the tasting menu if I meditate.
“I’m stressed just standing next to you,” he told me with a shiver yesterday. “You might need to be saged, little lady.”
Now here we are, sitting directly in front of each other, cross-legged on Mexican blankets between the trellised rows.
“How do you feel about chanting?” he asks.
“How the fuck do you think I feel about chanting?”
“Yikes.” His eyes widen. “You need a long rub of a Buddha’s belly.
” He shakes a finger at me. “That’s the kind of energy I’m talking about.
What is that? That’s negative. Harsh.” He cringes at how harsh this is.
“You feel any of that coming off me?” He’s as close to outraged as he gets.
“No. And are you even thinking of the vines?” He pauses, brows so high they nearly get swallowed by his bandana.
He looks at the grapes. “Shake her off, ladies. Harvest is coming.” Next week, he’s right. To me: “Close your eyes.”
With a sharp sigh, once again, I do.
“Reesey-piecey, your shoulders are at your ears. Re-lax.” When my eyes spring open he adds, “Should we try some—” He pinches his fingers together and takes an imaginary toke. “Green enlightenment?”
“No,” I say through clenched teeth. “And never call me that again.”
“What’s the progress on you getting laid?”
“Why is everything about sex with you?”
He laughs. “What else would it be about?”
I make a disbelieving sound. “Literally anything.”
“Does literally anything bring you pleasure?”
My jaw drops. “Do you understand the concept of professionalism in the workplace?”
“Workplace.” He bats a hand like that’s nonsense; judging by our current situation, I might agree. “I know how to feel good, and you don’t. We are sex embodied, and we need to figure out what you want.” He dips his chin. “And like.”
I shoo a gnat from my eyes. “What I want is to learn about these damn grapes and get on with my day. And I’d like for you to stop making that so difficult.”
He gestures to the grapes, outraged. “They’re right here.”
He’d have a stroke if he knew I wanted to light him and them on fire. “Can you please be normal?”
“Normal, shmormal,” he whines. “We need to set you free from the chains of the perfectionism.” He tugs at the collar of his white linen shirt like it’s smothering him. “Your attachment to the illusion is holding your joy hostage, Fire Lady.”
My blood boils. “Will. You. Stop. Cal—”
“We’re a species of change,” he says over me, spinning his hands then swaying like he’s possessed by Sylvia. “Evolution. Enjoying the ride not controlling it. Do you ever stop working against the energetical current and lean into Big Mama’s rhythms?”
We both know the answer to that. “That what you call whispering sweet nothings into the ears of fruit?”
His heavy sigh represents how I feel.
He folds one arm over his chest while bringing the opposite hand to his mouth, pondering, as he, a van-living, unemployed, grown-ass hippie man fulfilling community service hours, sits cross-legged in the middle of the damn day.
He stares at me for roughly nine thousand years, extending his hand toward me like he wants to say something only to remain silent and snap his hand back to his mouth.
Repeatedly.
I want to strangle him with the yarn cords of his necklace but opt to remain sitting cross-legged in the grass like a kid on a field trip.
Finally, he points his fingers at me like guns. “She told me.”
I don’t even need to ask to know he’s talking about Big Mama.
He rubs his hands together. “Close your eyes.”
Here we go.
We tried this yesterday, and it was a waste.
And while I don’t buy into any of the bullshit he’s babbling, I also know I’m here for the long game.
Money’s been invested, and I refuse to lose a dime because some bandana-headed hippie chains himself to a grapevine on account of me not being able to relax.
I can relax. Like a boss . . . if bosses ever had time to relax.
And if not for this vineyard, for the baby.
I’ll choose excellence, even it means sitting here and doing nothing.
I blow out a breath and close my eyes.
At first, I feel the warmth. The grass poking through the blanket beneath me and an ant crawling up my shin. And then: I fucking hate this—I feel that one all the way to the depths of my bowels.
“Imagine your thoughts are balloons being held by a hand,” Banyan instructs. “Every thought, stress, and worry is written on each balloon.”
At first, there’s nothing. Noise, really. A cacophony of thoughts. But then, to my surprise, there they are: a cluster of bright yellow balloons with words like Fizz Co, Chicago, Sperm Donor, Mom’s Tumor, and Matt, to name a few, all held together by a hand—my hand—against a clear blue sky.
“Release the balloons,” Banyan says in a calm voice. “Watch them float into the sky, taking your worries with them.”
I try—hard—but my imaginary hand won’t release its clutch on the strings.
“Relax your jaw,” Banyan says. I didn’t know my jaw was clenched. “And choose one balloon to release instead. One thought you can let go of . . . just for now.
I choose one—the Matt balloon—and off it goes.
I hope it gets popped by an airplane then impaled by a lollipop.
“Now take a deep breath”—I do—“and release another one.”
We repeat this, and with every breath I become less aware of what’s happening around us and hyper focused on releasing the balloons.
One by one by one, they fly to the imaginary cloudless sky.
Banyan’s voice is low and level. “Keeping your eyes closed and breathing steady, nod if you have any left.”
I nod; there’s one.
“Can you release it?”
I will never understand what’s happening, but I can’t. My mind won’t let the last balloon leave my mental clutch.
“Is it a negative thought?”
I hesitate—is it? I don’t know. My pulse elevates as I fight to keep my eyes closed. Reluctantly, I shake my head.
Banyan says, “Tie it to a branch.”
“There’s no—”
But yes, there it is. A branch appears and I tie off the balloon.
“That balloon is safe,” he says. “Just like you. Safe enough to breathe. Your only job is to focus on that feeling. Safely being able to inhale and exhale, looking at that balloon as much as you need to.”
I breathe.
I breathe and I breathe and I breathe and I breathe.
I know the balloon is there. I see it. The letters scribbled across it. Every time they appear, I feel a little more calm, which makes me a little more confused. Why this balloon? I want to ask someone in my head.
“When your mind starts to wander,” Banyan says, “come back to that balloon and your breath.”
So I do.
Over and over.
I think of getting pregnant and a wave of anxiety washes over me; the balloon appears.
I think of how much I hate sitting here being told to breathe by an idiot named Banyan; there’s the balloon.
I think of Matt atop a tower of Fizz Co cans. Yep: balloon.
I try to force it to fly but it won’t.
Inhale—balloon.
Exhale—balloon.
Banyan tells me to come back to my body, and the balloon vanishes. I feel my legs and the grass and the late-morning sun.
A bell chimes and my eyes fly open. Where did Banyan get a bell?
“How’s that?” he asks.
I self-assess; I’m relaxed. And, at the thought of the balloon, slightly panicked. I’m panicked calm. “Weird.”
Because it is weird. Ten minutes ago, I felt nothing but annoyed, but now there’s a bone-deep calm. Fizz Co numbers aren’t playing in the background, there’s no to-do list I’m worried about. I’m simply in this vineyard in this moment.
But also . . . that balloon.
He rubs the tip of his nose and says to the grapes, “Peace on earth, ladies.”
I stand and brush the grass off my legs. “Let’s get to work.”
The rest of the day is dedicated to being in the tasting room to cover flight options and descriptions. I’ve always thought one grape equals one wine, but that’s not the case at all. With two varieties grown on the property—Seyval blanc and chambourcin—we produce six wines.
To limit my alcohol consumption, I only take small sips, but the flavors they pack are robust and nuanced.
With crisp, refreshing notes of fruit and vanilla, the Annealed Reserve is by far my favorite, but there’s something for every palate.
The Incalmo Port is rich and spicy while the Etched Reserve has a merlot-like quality.
Banyan thinks a sangria with the Gather would do well.
He mixes a sampling up—it’s phenomenal—but it probably wouldn’t be very popular in the fall as the flavors scream sunshine and summer.
“Unless,” I say, eying the port. “We try something with this.”
Banyan clanks his glass to mine. “Fire Lady’s onto something.”
Learning about the wine is fascinating. And fun. A puzzle trying to put all the flavors where they belong while figuring out the language to sell them. I like wine, but I don’t know it—not at this level. Not yet.
Done for the day, Banyan stands and slips his headphones over his ears.
“Why did today work?” I ask. “The meditating, I mean. The last tries were a bust, but today—the balloons—why?”
“Ahhh.” Banyan drops the headphones to his neck and grins before tapping the side of his crooked nose. “There it is.” He claps and rubs his hands together. “You found the thing.”
“The thing?”
“The balloon you couldn’t get rid of is the thing you want.” My stomach flip-flops. That can’t be right. “Or person.” He winks then slips his headphones back to his ears. “See ya tomorrow, Fire Lady.”
The door clicks closed behind him.
I scowl at the closed door. Banyan is not the expert on my wants. He’s not even a real expert on wine—he’s a criminal!
“I want Fizz Co,” I say to the empty tasting room. “And a baby. And I want this vineyard to turn a profit.”
With the soft reopening this weekend, the space looks as it should—clean, organized, and welcoming. I’ll be here behind the counter and Banyan will be in the vines educating the visitors—with his shirt buttoned up.
School bus brakes cut through the quiet. Out the window, Addie bounces off the bus, waving when she sees me before going in to see her grandmother.
This is our afternoon routine. She visits Nancy—Nan, as Addie calls her—while I wrap things up before we go to Mom’s to practice her lines.
I lock the door to the tasting room, but instead of going straight to Nancy’s, I veer left. Down the rows, across a patch of field, and around a small pond . . . to Gavin’s shop. It’s empty.
I’ve been so busy the last two weeks, this is the closest I’ve been to it, and it looks exactly as it does from across the property. It’s large, white, and a style I’d classify as economical.
The section with garage doors doesn’t have any windows. I tug on one of the metal handles of the doors on rollers; it doesn’t budge.
At the portion I assume where Gavin wanted to live, there are windows—lots of them—and a dark wooden door like a normal house. With cupped hands, I peer at the bare-bones interior.
The walls are covered in unfinished drywall and cut-off pipes protrude from the concrete floor. Capped wires dangle from holes in the ceiling.
As out of place as a yellow balloon with his name stamped on it, I imagine what it might look like if it were finished and lived in.
By me.
With him.
And Addie.
Would I hang a wreath on the door or put rocking chairs on the concrete front porch?
Would we sit in those chairs while we watch kids run around a yard and pick apples from a tree before chasing each other down rows of then years old grapevines?
Would I laugh? Would I cry? Would I remember the whole life I used to have in Chicago?
Like a thrown rock dropped from the clear sky, I can see it. Every detail and color. Every storm cloud and sunny day.
But when Addie calls my name from Nancy’s front porch, it’s gone. As soon as I turn my back, the image pops like a balloon that was never there to begin with.