Pug Hill - Alison Pace [39]
“It’s important to remember though,” she adds on now in an extra soothing tone, “that what will help you will be very personal. Maybe it’s counting to ten, maybe it’s picturing the audience in their underwear. Think about what will work for you.”
Amy raises her hand.
“Yes?”
“I don’t think that’s really fair. Aren’t you supposed to tell us what works?” Amy asks, her tone a bit snappish, aggressive.
While there is a small part of me that agrees with her, I don’t want to subscribe to the hostility. I’m sure it’s wrong to feel so hostile to Beth Anne, so early in the process. So, instead, I picture Alec in his underwear.
“Practice works, getting out of the moment works,” Beth Anne says, not missing a soothing beat. “It will be an individual journey, but one we’ll all take together. Next time we’ll work on relaxation techniques, and then we’ll talk more about the assignments.
“So,” she says brightly, glancing toward the clock and then the door. “Until next time. Should anyone wish to address any matters privately, I’ll stay for a few minutes after class.”
Lawrence at last raises his head from the desk. Everyone begins to gather their things and put on their coats. There are a few murmured thank-yous as we all head out to the hall. As we wait for the elevator, no one speaks. Everyone stares straight ahead. Instinctively, I cross my arms in front of me. The elevator door opens and we all pile on. I think the same thing I always think when I’m on a crowded elevator. How awful really would it be if this thing stopped?
chapter thirteen
I Should Tell You About the Commune
“Hope, it’s your mother.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Are you still sleeping at this hour?” I look at the clock, nine-fifteen. I usually don’t sleep this late, even on Sundays. I’m usually more awake by now. I wonder if I am depressed and that is why, at nine-fifteen, even though that’s not that late, I am still asleep. I could be depressed.
“No,” I tell her.
“It sounds like you were.”
“I’m not,” I say getting out of bed and heading to the kitchen. I want to say I’ll call back, after I’ve run downstairs to the new intimidating Starbucks that now must be part of my life, to get a coffee. Yet there are possibilities: possibilities that such a statement could possibly result in an entire conversation devoted to why, at the age of thirty-two,1 I do not have an ounce of domesticity in me and do not even make coffee in my apartment. Rather than admit that I’ve just woken up, rather than explain that I did make coffee, just last week, I pour myself a glass of water and think of a latte, one from Columbus Bakery. I listen to my mother as she exhales heavily through the phone.
“How’s everything?” I venture, trying to infuse my voice with as much cheeriness, as little sleepiness, as possible.
“Well, you know the party is on May seventh,” she says, matter-of-factly. I can picture my mother looking at her desk calendar, various party-related tasks and organizational feats written out from March to May.
“Yes, I know.”
“What are you doing the week leading up to it?”
“Uh, I imagine working?”
“I’m hoping that for the week leading up to the party, you might be able to take some time off and come out to help Dad.”
“What’s wrong with Dad?” I ask, alarmed now. Mom sounds tense and angry, over something more than the color of my hair or my inability to match my foundation to my skin tone. Something is wrong. I reach out for the kitchen counter, hold on to it; I need support.
“No, your father’s fine, but I’ll be traveling.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, and take a moment to regroup, relax.
“Um.” I hesitate for another moment, think