"They've all gone to bed. I saw pictures of Ben, he's so big."
"He looks like you," she says.
"He has your mouth," he says.
"I should go," she says.
He calls the Golden Door.
"It's serendipitous. Normally I wouldn't know if there was space — I'm not the reservationist — but we just got a cancellation, someone who's afraid to fly. Can your friend get here by Sunday? Does she fly?"
"She drives. Can you put it on my credit card?"
"What's the guest's name — last name?"
"I'm going to have to call you back with that; her first name is Cynthia."
"Usually we send out a welcome packet a couple of weeks in advance, with health questionnaires, luggage tags, info on what to pack."
"That's OK, she's really healthy and doesn't have a lot of luggage. Is there anything special she needs to bring?"
"Whatever she likes to sleep in, a few days' worth of underwear, and a sports bra. We provide the rest."
"Great. Hold the spot, and I'll call you back with the rest of her information."
He is pleased with himself for doing something, taking action. He gets the number for Ralph's and asks if they can page a shopper in the store.
"Is it an emergency?"
"I wouldn't be calling otherwise."
"What's her name."
"Cynthia."
"One moment."
"Would shopper in the store Cynthia please come to the manager's desk at the front of the store. Cynthia, please report to the front of the store."
"That's funny," she says. "They must have said it three times before I realized it was me. I was just finishing a cake."
"Eating a cake?"
"Decorating — they were letting me try the icing bag. It's fun here at night; they set up a huge buffet from the day's mistakes — deli meats sliced wrong, bags of chips 'accidentally opened. Everyone munches. Nice people, a lot of them have other day jobs. I think I could work here; I mean, I do know a lot about food."
"I got you into a place called the Golden Door; it's a spa — hiking, healthy eating, massages. It's in Escondido. Can you get yourself there Sunday morning? Fly to San Diego, or take a bus?"
"I know what it is — that's where super-fancy people go, like Gwyneth Paltrow. Oh no, I can't go there, I don't have any clothes."
"You don't need clothing — three pairs of underwear and something to sleep in." He can't bring himself to say "sports bra." "They provide everything. Just go down the aisle at Ralph's and put together a little bag for yourself." He gives her the address. "It's better than being in a mental hospital."
"And what about you?"
"I'll come home tomorrow and start again. By the way, what's your last name?"
THE PAIN RETURNS. He is lying in the twin bed of his brother's son, hoping it is the same pain, and not the IT pain. In the morning the pain is still there; he says good-bye and thank you and drives to the airport.
The house is where he left it — stabilized. His answering machine is blinking. One message — Lusardi.
"I saw something that prompted me to think of you — a workshop, 'Transcending Suffering.' Here's the number. Let me know if you have any questions."
The pain is so intense that he'll try anything. "Hi, I'm calling about 'Transcending Suffering'?"
"Starts tomorrow."
"And what exactly is it?"
"This is what it says in the catalogue." She reads in a rapid monotone. "' "Transcending Suffering" — a seven-day intensive working with the complexity of our relationships to pain, grief, and loss. Conducted in silence. There will be daily teaching talks and private interviews scheduled at the discretion of the instructor. Geared towards those with previous meditative practice, but open to all. The fee is eight hundred and fifty dollars and includes dormitory-style housing and meals.' All other services are extra." She stops for breath. "Joseph, the instructor, is very inspiring, older, very in touch. Check-in is one to three p.m., and the retreat begins at three p.m."
"Sign me up; why not, right?"
"Have you ever been on a silent retreat?"
"No, but I live in silence. I wear these headsets…"
"You may want to try a weekend retreat first."
"This sounds fine, perfect, my doctor recommended it."
"It's non-refundable. So, if you can't take it and have to leave, you lose; is that clear?"
"Non-refundable," he says, and reads her the digits of his credit card.
HE LEAVES a message for Cynthia with the receptionist at the Golden Door. "Tell her that Richard from the produce department called. Tell her he's going on a silent retreat starting tomorrow and wanted her to know where he was. In an emergency she can call him at… He'll be out by the weekend. He hopes all is going well and that she's enjoying herself."
He calls Lusardi. "Got your message, took your advice, I'm going."
"Bring your own toilet paper," Lusardi says.
"What does that mean?"
"Theirs is very Zen — one-ply. Also bring snacks — nuts, protein bars, things that you can consume inconspicuously to keep your energy up — and if you're a caffeine person, get some NoDoz; it can be very difficult going cold turkey."
"I'm not a caffeine person."
"One less thing to worry about."
He phones Cecelia: "I'm back from Boston, but am going away again until the end of the week. How're you faring?"
"I got my teeth cleaned, my mammogram, and if you take a real vacation, I could get my hip replaced."
"I didn't know you needed a new hip."
"Have you ever noticed how I walk?"
"I guess so."
"Well, it's not exactly comfortable-looking, is it?"
"Go ahead and take care of it — if there ever was a good time, this would be it."
"I'll look into it; I'm not sure they have hips just sitting around."
"Do you need me to send you a check?"
"I'll get it next time I see you."
"Well, if there's anything you need…"
"You sure you're all right? You know if anything happens you can call Cecelia. Just because I get paid to work doesn't mean I don't care."
THE MOVIE STAR stops by. "I was wondering where you were. I keep ringing your bell — nobody home."
"Visiting my brother in Boston."
"How come you're packing again?"
"I'm going on silent meditation starting tomorrow."
"Really? I played the Dalai Lama once. I met him to get a feel for things — his gestures, his walk. You know how he's supposed to be kind of permeable, letting things pass through, no attachment? But, frankly, I was a little disappointed." He pauses. "I never would have pictured you as a cushion kisser."
Richard shrugs.
"Are you bringing your own zafu or zabuton?"
"My what?"
"I'll lend you mine — the ones they have at those places are really beat up. I've got a nice cushion, buckwheat, that you put on top of the zabuton — helps your ass if you're going to be on it for a while. Also, bring your own pillow; the pillows in those places suck. Bring sheets, a pillow, and a blanket."
"It's not supposed to be about comfort."
"The goal isn't to make yourself miserable either."
The movie star goes home to get the cushion, and Richard rolls up his bedding and ties it with a shoelace, like a hobo. He puts sweatpants, socks, T-shirts, and a cozy sweater into his bag, along with a notebook, a pen, and a little Booklight. He feels like he's getting ready for sleepaway camp.
The movie star returns. "Maybe, when you're done, we can have dinner or something?"
"Yeah, that would be great."
"I'm a really good cook. That's what I do — when I'm not making a movie I cook. They wanted me to do a cookbook, but my manager said it was a bad idea. It's not an up-and-coming kind of a thing, it's more like a save-a-sinking-ship. Is there anything that you especially like?"