Soulmates (16 page)

We did get along when he was here, though, and for that I'm grateful. You know, Ethan and I didn't always see eye to eye
on things, but I loved him with all my heart. I didn't think of it this way until after he died, but in some ways, he was my last piece of Rosie in the flesh. Of course, I have Travis, but Travis has always been more like me. Ethan took after his mother. In more ways than I appreciated at the time.

At the end of his story, Ray seemed wrung out. I didn't really know what to do. I had never seen him look as happy as he did when he was talking about his and Rosemary's first days together, or as crushed as when he described how Ethan took after his mother.

I waited for him to say something, and when he didn't, I asked gently, “How did the sheriff react when you told him all this?”

Ray shrugged. “He didn't seem to react much one way or t'other. He asked me if I had any documents that proved what happened in California really happened, and I said no. Rosie and I tried to leave all that stuff behind.”

“Did he seem to know any of it before you told him?” I asked.

“Couldn't say.”

“Did he know about the
Greenwich Rag
article? About Yoni's past?” What sounded like mild questions in my head came out of my mouth like aggressive interrogations, but I couldn't help myself.

Ray shrugged again. “Couldn't say. I didn't know about that article until you just told me. Gurus, communes, and speed
freaks were a dime a dozen in the Bay Area in the seventies. It wasn't necessarily newsworthy.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, putting my hands up. “I'm sorry to be so intense.”

“Let me make us some breakfast,” Ray said, standing up. He looked over at the clock, “Jesus, it's almost nine
A
.
M
. We've been talking for two hours straight.”

“You really don't have to go to all that trouble,” I said. “I don't usually eat much breakfast.”

Ray waved me away. “Nonsense. It's important to have a square meal to start the day.” I thought back to the solo dinners I made for myself after Ethan left. There was certainly something soothing about routine; about going through the same motions every day.

I got a glass of water and sat back down while I watched Ray crack eggs into a ceramic bowl. “Can I just ask you one more question about everything?” I asked.

“Shoot.”

“Why did Rosie keep that necklace? I thought she never wanted to speak or hear or think about her past again.”

Ray turned to face me. “Just because Rosie didn't want to talk about her past doesn't mean she didn't want to take some lessons from it. She couldn't erase her memory bank even if she wanted to. She kept the necklace as a reminder, like a rubber band on her wrist. Every time she looked at it, she'd remember to keep her own counsel. She was determined that no one else would ever tell her how to live her life.”

I opened my mouth to say something else, but then closed it. I couldn't formulate a coherent thought. Exhaustion washed
over me. “Do you mind if I go rest before breakfast is ready? That was a lot to take in.”

“Suit yourself,” Ray said, taking out a green pepper and a cutting board and not looking up. “I'll knock on your door when it's on the table.”

“Thank you.” I walked back to Ethan's room and flopped down on the plaid comforter. I looked at my phone to distract myself from the thoughts and emotions churning in my head. I had two bars of service—the first reception I'd gotten since arriving at Ray's—and seventeen missed calls and twelve voice mails.

The first voice mail was from Katie. She was managing my desk while I was away, and she left a detailed message about all the tasks that awaited me on my return. I could hear an edge to her voice. She thought that climbing the ladder at the firm was the apotheosis of making it in New York. She couldn't understand why I would take a leave and potentially jeopardize my progress (and hers—she knew that her ascent at the firm was tied to mine). I texted her to say thank-you and that I'd be back soon enough, raring to go.

The next ten messages were from Beth. She sounded increasingly hysterical with each one. “Dana, it's me,” she said in the first message. “Please call me back. I just want to talk. I promise I won't yell at you.” An hour after that, she called back, the pretense of niceness already gone. “What the fuck, Dana? I called your work, and Katie said you took a leave of absence? Call me
now
. I am really scared for you.” I didn't even bother listening to the next eight messages from her. I just deleted them.

The final message was from a 575 number, I assumed Sheriff
Lewis. I touched Play, but before I could listen to the message, Ray knocked at the door. “Dana, soup's on.”

“Just a minute!” I paused the 575 message, then thought about the two voice mails Beth had left that I actually listened to. It was unfair to leave her upset. I hastily texted
In Montana visiting Ethan's dad. Everything is OK. Will call you soon
.

When I came back to the kitchen, I found that Ray had set the table just as he had the evening before, cleanly and elegantly. A vegetable-and-sausage scramble was already portioned onto two plates. Looking at the meal, I realized how rare it was for someone to do me such a simple but meaningful kindness.

After breakfast, I retreated to Ethan's room. I'm not sure whether it was colder in that part of the house or it was a kind of existential chill, but I was very cold. The light wool sweaters I had packed felt too scratchy and harsh against my skin.

I went over to Ethan's closet to see if there was anything in there I could wear. I found a fuzzy bright-blue poncho that looked like it was part of a Cookie Monster Halloween costume folded on a shelf at the top of the closet, and some dress shirts with Sears labels that also looked like artifacts of Ethan's high school days. Then there was a tie rack with a few polyester novelty ties that I hoped Ethan hadn't worn after the age of eighteen: one had Bart Simpson's face on it; another was purple and printed with tiny yellow Minnesota Vikings.

And then I found a long-sleeved waffle-knit shirt that looked like it had been purchased in this century. I rubbed the fabric between my fingers. It was soft, bordering on luxurious. I took the shirt off its hanger, pressed it to my face, and breathed into
it. It had a particular spicy musk that pricked my nose and lit up years of sense memories. It smelled like Ethan.

I put on the shirt, turned off the overhead light, closed the blinds to keep the sun from streaming in, and crawled under Ethan's flannel comforter. I just wanted to shut off for a little while—to get a respite from everything I had learned. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to sleep, but I couldn't even stay in one position for more than a few seconds. I kept turning from side to side and kicking the blanket up with my restless legs.

Finally I stopped pretending that I was going to get to sleep, and sat up and looked around. My eyes fell on the only light in the room, coming from my phone. I picked it up and saw a text back from Beth:
xoxoxox
.

I planned to call her back, but I wanted to listen to the rest of my messages first while I still had two bars. I went right to the 575 message. Maybe Sheriff Lewis had found some remarkable break in the case and was calling to tell me about it. More likely he just wanted some elaboration on something I had told him.

But Sheriff Lewis hadn't left the message. Instead, an unfamiliar woman said, “This message is for Dana Morrison. We're calling to invite you to an exclusive event at the Zuni Retreat's homestead. This invitation is for superlative students only. You were recommended by your instructor Lo. If you're interested in attending, please call 575-555-1982 for further information.”

This must be the “next-level retreat” Lo had told me about. I put the phone down and got back under the covers, pulling the long sleeves of Ethan's shirt down over my cold hands to warm them. The warmth traveled through my body quickly and ended up in my chest, and even though I knew it was crazy, I
felt Ethan's presence with me, like I was goddamn Demi Moore throwing a pot in
Ghost
.

It was suddenly very clear what I had to do. I had to go to the next level. If I could get some more alone time with Lo, I could get information from her about Yoni's past that might be helpful to the investigation. And I could also ask her more about Ethan, and find some kind of answer for myself.

I called the 575 number that had been left by that unfamiliar female voice. On the third ring, someone picked up. “Hello,” said the voice that had left the message. Hearing it the second time, I noticed it had a lazy, drawn-out Southern California quality.

“Hi, this is Dana Morrison. You called me about a special retreat?”

“Oh yeah. We've been waiting on your call.”

“I'm interested in coming,” I said.

“My name is Aspen. I want to tell you a little bit more about the experience. You've been specially chosen for the Homestead, Dana. This is an advanced-level retreat that we only offer to students who have been recommended to us by our teachers. We advise that you come for the length of an entire moon cycle in order to create new spiritual habits that will stay with you when you leave.”

I was a little hesitant to agree—a whole month? That would be pretty much my entire leave of absence. Did I want to waste my one moment away from work dwelling on my fucked-up life? Also, knowing how much a week cost, a month must be astronomical. And why were they offering me an advanced-placement class when I'd only been at Zuni for a few days? Wasn't
I a beginner in their spiritual terms? Did I trust someone named after a tony ski resort and/or tree to give me the full story?

“I was wondering. Will I get personal instruction from Lo at this ‘Homestead'?” Aspen didn't respond right away, so I added, “We just had such an intense spiritual connection during my time at Zuni.”

“Oh, yes,” Aspen said brightly. “Lo is the one who recommended you for the Homestead, so she'll be your main guide once you're here.”

“And how much is this going to cost?” Since I knew Lo and I would have quality time together, I hoped the cost wasn't so insane that I wouldn't be able to go.

“You've been given a special scholarship for emerging students. Only three people in the history of the Zuni Retreat have been given this honor of intensive study.” Aspen's otherwise relaxed voice became tense, emphasizing the importance of this gift.

“Wow,” I said, feeling a surge of pleasure in the honor before realizing she hadn't actually answered my question. “Sorry, how much would I need to pay?”

“You'd only be responsible for fifty percent of the fee,” Aspen said, her voice stretching out again. “So it would cost just ten thousand dollars for the month, but that includes all of your individualized instruction and meals, as well as the comfortable, low-key luxury our retreats provide.”

I swallowed, hard. That's a ton of money. But I had so much saved up that I was just sitting on. I lived so frugally by New York standards and earned so much. Was this really the time to cheap out? I couldn't help Ethan or Rosemary unless I pushed forward.

“Okay. I'm in.”

“Wonderful news,” Aspen said. “Let me check the availability for you at the Homestead to see when you might be able to start your spiritual journey.” I heard the clacking of her keyboard. “We actually just had a cancellation, so we have room for you this week. As early as tomorrow, if you can come then.”

“Great,” I said. I figured it was more convenient this way. If I had to return to New York and wait, I might fall back into work and lose my momentum.

“Where will you be coming from?” she asked.

“I'm near Bozeman, Montana.”

“Excellent, that shouldn't be a difficult journey,” Aspen said.

“My cell service is a little spotty here, so it might take a while for me to book my trip,” I explained.

“I can look up flights for you now, if that would be easiest.” She was sounding more competent and less dippy with every sentence.

“Sure,” I said.

I heard her typing in the background. “There's a Delta flight that leaves around eight
A
.
M
. tomorrow that has you transferring in Salt Lake City. Would that work for you?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. If you book that, your connecting flight will get into Albuquerque around noon. Call me as soon as you've booked it, so that I can arrange to have the courtesy van pick you up.”

I hung up and booked the flight right away through an app on my phone, then called Aspen back to confirm. After I hung up, I put the phone down next to the bed and felt my body go
boneless. Now that I had a plan, the unanswerables stopped spinning in my brain. I fell into a sweaty, dreamless sleep.

That evening over dinner I told Ray, “I have to head back to New Mexico. I have to bring the sheriff my research.” Ray nodded in understanding or acceptance, I couldn't tell which. Then I added, “And I'm going to go back to the retreat.”

That broke Ray's silence. He shook his head, his ears turning red. “No, no. Absolutely not. Do not go back down there. Haven't you heard anything I told you? Yoni is dangerous and unpredictable, especially when he feels threatened by the law.”

I felt my face go red, too. “I heard everything you told me. And what I took away from it is that only someone with proof of what goes on in Yoni's inner circle is going to figure out what really happened down there.” What I didn't say was that I felt a true connection to Lo, and that I needed to see that through. Being out in New Mexico felt like a necessary pause from the real world, and I wasn't exactly eager to go back to New York or to my job.

“You're a grown woman. Do what you like,” Ray said. “But I don't like it.”

I asked him to drive me back to the Bozeman airport at five the next morning. It's a testament to his core decency that he agreed.

On the drive to Bozeman, we didn't talk much. Ray turned on a CD he had—his car was so ancient it still had one of those five-disc changers all my friends had in high school. I didn't recognize the singer, but he had a low, plaintive wail. I glanced
over at Ray's face from time to time, but it was just a solemn mass. There was no evidence of what had passed between us the day before.