I make it through a week. Meditating and juicing. On my eighth day in the late afternoon, after a vile green liquid lunch that I can barely swallow, I retreat to the heated mineral pool that’s like a grotto in this giant mosaic of nature. Using the techniques Brandon taught me, I swim laps and laps until I lose track of time and all I can think about is lifting my head out of the bubbly natural spring for a breath of air. After about an hour, I get out. The desert sun beats fiercely and I relish the heavenly clean air. I don’t even need a towel to dry myself. Invigorated from my long swim, I take a seat in one of the Adirondack chairs that surround the pool. I close my eyes and let my bones soak in the heat. Aah! It feels good.
When I open my eyes, I find an older woman sitting next to me in a wheelchair. Her thick silver hair trails down to her waist in a loose braid, and though gaunt, her strong, defined features with cheekbones like apples tell me she must have once been a great beauty. A light cotton blanket covers her. I notice that she shakes. The more I look at her, the more she seems familiar. But even with my eidetic memory, I can’t place where I’ve seen her before.
“Hello, my dear,” she says. Her voice is husky and theatrical. “I enjoyed watching you swim laps. You have lovely form.”
I smile. “Thank you. I had a great teacher.” The memory of Brandon teaching me how to swim floats into my head. I can feel his strong arms holding me in the water and then wrapped around me after I completed my first lap. I can almost hear his heartbeat in my ears though we’re miles apart.
The woman smiles back at me. “I used to be a teacher. But, now due to my health, I only occasionally instruct classes at my school.”
“What’s wrong with you?” I venture, instantly regretting my words.
But the woman is not offended. “I have advanced Parkinson’s. I come here once a month with my nurse for the special Ayurvedic spa treatments they offer.”
“What exactly are those?”
“A variety of mineral massages and herbal hydrotherapies as well as a special organic diet specific to Parkinson’s sufferers. The treatments originated in ancient India. They help halt the progression of the disease though I’m not sure if they can cure it.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, for lack of something better to say.
“Don’t feel sorry for me, my dear. I wake up happy every day of my life. I’ve lived a full life and have no regrets.” She holds me in her warm, soulful gaze. “So, tell me, why are you here?”
Be it I feel so cleansed and clear-headed or that she makes me feel so comfortable and I have the need to talk to someone, I open up to her.
“I’ve been having a problem with my job.”
“Are you an actress? You have such an interesting voice and a lovely way of projecting it.”
“Hardly. I’m the personal assistant for someone.”
She shoots me a knowing smile. “Ah, so you’re in love with your boss.”
I flinch. “How did you know that?”
“My dear, it’s written all over your face. I’m a master of reading emotions. What is the conflict?”
“He’s engaged to someone else. They’re getting married in May.”
“How do you know he’s in love with her?”
“He bought her a gazillion dollar engagement ring and a magnificent necklace for her birthday.”
She lets out a deep throaty laugh. “My dear, those are just material things. Does he hold her hand? Caress her face? Flick her nose? Brush away her tears? Carry her in his arms?”
All the things Brandon does to me. “No,” I say with a small shake of my head. While I’ve had the misfortune of witnessing a blowjob, I’ve rarely seen Brandon being affectionate with Katrina.
“I came here to get him out of my system. A cleanse, I guess. But when I meditate, I only think of him and when I go to sleep, he’s always in my dreams.”
The woman nods. “Then your stay here has served its purpose. That is your clarity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me ask you. Do you want to work for someone else?”
I shake my head again. “No. I only want to give myself to him.”
“Has he ever demonstrated that he cares about you?”
Delicious memories dances in my head. Taking that shower with him fully clothed…dressing him for the Golden Globes…being swooped up into his arms after coming home from the hospital…the spanking. As much as I want to share them with this wise woman, I simply nod and whisper “yes.”
She takes my hands in her frail trembling ones. “My dear, actions speak louder than words. The smallest gesture can convey so much more than the biggest word. Even just the touch of a hand.”
My mind flashes back to the first time I met Brandon…how, when our fingertips met in the pouring rain, all the thunderstorms in the world couldn’t put out the fire that raged inside me. And then my mind jumps to our hike up the canyon with little Gucci. The touch of his hand when he took mine connected me to his soul and core. A slight desert breeze sends a row of goosebumps up my arms.
“What should I do?” I ask this bastion of wisdom, my voice so small. “I can’t stop dreaming about him being mine.”
“My dear, I have always told my students not to follow their dreams. Lead them and land them. Go back to him and fight with your heart for what you want. If it’s meant to be, it will happen.”
I digest her words. In the distance, a petite but sturdy brown-skinned woman with a long shimmering black braid heads toward us at a brisk pace. She’s clad in a colorful sari.