[Fiction | Issue 10]

meg artley

retreat

As she neared thirty, Freya’s anxiety had taken root in her personality, wrapping around every vestige of happiness, clouding her vision. In her attempt to excise these weeds, Maia sent Freya articles about the disastrous side effects of the drugs she had been prescribed. Maia believed anxiety was best addressed with a mediation practice; whole, fresh foods and a long walk at the beginning and end of each day. Knowing that a child would sometimes take the advice prescribed by anyone other than her mother, she treated Freya to a two-day relaxation retreat at an eminent wellness institute in the mountains.

In the car ride to the site, they had time to talk about things they didn’t have time for on their weekly phone calls, like memories Freya had from her childhood. While Freya spoke, Maia flipped through the flattened images of her memory. She had dark hair back then, wore Lancôme lipstick in burnt umber with flecks of sparkle in it, something most likely carcinogenic. Maia’s memories were as dark and unreadable as old polaroids. Freya’s memories were more like independent movies, entertaining and funny at the start, with an edge or lingering question at the end that left Maia unsettled.  

At the top of a mountain, they fell silent to witness the early fall tree canopy below them. Freya said she joined a church in the city. Maia was glad to hear it was full of people her age. Her hopes that it would lead to romance were dashed by Freya’s enthusiastic conversation about seeking God, reminding Maia of a schoolgirl crush on a pop star. This delusion, combined with the winding of their car towards the valley below them, made Maia dizzy.  

Their room at the retreat site was simple, a bit too simple for the price Maia paid for the two-night stay, but it was clean. After check-in, they met the other retreat participants in the lobby of the main building for an orientation and a tour. The retreat would consist of two lectures, two yoga practices, a massage, and plenty of free time for hikes on the campus trails, wholesome vegetarian meals in the dining hall, and quiet contemplation. Freya halted the tour group’s progress to move the huge wooden chimes of the sound bath at the entrance to the shrine, asking all sorts of questions about the space. Maia could feel the rising impatience of an older, elegant lady next to her. She wondered who the lady blamed more for having to shift foot to foot in the chilly air: Freya for interrupting, or the young tour guide, for going on and on about information written in their orientation packets.   

Dinner was another semi-disappointment. Everything was mushy and bland. The salad bar had bagged, shredded carrots and canned chickpeas like a big chain restaurant. Nothing had sugar or salt in it, a good thing in principle but difficult in practice. Freya ate as lustily as ever. Maia ate as she usually did, with care and precision.

They returned to their room. There was no Wi-Fi, and they were talked out. Maia prepared for bed by washing her face, carefully applying retinol and moisturizer, flossing her teeth, and practicing a balancing, meditative breath. Freya took off her yoga pants, crawled into bed and fell into the abyss of sleep, though it was early. Maia had bought the latest book by a famous Buddhist monk for the retreat, but found she was reading without touching meaning, so she turned off the light, even though she wasn’t sleepy.  

In the fluorescent light of the moon, Maia could see Freya’s sweet face without the sadness it now held at her jawline and brow. Freya’s full lips were slightly parted to breathe, her eyes, which flashed from dark molasses to apple cider vinegar when she was awake, were deeply set and fleshy in sleep. Freya had been a white-blond baby, now a brunette as she neared thirty. Maia wished she would cut her hair shorter, consider highlights around her face.

When Maia awoke the next morning, Freya was gone. She was hopeful the fresh mountain air, a wholesome meal and an early bedtime had already made a difference in her outlook. Freya wasn’t in the dining room when she got there. Maia plopped overcooked millet in her bowl and ate alone, feeling as though the way she held her head, placed her spoon in her mouth and wiped her lips were closely observed by others.

From the dining room window, she saw her child exit the shrine through the mist just beginning to burn off in the rising sun. Freya’s hair was unbrushed, and Maia wondered if those were the same clothes she wore yesterday. As Freya got closer to the building, it looked as though she had been crying. Maia’s observations were interrupted by the impatient woman from the orientation, now dressed in a cashmere poncho that must have cost a small fortune. She asked to sit at Maia’s table. Since Maia expected Freya to come to breakfast, she kept up the dull exchange about house prices in her area of the country, one eye on the dining room door. Finally, the woman finished, and Maia returned to their room.

Freya was sleeping soundly on her bed, her legs and arms thrown as if she had been suddenly frozen while she danced, then knocked over. The room had a funk to it. Maia opened a window as quietly as she could.

“Jesus, Mom,” Freya said as she rolled over, clutching a pillow to her face. Maia told her about what was for breakfast and described the woman’s poncho. She set the apple she brought to Freya on the bedside table.

“Apples make my stomach hurt. But thank you,” Freya said.

No matter. Freya wouldn’t starve before lunch. They decided to walk before the first lecture and discussion group. Maia chose a trail that would take only an hour. She hoped the fresh air would help Freya feel awake, not only to the day, but to her vast potential for good health.

More memories of Freya’s younger years surfaced on this journey through the brush, as big and as disruptive as the granite boulders they scrambled over, slippery with the fuzz of time. These memories sprang from Freya’s time in the shrine that morning – revelations of a sort. She asked about her nightmares as a child. Maia couldn’t remember hearing about what had awoken Freya, and besides, she would have been concerned about the return to ordered reality than the dream that awoke her daughter.

“One of the scariest dreams I had was about having to live in this body,” Freya said as she passed Maia.

Maia stopped on a rock to look at Freya ahead of her on the trail. The shame of her ignorance about her daughter gripped her heart so violently she felt it stutter and spew. But they neared the end of the trail, sunlight glowed in the meadow and on the dome of the shine just ahead of them. The medicinal cleansing of the forest was over. She chastised herself for the silent melodrama as she stepped into the light.

In the room, Maia kept her advice to a minimum even though Freya didn’t shower or brush her hair. This is the messy bun generation, Maia thought. They headed to the first lecture and discussion of the day, which would be followed by a yoga class before lunch.

Freya was quiet after the class, leaving the room as Maia cleaned her mat and spoke to an older woman who had practiced next to her. Maia rolled her mat with her attention bifurcated, nodding and smiling at the woman, and wondering where Freya was going.

Freya wasn’t in the room, wasn’t in the dining hall. Maia half-heartedly participated in polite lunch chatter with her new acquaintances while she kept watch for Freya. As the lunch hour was ending, one of the ladies pointed to the window and asked her, “Isn’t that your daughter?” Freya stumbled on the gravel path in front of the shrine, tears glistening, mouth agape as if she were starving for breath. In Maia’s rush to leave the dining hall, she messed up the stacking of her dishes in the cleansing tubs, having to redo the scraping of her salad bowl, the judgment of the volunteer by the wash bucket heavy on her back.

Freya was in the shower by the time she arrived back at the room. She made Freya’s bed. She inspected her face for blemishes and wild hairs in the mirror above the dresser, pulled at the crepey wrinkles on her neck, raised her arm to see the widening flap of skin dangling there. She brushed her hair and gathered it into a chignon. Freya came into the room dressed in a towel, wet hair plastered on her back. Maia was relieved she wouldn’t have to ask about the tears; they had been washed away.

Freya got dressed in front of Maia just as she had when she was twelve, towel draped around her until her underwear was on. She turned away from Maia to put her bra on, a filthy, spent rag. Maia held her tongue about the need to buy new undergarments regularly. She fell into the deep well of silence Freya brought into the room, surrendered to its frightening peace.

The afternoon lecture was about unusual ways to control and move the breath before meditation, something Maia had learned, but was new to Freya. In the preparatory practice, Freya let out a propulsion of breath so extreme in a forward fold Maia reached instinctively for her. Freya laughed and said, “It’s all right, Ma. I’m only sighing,” making the entire class laugh. Freya’s smile was genuine and warm, bathing Maia in what she didn’t know she needed.

At the end of the meditation practice, Freya’s cheeks were wet with tears again, but she was unconcerned with how she looked or was perceived. Maia kept her focus on the instructor, ignoring the sparks of curiosity she could feel coming from other participants. She dispensed with the cleaning of her mat to follow Freya’s determined stride through the sunshine to the shrine.  

Maia took off her shoes at the entrance of the building, mindlessly wiggling her newly painted toenails, as Freya gathered their meditation props. Freya opened the door to the dark circular space and walked to the center of the shallow domed ceiling. Maia was relieved that the space was empty. She joined Freya on the cushion she set out for her, drew the meditation shawl around her shoulders like Freya did.

The drape and weight of the shawl reminded Maia of the days of breastfeeding. A flash of Freya’s milky smile, her little hand effortlessly holding her big toe came to her and with it, a burning, tingling sensation in her right breast. She was bewildered; her mastectomy left her completely numb and scarred five years ago. She touched her breast, looked over to Freya, wanting to share, but saw she was already deep in an interior space, eyes closed, breathing soft and subtle. It wasn’t unpleasant to have her breast feel this way, so she remained quiet.

Maia was startled from her waves of silent sensation by a low, long, hollow moan from Freya. With the sound, Freya’s arms began to rise as if there were ropes tied to her wrists, lifting her to her knees. An explosive “Ah!” released her from the levitation and she fell heavily on the tiled floor. Clicking, guttural sounds emanated from the back of Freya’s throat, her arms and feet smacked wet against the tile, thrashing out mad hieroglyphs. Maia crawled towards the violence of her daughter’s body, smelling an acrid tang of urine as she got close. She dove headfirst into the vortex of movement, bleating Freya’s name over and over, like a fathom of rope they could both follow back to safety. One of Maia’s knees slipped from under her, and she cried out in pain. She reached for a meditation cushion to sop up the piss she knelt in and to absorb Freya’s blows. Maia gritted her teeth, and touching a strength she hadn’t felt since Freya was born, in one miraculous movement, she brought Freya’s head and upper torso onto her lap. She fought the specter that had a hold of her daughter, gripped Freya’s wild head in the crook of her hip, bound her flailing arms with her hands. While she did this, Maia repeated “honey,” a prayer of sorts.

Freya’s frantic movement began to subside. She was still and heavy on Maia’s lap. Their breathing quieted into soft, syncopated exhalations from barely parted lips. As Maia stroked Freya’s sweaty hair out of her eyes, returned her loving smile, she wondered how they could get back to the room without anyone seeing them, and where she could hide the soiled meditation cushions.

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About the author

Meg Artley was invited to join the Jenny McKean Moore workshop at George Washington University in the fall of 2022, where she studied with Johannes Lichtman. Her stories have been or will soon be published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Whiskyblot and Free State in October. Her current labor of love is a collection of stories set in Harlan, Kentucky in the 1970s.