I began to roll up the mat, but she stopped me. “Let me massage your shoulders.”
She pressed down on either side of my neck with startling strength. “Wow, yes. There we go. A truckload of tension right there in your rhomboid minor. You must be in agony. Lie down for me, please.”
Still clutching my sleeves, I lay down as bidden, stomach flat on the mat with my head turned to the side, like roadkill. Derry knelt over me and pushed and prodded at my shoulders.
“You have trigger points right down to your shoulder blades, my love. You must feel unsupported in some area of your life. Is that true?”
“Maybe,” I said vaguely.
“Golly. Lots of heat coming from this one in particular. Interesting. It’s connected to the root chakra.”
She was pushing on a muscle I didn’t know I had, right at the base of my neck. “Is that a good thing?” I grunted, trying not to scream.
“The root chakra is your foundation. It’s where you keep all your childhood stuff, your family issues, boundaries, and survival instincts. Your deepest fears. I sense this chakra is very blocked.” She paused. “May I ask a personal question?”
Mercifully she stopped pushing at the muscle and allowed me to sit upright. “Yes?”
She opened her mouth, thought carefully, then abandoned her original question. “Your novel . . . is it biographical?”
“You mean, is it based on my life?” By which she meant autobiographical, but never mind.
“Yes.”
I nodded.
“I thought so. You mentioned about Alexa not knowing who her father is. That she wondered sometimes where he was . . . from.”
I nodded again, feeling my cheeks flush. From. Such a small word, just four letters to hook someone’s whole identity on to. So many kids could start a new school and never be questioned about where they were from, which was rarely asked out of kindness. Even the ones with a different accent could slide into the ecosystem of the schoolyard without much bother. I had a northern accent, but because I looked different, I was treated like an outsider.
For as long as I can remember I’ve crafted origin stories last thing at night, vivid fantasies of being reunited with my father—devastatingly handsome, rich, and full of pride in me—and living out my days with a group of loving family members who embraced me as their own. But deep down, I knew this would never come true.
I told a shorter version of this to Derry, who I could tell didn’t really relate. “In that case,” she said, pursing her lips, “I understand even more why your root chakra is blocked.”
“How do I . . . unblock my root chakra?” I asked. Words I never thought I’d say.
“I want you to do some visualizing,” she said. “Every morning, before you look after the girls, I’d like you to visualize a bright ball of sunshine right at the base of your spine whilst chanting ‘lam’ to yourself.”
She also told me to use affirmations—“Repeat ‘I am safe and secure’ twenty times a day, out loud.” I figured this might draw surprised looks from anyone in earshot, but Derry was very persuasive.
With that, she bowed deeply, and I returned to my room.
It had been a week since that first morning walk with Derry, and I was slowly being molded into a kind of Derry disciple. When the early-morning start occasionally proved too much for me prior to an exhausting day as Coco’s Zimmer frame—she was now attempting to walk—Derry had invited me to join her “sunset practice” of yoga, or her “hour of spiritual awakening,” as she called it, which involved ringing a little bell, lighting candles, and lots of breathing and bowing. To my surprise, I was starting to look forward to it.
I had noticed that Maren didn’t like my developing friendship with Derry one little bit, and she definitely didn’t like Derry. I had put Maren’s absence during the day down to the busy life of a housekeeper, but more and more I was detecting that the housework simply wasn’t being done. Gaia’s Norwegian lessons didn’t happen either, not that Gaia minded. I’ll hold my hands up and say that I had my own demons of slovenliness to battle with. When I was recovering from my suicide attempt the flat virtually fell apart and I didn’t care. But there seemed to be something odd, even pointed, about Maren’s strike. The kitchen floor remained covered in dirt from all the muddy feet that came back and forth