Page 23 of Thursdays at Orange Blossom House
‘Do you mean do I like it?’
‘I think we all like it or we wouldn’t be here,’ Grace Maud says bluntly.
Dorothy isn’t sure whether or not she should be offended, although Grace Maud doesn’t look cross. ‘Um,’ is all she can think of to say.
‘I mean, what is it doing for you?’ Grace Maud peers at her. ‘Have you had what she has?’ She jerks her head in the direction of the toilet.
‘Oh – no!’ Dorothy titters. ‘Not yet! But I …’
She stops to think about something that happened to her the other day, pondering whether or not to tell Grace Maud. But who elsewouldshe tell? Frederick isn’t in this class. She can’t share the experience with him.
‘You know how Sandrine is always talking about how we’re meant to feel bliss?’ she says, and Grace Maud nods slowly. ‘I thought she was making it up. To get us to keep coming back. But last week when we came out of that posture – you know, thevira-something one? Like this.’ She drops into a lunge with her arms out to her sides.
Grace Maud nods again, maintaining their eye contact.
‘When I stood up,’ Dorothy says, starting to smile at the memory, ‘I felt … something. A wave of something. But it’s hard to put a name to it. I want to say peace, but that doesn’t seem entirely right. Warmth, maybe?’ She closes her eyes as she tries to recapture it. ‘I wanted to hold on to it but it was gone so quickly. Maybe I imagined it.’
‘I don’t think you did,’ Grace Maud says. ‘If you felt it, it was real. I can’t say I’ve had that experience yet, but I’ve had it doing other things. Riding a horse, if you can believe that.’
Dorothy gasps with laughter – she’s never ridden a horse and can’t imagine finding peace on one.
‘There are moments when everything feels like it’s in its right place,’ Grace Maud goes on. ‘You’re not ruminating on the past or worrying about the future. You’re just … there.’ She smiles serenely. ‘I believe that’s what you’re talking about.’
‘It is.’ Dorothy nods her head so vigorously that her plait whacks her neck. ‘That’s it! How can I get it again?’
‘By not trying. Ah, there’s Patricia.’
Patricia walks towards them looking slightly less pale but no less uncomfortable.
‘All done?’ Grace Maud asks.
Patricia blows air out of her mouth. ‘Everything including the kitchen sink,’ she moans and puts a hand on her belly.
‘I guess you’re initiated now,’ Grace Maud says. ‘Come on, let’s take a turn about the garden and get your blood moving.’
‘Okay,’ Patricia says meekly.
The three of them set off at a slow pace, Patricia huffing occasionally.
And as Grace Maud recounts the reasons why she still believes learning to breathe isn’t necessary, for a few seconds Dorothy doesn’t think of what’s gone wrong in the past or what might not happen in the future. She is right there, breathing and being, and this time she holds on to it for just a bit longer than she thought she could.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sundays used to be lovely – Patricia remembers that. All the housework was completed on the Saturday so she had the Sunday free to do nothing much. She would read the newspaper, visit with friends or have them over to lunch, listen to music, read books, go to the beach if it was the right time of year. She’d laze. That was it. What a luxury that was, and one she didn’t truly appreciate.
She knew – because once her friends started having children, before they completely disappeared into the vortex of overwhelm that being a parent could become, they told her so – that she’d been lucky to have only herself to worry about. ‘I wish I could be selfish like you,’ one of them had said exasperatedly as she wrangled a child into a high chair, and Patricia had recognised the barb within the statement. She’d never thought of herself as selfish; she still doesn’t think she was, so much as self-centred. That’s what happens when you do, in fact, have only yourself to care for.
Those days are over now. In her new life, Sundays are definitely for housework: three people generate a lot more washing and cleaning than one. They’re also for trying to sort herself out for the week ahead: meals planned with supplies bought on Saturday, before the shops shut for the weekend; clothes for work ironed and hanging in the wardrobe. Small acts of order that help her manage the chaos of her mother.
Now, as Patricia turns off the iron and pulls the plug from the wall, her father announces, ‘Your mother wants to go out.’
‘Oh?’ Patricia responds vaguely. ‘To where?’ She coils the cord around the base of the iron and pushes it into the corner of the laundry bench.
‘To the shops.’
‘Did you tell her that most of the shops are shut on a Sunday?’
Patricia tries hard to keep the irritation out of her voice. If her father could head off some of her mother’s requests at the pass, Patricia wouldn’t have to so often be the bad guy.
