What was I thinking? And why am I thinking?
I am supposed to be meditating in Abe’s seven a.m. meditation period. Ten of us sit on cushions or in chairs in a semi-circle facing him. This morning is cooler, with the sweet, dry cross breeze giving me goosebumps. I keep returning to my conversations the previous evening and not my breath. Slowly, though, my racing thoughts subside.
I am left with a feeling of not being good enough for the task, and I am not talking about meditation. If I was preparing for class today, I’d be thinking about the kids and what we would do, as I have done it for thirty-five years. That routine allowed me to focus on the kids.
I take a deep breath, pause, and count backwards from eleven, then I breathe in for a seven-count followed by a pause and let it out for a measured eleven count. Breathe and count. This is simple enough, except because these darn thoughts keep bubbling up. I don’t have a lesson plan for what I am contemplating. How can I allow myself to believe that I can investigate Jake’s death? I have no lesson plan; I have no guidebooks.
I drift into a conversation with Erin in my head. No, Erin, last year we were presented with the facts of a twenty-year-old murder in New Haven. We visited the crime scenes and saw how the police decided to put the puzzle together with pieces that didn’t fit, and all I did was point out the obvious. Everything was laid out for us.
In for seven, at the pause. I feel the need to finish that thought. No, honey, it’s not a gift, it was just common sense. The cops decided on a couple of suspects before they even started their investigation.
Out for eleven. I take a deep, cleansing breath. Yes, honey, an FBI agent was interested in the case and asked us personally to get involved.
In for seven, pause. But that doesn’t mean I know what to do.
Out for eleven. I screw up the count and have to suck in air with a gulp. Why did I pick this day to meditate? Why did I pick this day to poke around a supposed death by suicide? I could think about my garden, but I am mulling over what I know so far.
I open my eyes and see Abe’s tranquil half smile. The others are calmly breathing rhythmically. This isn’t rocket science, but there is something about sitting here quietly and focusing on my breath. It’s different from gardening, where I place all my attention on the task at hand, whether it’s turning the soil, planting, or weeding. Rather than let the thoughts drift away like puffy white clouds in a clear blue sky, I turn them over against the backdrop of a singular premise.
Jake was shot to death.
I am startled when Abe sounds the bell. How long was I deep in thought about Jake? What started out as the slowest hour of my life went by quickly.
“This is a good time to stretch your legs if you are seated on a cushion,” Abe says.
I uncross my legs and find out the hard way they’ve fallen asleep. Standing up is not an option right now, so I shake them out in front of me on the floor. I am surprised as Emelina pops right up and starts readying the room for yoga. I am going to try it, I decide. Years ago, the rec center sponsored an introductory course, but the instructor was a posture Nazi and I ended up quitting after the first session. She was from the city and didn’t last long in Milford. Abe comes to his practice with reverence. It saved his life, and now he helps others improve their lives.
Eventually, the pins and needles from toes to buttocks subside, and I stand. I retrieve a mat, a blanket, and a thing called a bolster from the hardwood cubbies along the interior side wall, then mimic how the others set them up.
For the next hour, Abe talks us through seated, standing and relaxation poses. The guided meditation in corpse pose knocks me out, and for the second time in two days, Emelina and Abe hover above me as I wake up.
“That was wonderful,” I say.
Again, Emelina pulls me to a seated position. “You look so relaxed.”
“That was wonderful,” I repeat, as much for them. Two and a half hours ago, I was a bundle of jangled nerves. Now I feel like jello. The tightness in my chest is gone. A warm softness radiates outward from my abdomen. Anything is possible.
“Not a bad way to start your day,” Abe tells me.
“Not at all,” I agree. I wipe down the mat, then roll it up and return it to the cubby along with the props. I linger until the last person leaves. Emelina notices my lingering and joins me.
Abe looks towards us, and we meet in the center of the room.
“I was wondering if you had a minute to talk with me,” I start.
“I don’t know, Gwen. I am a pretty busy lady,” Emelina says.
“Sure, what’s up?” Abe asks.
I take a deep breath and resolve to myself to speak plainly and directly. No beating around the bush. “Last year, my daughter Erin and I helped the FBI solve a murder in New Haven.”
I watched both of their jaws drop while they raise their eyebrows in surprise.
“I figured that would grab your attention.” I smile. “They were so impressed with Erin’s skills they offered her a part-time, work-at-home job as a consultant. I won’t bore you with the details. Repeatedly, the agent in charge of the investigation said that I also had a gift.” I put air quotes around “gift.” “She said that I had a way of looking at things as they really were. You teach kindergarten for thirty-five years the way we have,” I nod to Emelina, who smiles knowingly, “and you see it written on the faces of the kids. There is no hiding what’s happening in their heads. What you see is what you get. They haven’t learned how to get cute with the truth yet.”
“I think I know what you mean,” he says. “There is some of that in sales. You get to read people if you do it long enough.”
“Erin reminded me last night of my gift when I told her about how a student of mine from twenty years ago died recently. The official version is that he shot himself.”
“But you don’t think so,” Emelina says.
“I didn’t think so last night, but this morning I am not so sure.”
“What changed?” Abe asks.
“Less about the facts and more about what I can do about it.”
“Meaning what?” he asks.
“You mean you’re getting cold feet,” Emelina says before I can answer. My hundred-year-old former mentor is throwing down the gauntlet, and she’s right. I don’t have a great answer why now differs from last night.
“It was different in New Haven,” I try to explain.
“You figured out something in a town you’ve never been to before and where you didn’t know anybody. Am I missing something?”
Of course, she is right. Between us, we probably know all the locals and half the newbies. I’ve lived here since college. “It is still an active investigation; I would be intruding,” I tell them.
Abe shakes his head. “That poop doesn’t flush.” His soft eyes drill into mine.
“So, it would be better to wait twenty years and then solve it?” Emelina says with an innocent grin. It is allowable for centenarians to zing you; they’ve earned that right.
“Ask yourself why you need to know what really happened,” Abe adds.
“Because I owe it to my former student to find out if he really committed death by suicide and why.”
“And?” Abe prods me.
“Because I think I can discover the answer.”
“And if he didn’t shoot himself?” Abe lets the question hang in the air like my intimates flapping on a clothesline.