Dear Friends,
My work at the clinic has introduced me
to a number of incredible nutrition products
that I would love to share with all of you!
Please join me
in the Haliburton Highlands
on Friday, October 5th
for a special retreat weekend!
Map and directions enclosed. Please RSVP.
The invitations went out two weeks ago. I used the laser printer at work—the Verde Salon & Spa—slotted ten pages of tree-free paper into the machine before pressing Start. The specialty paper was the same weight as copy paper but pale blue, flecked with parchment-coloured bits of garlic. Made entirely out of garlic, it was odourless, thank goodness. I bought it at the environmental store on Bloor Street, and it cost me seventy-five cents for each sheet. Of all the paper in the store, this one appealed to me because it felt so crisp.
I sent the invitation to ten people. The literature in the company’s sales portfolio kit told me to expect a fifty-percent turnout to the first invitation. The growth will happen through word of mouth, it read, and you have to have patience for this community to build. Only four of my friends could make it for the weekend—two couples. This was perfect. It was a less intimidating number, and it meant that I could start my project slowly.
The company is called Go-Manchura. It produces a line of packaged foods, drinks and nutritional supplements that contain a powerful ingredient known to prevent cancer (especially of the inner organs), diabetes, hypertension, insomnia and indigestion. It’s also been successful in the treatment of arthritis, anxiety and herpes. I don’t know about arthritis or herpes—touch wood—but I’m certainly familiar with anxiety and insomnia. Go-Manchura’s products have changed my life. I mean that sincerely.
Since I’ve integrated these products into my regular diet, I’ve felt a major shift in my overall energy levels. My sleeping patterns are more balanced—I now wake up refreshed each morning and fall asleep easily each evening—and this has made a noticeable difference to my moodiness. I view the world in a positive way, now. And this new energy has started an avalanche of abundance in so many other parts of my life!
My sweet, retired parents gave me one week at their timeshare cottage for my event. I took a few days off from the clinic and drove up on Wednesday. The clinic didn’t mind: Verde Spa has only two rooms, and a variety of therapists to fill them. They temporarily replaced my aromatherapy facials and rented the room to a graduate from the downtown shiatsu school. His name is Bobby, and before learning shiatsu he practised massage in the Dominican Republic for fourteen years. Every time he sees me, he says in his hot, lacquered accent: Chew got to relaaax, Lee-lee-an.
Tension winds around my head and shoulders like a spool of wire. This is from living in the city, period. There is nothing that I can do about it. So I tried to unwind as soon as I arrived in Haliburton. A brisk jog down and back up the hill and through the birch trees, a lunch of tomato soup and whole wheat toast, a solo paddle around the small lake, yoga in front of the fire, a pasta dinner and a few glasses of wine.
On Thursday, I realized that scheduling my day like this was exactly how I lived in the city. So I tried to concentrate on relaxing, and ate breakfast on the couch while I was watching the shadows the leaves made on the walls, like a puppet show. I have an overactive mind; the shadows soon drove me crazy. I read one of the paperbacks stacked on the bookshelf next to the wood stove, a ridiculous novel about a man who opens a restaurant in Colombia: cocaine and firearms, some kind of heist. It became too dark to read without turning on the light. I opened my second bottle of wine and drank it with the leftover pasta. I don’t know what time it was when I finally fell asleep, but I woke up on the couch shivering because the fire had gone out. I made myself a Go-Manchura drink before going upstairs to the bedroom. The tangerine flavour is the most refreshing—I keep packets of it in my purse just in case I need a lift. The next day I stayed in bed for hours and hours. My body must have needed the rest.
On Friday, they were due to arrive before sunset. I’d already defrosted a Go-Manchura ready-to-eat mushroom lasagna, and the ingredients for bruschetta and salad were ready. I selected three flower-remedy tinctures from the cabinet above the microwave: White Chestnut, for recurring thoughts; Impatiens, which is the obvious one; and Black Walnut, for the feeling of being stuck in a rut. The tinctures are made in a base of good brandy. I flavoured a glass of water with three drops from each vial and sipped it while standing at the kitchen sink, watching for a car to come up the hill. The water tasted sweet, like a glass of Scotch at the end of the night, when the ice has long since melted and it’s time to go home.
The evening sun set the birch on fire, turned the chartreuse leaves electric. A sound like a seated lawnmower stewed at the bottom of the driveway. Then an old burgundy Volvo appeared all at once, taking the hill in a large mouthful. Nina and Brooks. The car hummed while Brooks fidgeted with the headlights and the parking brake. Nina’s face looked eager, a sunflower pressed against the window. I drank the rest of my water, set the glass down on the counter, and walked out into the yellow leaves to greet them.
Nina looked amazing, as always. Hip-hugging red jeans—who else could wear red pants and pull it off?—with her little black boots that fold down, like a pirate’s. She’d been wearing those boots when we did our Feldenkrais certification workshop years ago, long before they were popular. She slipped out of the passenger seat and stared straight up at the yellow birch trees with her hands on her hips. The one above the cottage was just turning: it had reached its apex of illuminated fluorescent insanity, and it would probably lose most of its leaves before the end of the weekend.
God, Nina said. It’s like Pantone 803.
She turned back to the car and lugged a denim duffle bag out of the back seat. As she bent down to grasp the shoulder strap, her hair fell away from the back of her neck, showing her tattoo. In Gothic cursive, it read: Earl Grey. The Earl was Nina’s old border collie, killed by a bear in a tree-planting camp ten years ago. I was with her when it happened. We weren’t close enough to see it, but we heard it through the trees. Nina left the camp without finishing her contract and never returned to tree planting after that. She got a part-time job pulverizing carrots and apples at a juice bar, enrolled at the Ontario College of Art and Design, and starting painting with acrylics. She really got into the contact dance scene. That’s how she found out about Feldenkrais. But this was all a long time ago. She’s a web designer now. I think she’s even started eating meat again, since she met Brooks.
I was so glad for the signs, said Brooks. I almost couldn’t see the road because of all the leaves. Do they plough this in the winter?
Brooks is built tall and narrow, like a townhouse. I hugged him around the waist and my cheek could only reach the middle of his chest. He wore a thin black jacket that zipped up into a sleek tube. It was made of some kind of microfibre that was so soft and smooth, it had a negative texture.
We should go for a night walk tonight, I said to them. The leaves are falling constantly. It’s so pretty, especially when it’s dark.
You mean spooky, said Nina.
You can see the stars, I said.
I’m in! Brooks pumped his arm too vigorously. Nina rolled her eyes.
It’s been a long time since we got Brooks out of the city, she said.
You both look so spiffy, I said.
I brought my new rubber boots, said Nina. I’m excited to be able to wear them.
Only two pairs of footwear this time? Brooks asked her. Well done!
Eight o’clock. Stephen and Evelyn still hadn’t arrived. I made dinner anyway.
They’ll want some when they get in, said Brooks.
They probably stopped at Arby’s, said Nina.
Who eats at Arby’s? I asked. I don’t even know where to find an Arby’s.
When you’re looking for them, they appear, said Nina. It’s sinister.
We were drinking homemade Chardonnay, care of Brooks’s father. Nina had designed a series of labels for her father-in-law that read Chateau Holland, with an old picture of the family farm that she’d found at the archives. The wine itself was made at a brew-your-own franchise called The Cellar; the family farm had never grown any grapes. The land was now called Waverly Park, home to a new development of brick-veneer shoeboxes in the area north of Markham. Nina and Brooks had bought themselves a condo in the Argyle Lofts downtown. They bought it outright, as in: they have no mortgage.
I daubed a spoonful of walnut oil over the arugula and then sprinkled it with Go-Manchura’s plum vinegar. When the pumpkin seeds started to pop in the cast iron pan, I slid them out onto a plate to cool. I diced tomatoes and piled them on top of the garlic bread.
Nina watched me screw the cap back on the purple bottle. What you got there? she asked.
It’s one of the products I wanted to show you, I said. This vinegar improves digestion and discourages bacteria and yeast growth in the intestines.
Mm, said Brooks.
Nina peeked in at the lasagna and shut the oven door. And what’s in there?
It’s another one of these special products, I told her. The stuff I’ve been telling you about.
But what’s it called? she asked.
It smells just great! said Brooks.
It’s lasagna, I said.
Oh, said Brooks. That’s funny, because it doesn’t smell like lasagna.
All of the ingredients are certified organic, I said.
If I were to guess what it was, Brooks continued, I definitely wouldn’t have said lasagna. I would have said—he closed his eyes and took a big whiff—mm, I would say more like beef stroganoff.
I hadn’t tried this particular Go-Manchura entree yet, and I wanted it to be delicious. So much. I should have tested the mushroom one myself before serving it this weekend. I knew the Roast Veggies & Herb version was good, but I wanted to try something new. Stupid!
Yeah, I said, but no, it’s lasagna.
Yeah no! said Nina. Notice how people from Toronto always say that? We always say that.
Say what? I asked.
Answer a question with yeah, no. It’s a tic or something. Watch, you’ll see.
Brooks lifted a bottle of Chateau Holland. More wine?
Yeah . . . no, I said.
That’s it exactly, Nina said. I know you forced it that time, but still.
It did feel familiar coming off my tongue, I told her.
Nina smiled. That’s right, she said. We do it all the time and we don’t even notice.
Because it’s a time-share and meant to be used by a number of families throughout one season, Cottage F (there are seven of them built around the lake, alphabetized from A to G) discourages any signs of character or human life. There are no old canoe paddles mounted over the fireplace, no smooth stones collected from the beach in a line on the windowsill, no blanket box full of faded quilts with the stitching coming undone from years of wear. The structure of the cottage is autonomous and self-satisfied. It merely tolerates human presence. It was built in a sturdy, present way: Large, blocky pine furniture with a golden varnish takes up space around the wood stove. A winding staircase to the second floor is almost in the centre of the living room. The floors are made of a matching yellow pine and waxed to a high, shiny finish. It’s easy to slip if you are in sock feet. The steps used to be so slippery, the owners of the cottages had to sprinkle sand on the wet varnish to make traction. It feels like walking on an old emery board now.
We ate dinner around the dining room table behind the couch, close enough to the living room to watch the fire in the wood stove. It was already well past dark and still no Evelyn and Stephen.
I’m a little concerned, I said.
You know Evelyn, said Nina.
Have you two spent much time with this Stephen guy? I asked.
Brooks had used his knife to make a grid on the top of his lasagna, and he was cutting out square pieces, eating them one at a time. The shape of his lasagna on the plate was not unlike an oversized Tetris piece.
Brooks has, said Nina.
Brooks looked up, eyebrows raised. I’ve played squash with him, he said.
Wait—you work together, right? I asked. I couldn’t remember how Evelyn had met Stephen. I thought that she’d worked with him, but then it came back to me— Brooks had set them up together.
We work on the same floor, Brooks said. We don’t actually work on the same team.
Stephen’s in legal services, whispered Nina.
Is he actually a lawyer? I asked.
Whatever, said Nina. He’s loaded.
Is she happy with him?
Nina shrugged and pierced a grey wedge with the tines of her fork. I really like the mushrooms in here, she said. Is this shiitake?
Sometimes a portobello mushroom can taste just like a juicy steak, Brooks said.
Brooks proposed to Nina last November, on a weekend trip to Montreal. When they were settled in the hotel, a four-storey stone building in the old part of town, Nina asked him, Do you think we’ll get married soon? Brooks brushed her off, so as not to ruin the surprise. Nah, he said, why rush it? Meanwhile, he had the ring in his pocket. Nina was so upset by his nonchalance, she locked herself in the bathroom, weeping. Brooks finally proposed to her on the other side of the bathroom door. She opened the door and saw him on one knee. He said, I didn’t want to do it this way, but you’re just so miserable.
Hey Brooks, I said. Do you know any other rich single men at your office?
Ha! Brooks laughed and nodded, like I’d made a great joke.
I’m serious, I said. Is there anyone?
There was a pause. Nina wrinkled her nose and tilted her head towards me. Lilian, she said, I don’t think any of the guys in Brooks’s office are really your type.
Why not? I asked.
Oh, you know, Nina said. You need someone who’s more . . . She opened her hand in front of her as though making an offering. Conscious, she finished.
You found someone great, and he works in that office, I said to her.
Yes, but we’re different, said Nina.
Who, you and Brooks?
You and me, she said.
I tried a bite of my lasagna. It wasn’t too bad.
I’m exhausted, Nina said. She rested her fork on her plate, tines down. I might have to go to bed right after dinner. Lilian, do you have earplugs?
Not here, I said. Do you want to hear a little bit about Go-Manchura first?
Oh, I think it’s too late tonight, she said. Maybe in the morning, we can have a little sit-down about it then? Do you mind?
The lasagna was very good, said Brooks. He’d finished his grid of a meal and folded his napkin in a tidy rectangle beside the plate.
I would love to tell you more about the health benefits, I said.
Nina nodded. If you crunch up toilet paper and lick it a little, she said, the paper will mould to the inside of your ear canal.
There are a few ways to sell the products: through friends, through strangers, and through turning strangers into friends. The Go-Manchura DVD promised that the easiest way to the path of health, wealth, happiness and success was by helping your friends first.
A slight tang pinched the air as I cleaned up after dinner: the vinegar from the salad, the leftover Chardonnay in the bottom of my guests’ glasses. I hesitated before I drank their extra puddles of wine. I know it was a little unsanitary, but it wasn’t like they were there to see it. They were upstairs having sex in the master bedroom. It was very loud: Nina called out like an exotic night bird from the Amazon.
I was dozing on the couch, the stumpy black bits in the wood stove still glowing cadmium, when I heard a long scratch at the door. I thought it was Evelyn. I didn’t even think about why she’d be scratching instead of knocking. I froze when I opened the door, which was probably not the best reaction. There stood a black dog. It could have attacked me easily—I didn’t even move, I just looked at it. It was a medium-sized dog that must have had some greyhound in it, because its face was long and pointy. The dog trotted in and immediately made for the braided rug that lay at the base of the wood stove. She turned in the three proverbial circles and exhaled a breath as she lay down. She had a very bushy tail, like a fox, and in less than a minute she’d inserted her nose deep into her fur, closed her eyes, and fallen asleep.
I began to feel anxious. But it was two-thirty in the morning; I couldn’t call the caretaker of the cottages at that hour. I reasoned that she probably belonged to a timeshare guest at one of the other cottages, obviously friendly, not dangerous. I fixed myself a Go-Manchura tangerine drink with several drops of the Aspen tincture, meant for vague and persistent fears, and settled myself back under the blanket on the couch. But I was far too uneasy to sleep in the presence of the dog. So I dropped a little shot of vodka in my drink to help me relax, and crept upstairs quietly, hoping she wouldn’t follow me. She didn’t. I slept in the bed I’d made up for Evelyn and Stephen. First thing in the morning, I would call someone.
It’s just a nominal fee, I told Brooks. Then you get everything Go-Manchura makes at wholesale prices.
I was slicing the bread for toast, making a mess of the oats or kamut flakes or whatever it was that fell off the top of it, scattering onto the floor. Brooks was leaning against the counter, reading the fine print on the back of a Go-Manchura drink packet. He wore a bright orange sweater that looked lovely against the yellow birch leaves outside.
Is it a drug? he asked.
No, I told him. It’s a mushroom. It’s like a mushroom, but it’s more complicated. It works like an herb. Like herbal medicine.
A flash of black ribbon came boiling through the door and into the kitchen, streaking around my legs, becoming canine as it slowed. Nina, layered in fleece and Gore-Tex, closed the door behind her. She unwound a long white scarf from her neck, looped it over a wooden peg next to the door, and turned to me, her pink cheeks shiny.
I can’t believe I forgot my camera, she said. The frost is melting and all of the sparkles are turning to beads of water.
Toast? asked Brooks, holding up a slice in the air.
Nina dug off her rubber boots one heel at a time. Coffee! she said.
The dog was lying in front of the wood stove again, nibbling at her paws, pulling out weeds and burrs. I had called the caretaker’s number, but she had an old message on her voice mail: it informed me that she would be away until one o’clock the previous Thursday. I had nothing to feed the dog, but then, she didn’t seem hungry.
I have some Go-Manchura coffee I’d love for you to try, I said to Nina. I found the box inside the cupboard and slid three packets out. The kettle had been whistling just after Nina took the dog outside. It was still hot. It wouldn’t take long to re-boil.
It’s instant? said Nina.
Look, I said. It tastes so good, and it has much less caffeine than regular coffee.
Wait—it’s decaf? said Brooks.
It’s medicinal, I said.
The caretaker stood in the middle of our cabin, her hands stuffed tight in her jean pockets, and she shook her head. Wow, she said, that is a really cute dog.
Nina and Brooks had gone upstairs for a “nap” after breakfast, and I went down to the caretaker’s cabin at the bottom of the hill to ask her about the dog. She had wanted to come back with me to see the dog herself. On the walk back up the hill, I caught myself doing that thing with my thumbs again—clenching them inside my fists and squeezing. But when I opened the door, the love circus had quieted. They may even have been sleeping.
I watched the dog lying by the fire. But where did she come from? I said. It’s like she thinks she lives here.
The dog was watching us, eyes open, her nose pointed into the tail. The fur sprayed into her face and around her neck like a feather boa. She really did look elegant.
I haven’t heard anything about a missing dog, said the caretaker. I could ask around town this afternoon.
Could you do that, please? I asked.
Evelyn’s not coming, Nina called from upstairs. The caretaker jumped.
I didn’t know you had company, she said.
They arrived last night, I said.
She just texted me, Nina called. She got some contract and can’t leave the city.
I heard the water go on in the bathroom. Brooks cleared his throat in the glass shower stall and the echo sounded like an operatic barnyard animal.
Oh well! I shouted up the stairs. Thanks for telling me! The dog raised her head at the noise and gave me a look.
Sorry, I said to her.
The caretaker turned to leave. I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your weekend, she said.
Wait, I said. What should I do about the dog?
She shrugged. She looks fine, she said. I don’t think you have to do anything.
Okay, yes, you can buy a similar ingredient at a health food store, I said to Brooks. He was lacing up his hiking boots by the door. Nina was standing beside him with her rubber boots already pulled up over the legs of her jeans. But, I continued, the thing about Go-Manchura is that it’s certified organic, the ingredients are standardized, and the quality is guaranteed.
The dog had come into the kitchen to see what was going on. She sat down at Nina’s feet and watched me with what I thought was a cool eye. Her tail brushed up into Brooks’s bootlaces, and he pushed it away so he could see what he was doing.
Do they have a website? asked Brooks. He fitted a ribbed black hat onto his head and zipped up his tube jacket. The dog stood up, expecting to go for another walk.
I looked at the drink crystals, said Nina, and sugar is the first ingredient.
It’s organic cane sugar, I said. It’s unrefined and one hundred percent natural.
Nina folded her white scarf in half. She wrapped it around the back of her neck, slipped the two ends through the loop, and pulled it snug. The lasagna was good, she said.
Go-Manchura products are so restorative, I told them. You may feel a renewed amount of energy. Did you wake up feeling refreshed? I turned to Brooks. You can find them at Go-Manchura.com, I told him. But my client code number is 738.
Nina looked at me and sighed. What is this? she asked.
What do you mean? I said.
I think maybe I should just tell you straight up, Lilian. We’re not interested.
I focused on the balls of fabric that had pilled on her scarf. The scarf was actually an oatmeal colour, not white at all. Her chin jabbed into the scarf like a chisel. Brooks stared down at the dog. The dog looked at something behind the door that none of us could see.
We think that this whole thing is kind of creepy, Nina said.
What Nina means is that this is probably not for us, said Brooks.
I wouldn’t be telling you about these products unless I believed in them, I said. It’s such a powerful ingredient. It’s been proven to cure migraines.
Stop saying the word products, said Nina.
Do you know what the ingredient is? asked Brooks.
It’s a pyramid scheme, said Nina.
It’s like an ancient mushroom. But with a more complex biological structure.
A pyramid scheme that uses mushrooms for world domination! said Brooks.
Technically, it’s not a mushroom, I corrected him.
After they left for their walk—all three of them, including the dog—I sat down at the kitchen table with my Go-Manchura portfolio, sales graph and marketing plan. The corporate philosophy is printed on the front cover of the portfolio:
Spiritual and financial wealth lead to a life of happiness and wholeness. At Go-Manchura, we strive to help you attain this. Success is possible when we attain our life objectives. We help you cultivate good leadership skills and improve your interpersonal communication skills, and through this you will find success. Our company creates a loving community that expands beyond the individual.
Nina had left her pirate boots on the mat inside the door. One was standing exactly upright and the other was folded over, like a dog’s ear. At that moment, I would have traded everything I had for those boots.
The dog and I had a photo shoot out in the leaves later that afternoon, while Brooks and Nina packed their things. I wanted to make a poster with pictures, to help find her owners. It was like she knew what it was, to pose for the camera. She sat on her butt, her tail flashing out behind her, and gave me her profile. I took a few shots of her walking towards me, her nose foreshortened in the lens, bulbous and gentle. I threw sticks for her and snapped shots when she was running back with the branch in her mouth, tongue flapping pink underneath it. I named her Friday, for the day she came to the door. I know it was a Saturday morning, technically, but Friday suited her personality. As soon as I named her, I knew that she’d probably leave.
At one point she looked back at the cottage, dropped her stick like a cold stone, and trotted to the door. She must have somehow heard the sound of Brooks and Nina coming downstairs with their luggage. She sat on her haunches, staring at the door, waiting for them to come outside. They packed their duffle bags back in the trunk of the Volvo, and Nina opened the back door to tuck her rubber boots behind the passenger seat. Friday, ready for exactly this moment, jumped in the car. She gave her usual smug and content expression: the sense of entitlement one is more accustomed to seeing in the face of a cat. I tried to get her out, calling her by her new name, as if she would recognize it. Brooks opened the door on the other side and gave her butt a push, but she step-danced all over the back seat, making it difficult for him to get a good angle. In the end, it was Nina who coaxed her out. She bent forward at the hip and patted her thighs, saying, Come. Come on, girl. Out.
Friday listened to every word she said. She calmly stepped out of the car because Nina had asked her to do it.
Nina spread out her arms for me, and I hugged her. It felt like embracing a sheet of vellum. Brooks touched the top of my head. I smiled brightly, as though he’d knighted me.
Goodbye, Lilian, he said.
I stood behind the Volvo as Brooks made a six-point turn in the small driveway. He watched me in his mirrors and I used my hands to signal where the tree trunks were, and called out that it was safe to keep coming, keep coming, a little more, now stop. Okay, now you can go.
Friday and I both stood in the driveway for a while, long after the Volvo’s tail lights had disappeared beyond the hill, long after I stopped hearing the engine humming down the gravel road. Friday’s ears were up, full triangles. Her tail was at rest, but poised for action. She stared deep into the distance, as if she could see beyond the trees and the leaves, as if she could still see them in the car, even though they were long gone.
Oh, go on, I said. Just go.