Quiet chatter rippled through the dining hall. Emily’s gaze moved from guest to guest as she attempted to put names to faces. Pamela sat at the head of the table, with Marcia on her left. Sitting opposite each other in the next two seats, discontent hanging over them like a black cloud of flies, were a man and woman in their late thirties. Ben and Sylvia, she assumed. On Ben’s right, Daniel was engaged in conversation with the young woman seated across from him. This had to be Helen. Emily stared warily at the journalist, noticing how her smile failed to reach her eyes.
On Helen’s left, a stern-faced man in his mid-forties was hunched over the table, steely blue eyes scowling at the empty seat opposite. Beads of perspiration glinted on his bald head. Was this Oscar? As if sensing he was being watched, he turned his head and glared at Emily. She quickly looked away.
Beside her, Jerome whispered, “Good job I like a challenge.”
Giving her a wry wink, he headed towards the table and slipped into the chair opposite Oscar.
“Great to meet you, I’m Jerome,” he said, extending his hand across the table. Oscar stared at him. His hands remained on his lap.
“You know, if you stand there much longer you’ll turn into a statue.” The woman in the headscarf smiled at Emily. She nodded at the empty chair beside her. “I promise not to bite.”
Emily sat down.
“I’m Janelle Magoro. Should we even be doing surnames here? It sounds so formal.”
Janelle had a kind face. Her eyes lit up like stars when she smiled.
“Emily.”
Jerome had already abandoned attempts at conversation with Oscar and was now talking with Daniel and Helen.
“Are you okay, Emily? Is this your first time at a retreat?” Janelle patted her on the forearm. Why was everyone obsessed with that question? “You look like a first-timer. These places seem odd at first. A little ... out there, I suppose you could say. But once you’ve been to a few you get to know the drill. Slipping into the right headspace becomes much easier.”
“Have you been to many?” Emily asked. Janelle’s hand remained on her forearm. She stared at it, feeling its weight.
“Oh, I’ve done the rounds. Yoga retreats, artist retreats, women’s, monastic ... it’s good to take time and re-centre yourself, don’t you think? These days, time has become our most precious commodity. The older I get, the less I want to spend of my time trying to catch up. Coming to places like Meadow Pines helps to remind me that life should always be set at one’s own pace. Don’t you agree?”
Janelle raised her eyebrows, waiting for Emily to share her pearls of wisdom about the tribulations of modern living.
Emily shrugged. “It’s very peaceful here.”
“And a wonderful space to create in. Although some of their art resources leave a lot to be desired.”
Emily stared at the empty seat on her left. Melody was the only guest missing from the table. She was about to ask Janelle if she had seen her when the kitchen doors swung open. A sinewy young man with sandy hair, grey eyes, and a mass of wiry facial hair wheeled out a trolley filled with steaming pots of food. Marcia jumped up and began handing out plates while the man placed the pots in the centre of the table. There were dishes of lentils and beans, sticky rice, and a vegetable stew. The blend of aromas was dizzying, causing a wave of excited chatter around the table.
Standing up, Pamela raised a quietening hand.
“I hope everyone has found some fulfilment on their first full day at Meadow Pines,” she said. “Often, the first day is the most challenging—a rude awakening to how hectic our lives have become, how dependent on technology we now are, feeding from it like babies at their mothers’ breasts. It’s on this first day that we feel the sting of withdrawal. Tomorrow, however, we realise the illusion—that the milk is sour and empty of nutrients.”
Jerome leaned back in his chair, catching Emily’s eye. He bit down on his lip to suppress a smile.
“Tomorrow we open our minds. We acknowledge our worries and fears, the anxieties that nibble at us every day, and then we release ourselves from them so that we may instead reconnect with the self.”
Pamela paused, allowing a moment for her words to absorb into the minds of her guests. A clack of shoes on floorboards disturbed the quiet. Melody hurried into the room and dropped into the seat next to Emily.
“Sorry I’m late,” she mumbled.
Something was wrong. The friendly, happy woman Emily had met earlier that day was now sullen and nervy, her eyes bloodshot, the skin around them red and irritated.
“Are you all right?” Emily mouthed.
Melody nodded and stared at the table.
“Let me briefly go over why we practise silent eating at Meadow Pines,” Pamela said, refocusing her guests’ attention. “In today’s busy world, dinnertime is one of the few opportunities we have to communicate with family and friends, so it may seem at odds to encourage silent eating. But there are many benefits. Free from the distraction of talk or technology, silent eating allows us to have greater focus, to better enjoy the eating experience. It allows us to chew for longer, to eat slower, thereby improving digestion and boosting our energy levels, while making us more aware of when our hunger has been satisfied. By eating in silence, we become more mindful of what is before us, strengthening our awareness throughout the day, increasing our enjoyment in all of life’s pleasures. And finally, silent eating helps us to develop greater connections with the people around us. We notice their facial expressions and their body language—elements that we often miss when distracted by conversation.”
Around the table, backs straightened and arms uncrossed.
“Let’s use this time to enjoy and reflect,” she said. “And let us give thanks to Sam for cooking this wonderful feast of vegetables harvested from our very own garden!”
Murmured thankyous went around the table as Sam set down the final dish and sat in the empty seat beside Pamela.
Eating in silence was a strange experience. Emily found the food appetising, but did not feel her senses heightened like Pamela had promised. Perhaps like all things it took practise. As she ate, she observed the other guests. Ben and Sylvia ran forks through their meals as if they’d been laced with poison. Melody picked at her food, pushing it around her plate without attempting to eat. The drastic change in her worried Emily. Jerome, however, was distinctly unworried about anything. He shovelled food into his mouth as if dinner was a competitive sport.
Emily was not the only one watching the room. Across the table, Helen’s eyes moved from face to face. As she worked her way around, Emily quickly dropped her gaze to her plate. By the time she looked up again, Helen had finished observing her fellow guests and was now busying herself with eating. But now Emily felt someone else’s eyes upon her. She turned her head and saw Oscar staring directly at her. Something changed in his expression. Was it recognition? Surely she was being paranoid.
Emily looked away. When she looked back again, Oscar was still staring.
***
The table emptied as soon as everyone finished eating. Daniel and Helen volunteered to wash the dishes. Ben and Sylvia returned upstairs. As they left the room, Emily heard them complain about the bland food and the ridiculous philosophy of silent eating. While Janelle moved up a few seats to talk to Pamela and Marcia, Melody stood up and wandered out into the hall, shuffling in zigzags like a lost child.
“How are you feeling?” Jerome asked, leaning across the empty seat.
“Better.” Emily watched Melody disappear through the door. Across the table, Oscar was on his feet and brushing crumbs from his shirt.
“Excuse me,” he said. His voice was deep and hollow, like words falling into a bottomless pit. “I don’t mean to stare, it’s just that you look so familiar to me. Have we met?”
Ignoring the palpitations in her chest, Emily shook her head. “No, I don’t think we have.”
His eyes pierced through her as he straightened his shirt collar. “It’s so strange. I’m usually very good with faces and I’m almost certain I’ve seen yours before. My name is Oscar.”
She hesitated, the silence all too telling. “Emily.”
“Emily just has one of those faces,” Jerome said, redirecting Oscar’s attention. “People always think they’ve met her before.”
Oscar’s smile wavered. “And you are?”
“Jerome Miller, actor and best friend.”
For a moment, Oscar’s gaze shifted towards the three women deep in conversation at the far end of the table.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Tell me, Emily, have you been to Meadow Pines before?”
Emily shook her head.
“I see. Well, if you’ll excuse me.”
He pushed his chair under the table. Without acknowledging either of them again, he left the room. A cloying wave of anxiety racked Emily’s body.
“What was that all about?” Jerome moved into the seat next to her.
“It’s the bloody newspapers,” Emily whispered. “I just can’t get away from it!”
“You don’t know that. Besides, you do have one of those faces.”
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I’m being funny.” He placed his hand over hers. “Just don’t worry about it. Even if he does recognize you, so what? It doesn’t mean he’ll bring it up, and it doesn’t mean you have to talk about it if he does.”
“The whole point of coming here was to get away from it all. Honestly, you’d think being in the middle of nowhere for the weekend might have achieved that. But between that journalist and now this, there’s no chance of me getting some peace and quiet, is there?”
Slouching in her chair, Emily folded her arms across her chest. She felt anxiety turn to frustration, frustration to annoyance.
“That journalist hasn’t even spoken a word to you,” Jerome said. “If you want peace and quiet, all you have to do is shut your door or go for a walk. It’s as simple as that.”
Emily shook her head. If only it was as simple as that. Shutting her door might shut out the people, but it didn’t shut out the thoughts in her head.
“Perhaps I’ll go for a walk now before it gets dark,” she said.
“That’s the spirit! You want some company?”
“Why don’t you go do the dishes with Daniel? I’m sure he’d only be too pleased to receive your helping hands.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Emily Swanson,” Jerome said, feigning embarrassment. “Besides, he has Helen on drying duty.”
“Even more reason to get in there. Make sure she isn’t snooping around, asking questions.”
“My dear, Emily,” Jerome said in a mock, upper-class accent, “believe it or not, there are billions of people in this world who aren’t even aware of your existence.”
Emily blew out a long stream of air. “It’s not them I’m worried about.”