By now the room was soggy with misery. Sofia and Raeanne were yelling. Sanderson rocked, apologizing over and over to his parents, slowing only when Ruth murmured something in his ear. I snuck a peek at Gordon. Straight-backed and unmoving, he sat in the corner. I couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or closed.
“His death is on you too,” Jeremiah said.
I trembled, overwhelmed. I didn’t have time to think about whether I wanted to participate—I just did, so my voice wouldn’t be notably absent from the crowd’s, like when they did the group “om” at the end of a yoga class. If I didn’t keep talking, Jeremiah might get self-conscious again that I was eavesdropping on his conversation.
“You should have fought, Mom,” I said a little louder to match the volume of the rest of the mob. My mind whirled. “Why weren’t we worth sticking around for?”
“You’re doing so well,” Ruth said. I wasn’t sure whether she was talking to me or Jeremiah. “Keep going.”
“I should have been there for you. I’m sorry,” I said, then voiced the thought I’d had thousands of times: “This is all my fault.” I’d been easy on her when I should have been tough and tough when I should have shown compassion. I was vomiting on my own feet in Vegas while she took her last breaths. She mattered more to me than everyone else combined, yet I had totally and utterly failed her. I hung my head, desperately fanning myself.
Ruth moved away, then shouted to be heard over the cacophony. “Good, everyone, very good. Now be still.”
The room quieted, reeking of sweat and body odor. I needed air.
“Take a photo of your memory and put it in the middle of a crisp white bedsheet.”
I pictured my mother slumped at the kitchen table, upset that we were ganging up on her. I put the image in the bedsheet.
“Bring the four corners of the sheet together, and close it with a bungee cord. You can’t see the photo anymore. The memory is trying to tug free, so it may jump around inside the sheet. Do you see it?”
I did as I was told, wrapping the bungee cord around my mother’s betrayed expression.
“Now hurl that wrapped-up memory as hard as you can against the wall. Let me hear the sounds of your efforts.”
People began to grunt, as if they were trying to push a building off its foundation. Someone howled. Jeremiah’s hand sliced the air, and I imagined he was actually trying to whip away his memory. I hesitated, not wanting to throw my mother against the wall. Could we not open a single window in this sweltering trailer? I longed for a breeze, for escape.
“Come on, Kit. You can do it,” Ruth said.
I imagined spinning the bedsheet over my head faster and faster, until finally I let it go. My butt rose off the ground. I stopped myself from wincing when my mother crashed against the wall. Instead of panicking over how crazed I felt, I tried to focus on the marvels of the brain, to reflect on the power of imagination.
“Begin to come down, class,” Ruth said. “Start to let those intense emotions drain from you. Let the rage go. Let the grief go. Let the confusion go. Let the fear go.” People started to calm. “Are you a little lighter after ridding yourself of the weight of that memory? A lot lighter for some of you?”
Even with my eyes closed, I could tell the room was brightening. Ruth was slowly raising the blinds. My classmates breathed deeply, no longer panting. Only Sofia was still whimpering—“my poor baby,” she said over and over.
The insanity began to feel like a dream. A roomful of adults had gone mad—now we were supposed to pretend like everything was okay?
“Thank your partner for accompanying you on this journey,” Ruth said. “Then focus on your breath.”
Jeremiah mumbled his thanks. What had his mother or father done? Had he been referring to his brother’s death?
“Now lie on your backs and get comfortable,” Ruth went on. “You may want to stretch your arms overhead or curl up in a ball on your side. Let the position you need choose you. It’s time to indulge in twenty minutes of self-care.”
I spent the entire time rationalizing what I had done. Why had I gone along with them? Why had I shared something so deeply painful and personal? Did I feel any better for having done it? I was mortified that these nine people had possibly put together the morbid pieces of my family story. I was unnerved I had so easily been swept into the exercise.
But I felt a little lighter, having shared a piece of my guilt and anger and fear aloud. To hear how many other people were furious with their parents or bore a backbreaking load of shame. To discover I wasn’t the only terrible daughter or son in the room. I was a little lighter.