Thus far The Five’s outreach had only doubled the attendance numbers, an underwhelming improvement. But as I took in their awestruck faces and the concentration with which they watched me, I reminded myself it was the depth, not the breadth, of my reach that mattered. If I could transform even five lives, wasn’t that worth more than stuffed-to-the-gills galleries or raving press accolades?
The door at the far end of the room clattered closed. Once the space had quieted, I turned to face the ladder, clearing my mind of any thoughts but of the task before me. The ladder’s three rungs had been replaced with butcher’s knives, which I admit added little to the challenge other than a bit of showmanship.
Never waste the spotlight’s beam.
I climbed the ladder’s first rung with my breath held, distributing my weight evenly the way I had practiced thousands of times. The audience gasped. On the second knife I met a similar success, but on the final I moved too quickly, too eager to enter the coffin. The arch of my right foot dug into the knife’s blade, but I would not allow myself so much as a wince or whimper, not when the camera was projecting my face on the ceiling, not when my believers were counting on me.
I forced myself to take my time settling in, to fan out my hair on the black silk pillow like a Disney princess, if any of them had been enterprising instead of utterly useless. In minutes the lid would close. The crowd would swarm, snapping photo after photo. At that point, a smirk would dance on my lips. I would show them all how unafraid I was of the dissipating supply of oxygen. Let them one day show their grandchildren the face of the most fearless person who had ever lived.
I am goddamn invincible.
I stopped fiddling, barely noticed the warm blood trickling down my foot. I folded my hands across my belly as though I were already dead and took one final, effortless breath. To Gabe, I said, “I’m ready.”
Fear was etched into every crevice of his face, but he obeyed. Inch by inch, he lowered the thick Perspex lid until it latched closed. Immediately I felt the smallness of the space but reminded myself I was sheltered, not trapped. The difference between a cocoon and a straitjacket was perspective.
Under no circumstance was Gabe to release me; he would leave me to my fate until the agreed-upon time. I watched him poised above me, his arms extended, a boy playing ringmaster. He held a stopwatch in the air for the spectators to see. The cameraman focused on the timer’s face, displaying 0:00 on the ceiling.
“Welcome to Madame Fearless Presents . . . Entombed,” Gabe said. He clicked a button. The numbers began careening upward.
I could scarcely breathe.
23
Kit
JULY TO OCTOBER 2019
WHY I STAYED
During a class on grief management, I told the story. I said I was by my mother’s side every hour I wasn’t working while she slowly died of cancer. I had planned to skip my friend’s bachelorette party, but Mom insisted she’d be fine for the weekend. She had the in-home nurse, plus Nat had driven in to watch over her. So I went to Vegas. I let loose. When I got a call from my sister twelve hours in, I threw up. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone but I made her because I couldn’t move off that square of concrete until she’d said the word. When she did I crumpled, skinning my knees. I told my classmates I’d regretted taking the trip every single day since the phone call. I wanted my goodbye.
Ruth had Sofia retell my story as if it were her own. Afterward she asked if I thought Sofia was a bad person based on her actions. Absolutely not, I said. How could she have known? Sanderson suggested I write Mom a letter. Debbie said it was okay to talk to her like she was still here. Rebecca said the best way to honor Mom was to live a life brimming with possibility, glossy with fearlessness. She said I had to shine as brightly as Mom’s scarf.
I began attending the five a.m. yoga class. I hid in the back row, rusty after months without practice. I focused on my breaths, let sweat pour down my face, didn’t wipe it away. Pose after pose, my muscles burned up the guilt, gobbled the fear. After a week I moved to the middle row. Another week and I was in front. The new guests viewed me as their example.
Ruth encouraged me to put my own class together. I demurred but she kept pushing, secured special approval from Rebecca. Non-staff never get to lead classes, Ruth said. We all see so much potential in you. I took a whole day to plan it—I wanted to get the sequences perfect for my students. My favorite part was the end of class, when I got to tell the others how strong they were, how worthy of love.
Because of the exercise, I had more energy. I took on more chores. I tended the garden every afternoon, plucking garlic and arugula, unearthing potatoes. Once in a while I’d rest, squeeze soft dirt between my fingers, let the sun kiss my face. I mowed the lawn and skimmed debris from the pool. My skin tanned from the time outside. My arms grew toned with the physical labor. My face remained round and full—for the first time I didn’t care. I stopped criticizing my body, quit assigning it shapes of fruit.