Retreat

by Lauren Sharon

Retreat

My name is Sara Jane Felt. I am childless. Synonyms please – barren, incomplete, loser. Through a series of biological failures:  miscarriages, fizzled fertility treatments,

A stillbirth.

Today, like every day, my husband, Danny tries to join me in my loss and grief. “I’m childless too,” he says. Maybe. He takes Zoloft. I suspect being medicated is the only way he can continue to be married to me. Miss Mopey. He’s Mr. Dopey thinking he can cure me. With his relentless pep-talks to cheerlead me to good mental health.

“Come on babe, every moment is a chance at a new beginning.”

His mood boosting strategies, e.g., exercise with its feel-good endorphins.

“Come on babe, sweat out those bad feelings.”

The trips to refresh and invigorate:  Saratoga Springs with its carbonated water purported to heal body and soul; Sedona, the red rocks exuding energy and ditto, a small patch of beach in Cape Cod, all to ourselves, where we sunbathe absorbing plentiful amounts of Vitamin D. When Danny reaches for my hand, I stand up and walk away.

“Babe, where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “That’s the problem.”

He’s always giving me exactly what I don’t need.

I see he’s breathing deeply, fortifying his frontal cortex for rational thinking as he prepares to present yet another medicinal moment.

“How about a healing weekend at the Black Birch Abbey?” he says.

“Oh God.”

“Exactly. A buddy of mine at work…” He clears his throat. “He and his wife went on vacation with their ten-year-old son – white water rafting on the Colorado River. The boy fell in the water and drowned. The dad said the kid’s last words were, ‘This is so great.’ You know what that is? Guilt. Real guilt. His wife found closure at the Abbey.”

“Our son,” I say, referring to the stillbirth, “could have been a scientist conducting experiments on the International Space Station. Not a mere dead body at the bottom of a lake.”

“River… Wait till you hear this, Sara. Not just God. The Abbey offers a theatre program, with the exercise to prepare for creative risks, falling backwards, into the arms of other attendees. It’s also a way to build trust. How great is that? How great is trust? If that’s not your thing, the Abbey has an arts program where you can paint or sculp or make jewelry. Beading is a totally legit way to reach a meditative and peaceful state.”

“Why?” I say, looking at the Amazon truck across the street.

“Why not? Is the glass half full or half empty? The Abbey has an animal husbandry program with lots of cows and sheep. They even have a llama. Gentle walks together are encouraged.”

“Hand and hoof?”

“Seriously, Sara, when you arrive at the Abbey, you’re assigned a Spiritual Mistress who picks a piece of scripture specifically for you. Later you meet one-on-one to discuss. That’s the God part.”

“To what end, Danny?”

“Closure.”

“There is no closure.”

“If you don’t like any of that, you can be alone in a beautiful, wooded setting and reflect on your role in the universe.”

“I’ve spent years alone ‘reflecting’ – on what went wrong, what I did wrong and why our son is dead.” 

“I like being alone, being alone is good, at least for a weekend, where I can have some guys over for a beer and not feel guilty… Meet new people, Sara. Please. Make new friends. I see that look on your face. Forget the friends. Food! The Abbey’s food is farm to table and the meals, I’m sure, delicious. You say I cook with too much oil. Danny is talking with increasing speed. Maybe he thinks if he buries me under enough obsessive details, low on oxygen I’ll submit. “They make cheese,” he says. “The Abbey does. Incredible cheese that people from around the world come to buy. I’m talking Belize, Chile, Nova Scotia, Romania, Dubai. That cheese is real cheese.”

“I like cheese.”

“You’ll go?

The truck has driven away.

“Were there any deliveries from Amazon today?”

“No deliveries.”

I decide to go. Our largely one-sided conversation has gone on long enough.

“He never would have been home for dinner,” Danny says.

“Who?”

“Our son, if he worked on the International Space Station.”

*      *      *

Holiday cards strung from one end of the neighborhood to the other, like Tibetan prayer flags. I hate Mother’s Day, ridiculous in its sloppy sentimentality, commercialism, and dairy-free brunches. All from which I’m excluded and not even my cleverest of putdowns can change. A good time for a weekend retreat at the Abbey. I had ulterior motives for agreeing to go and yes, I like to see Danny sweat. Somebody’s got to pay for what I’ve lost. Except I can’t find the Abbey. My GPS no longer works as I drive through wooded backroads in Connecticut, searching for this modern-day Shangri-la with cheese.

Oh God. I’ve found it. I’m looking at half a dozen weathered buildings in complete disrepair. Synonyms please – ramshackle, crumbly, decrepit – rotting wood everywhere. Even the forest which surrounds the buildings is a disappointment full of, you guessed it, black birches, a stringy tree, easy to snap a limb, that lacks the gravitas of an oak or maple.

No Visitor Information Center. No concierge parking. No people. The grounds are completely empty. One possible source of life – a gift shop. It’s closed. In the silence, images and sounds bubble up inside my head and I need to find someone, something fast to distract me. I enter the largest and hopefully sturdiest building, and my life flashes in front of my eyes. I don’t like what I see. If that’s confusing, the answer is ‘Yes,’ wherever I go I find myself, which at this moment happens to be in a narrow vestibule with a single light bulb overhead, At the end of the vestibule, a Nun appears from behind a black curtain. The fabric from her habit matches the curtain nicely.

“I’m Sister Placid. We have been preparing for your arrival.”

“We?”

“Yes, the Community.”

“Do you have hidden cameras here? I haven’t done anything – unless you can decipher intent from footprints in dirt.”

“Would you like to do something? There are many opportunities for engagement at the Abbey.”

“Tell me something, Sister. Where is this We? You’re the only person I’ve seen.”

“Here,” says Sister Placid.

“What are you taking about? This place is dead. Not even a bird is chirping.”

“God speaks in silence.”

“God…speaks…in silence. You know that makes absolutely no sense.”

“For those who listen, it does.”

“Let’s try this again. Hi, nice to meet you. My name is Sara – without the h.”

“Have you considered adding the ‘h?’” says Sister Placid. “In Hebrew the ‘h’ represents God’s grace.”

“How about we compromise, and I put half an ‘h’ into my name which would be an n, Saran.”

“An alternate form of Sarah. You could also try Sally or Sadie. Sarina perhaps?”

“You know Sister, you’re good at emotional jiu-jitsu.”

“You’re good at being angry.”

“You would be angry too if you had a stillbirth, and hired a medium to reach your son, and when he spoke through the medium all he did was cry.”

“He was an infant. Did you expect full sentences?”

 “Aren’t Nuns taught to be empathic?”

“I am empathic. As for your need to talk with the dead, Leviticus 19:13 clearly states,

‘Do not turn to mediums or seek out spiritualists for you will be defiled by them. I am the Lord your God.’ Also, a bereaved mother is an easy target for a scammer.”

“Geez. Louise. I came here to do a little jewelry making and pet a llama.”

“That you can do.”

“Where’s the guesthouse?” I’d had enough of Sister Placid.

“Down the hill. Meals are in the refectory next door. If you’re hungry you must eat within the next hour. After that the kitchen is closed. Here is your work assignment.” She hands me a piece of paper folded in half. 

“Work?”

“Your choice.”

“My choice meaning… to work or not to work?”

“It’s up to you,” says Sister Placid and then disappears behind the curtain.

*  *  *

Too late to drive home and wanting to avoid Danny with stubble, eating beef jerky, I go to my car and grab my overnight bag. Feeling disoriented, I wonder if I’m going in the right direction but then remind myself downhill goes only one way. And voila! There it is, redundant as that may be, a two-story house sided with white clapboard. Refreshingly well-maintained. Synonyms please: spruced-up, spiffy, a jewel.

Inside I’m immediately let down by the overwhelming smell of mildew. The kitchen is unlit, the living room barely lit and populated with couches and chairs facing in a cacophony of directions. What’s harder to believe; how bad the place is or that there’s actually another human being in here, on a couch, reading a book? “Self-help?” I say. “Seven Story Mountain, an Atlas with directions how to get out of here?” The young girl looks at me and doesn’t laugh. Silence overtakes the room. We’re in a verbal gun fight. I draw first.

“Where are the bedrooms?”

“Upstairs.”

I find a bedroom at the top of the stairs. I’d been hoping for a king-sized bed with luxury pillows and a view. What I find is a metal-framed cot, with hopefully clean linens, a wood bureau I’d be embarrassed to give to a thrift shop and a rocking chair with a hole in the wicker seat. Fortunately, I’m used to not getting what I want. Yup, the window won’t open, and the tiny room is stifling. At least the electric fan on the bureau works. For that I’m willing to say, “Amen.”

The bathroom offers more joys of Abbey living. The sink is streaked green, and the faucet is corroded with years of mineral buildup. The shower’s faucets are also corroded and on the tub’s edge, in shadow, sits shampoo and a bar of soap in which someone’s hair is stuck. The hair is black. The Young Girl’s hair is blonde. The final insult is the toilet seat made from faux wood and broken, sitting unevenly over the bowl. I retreat to my room and sweat. I’m alone again, and hear my baby boy wailing, inconsolably. If I can get The Young Girl to talk, she’ll drown out the sound, like white noise fighting off tinnitus.

Walking down the stairs is easy, but picking my way through all the furniture isn’t. Baby steps.

“Hi there, I’m Sara.”

“Faith.” She puts her book down.

“Tell me, Faith. How did you get roped into coming to the Abbey?”

“No rope was involved. I’m not a dog or calf or even Isaac, bound by his father and set on an altar for slaughter. I came willingly.”

“That’s exactly what I meant.”

“Sister Beatrice helps me with my problem.”

“Which is?”

“Envy.”

“One of the seven deadly sins. The other six are pride, greed, lust, gluttony, anger, and sloth. I also know the 13 original colonies – New York, New Jersey, Rhode Island…

“I know you think you’re funny but you’re not.”

“My husband tells me the same thing.”

“Well, you should listen to him, because he’s right.” I may have drawn first, but her aim is better.

“Let’s try this again. Hi, My name is Sara. Tell me about your envy.”

“I’m always thinking about people who have legs of the same length. Day and night. Legs. And more legs. That’s all I can ever think about because I was born with one leg shorter than the other. In the womb, the doctor thought I was a dwarf.”

“You’re not?”

“I’m not what?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“My mom wanted me to have leg-lengthening surgery. I wanted leg-lengthening surgery. My dad said we couldn’t afford it. My mom yelled and said it wasn’t a nose job or a boob job or stupid fat removal. She wanted to take a second mortgage on the house to pay for it, and dad said we wouldn’t be able to make the payments. We’d be homeless. I’d have to deal. I met Sister Beatrice a year ago, at the Abbey’s Farmer’s Market. She was nice. Gave me a big hug. Acted the opposite of how most people do around me. Most people turn away or get away as fast as they can. No one wants to see my limp or my left leg swing like Tarzan on a rope to clear the ground. Sister Beatrice was the one who taught me, “A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones.’ Proverbs 14:30.”

“You have closure.”

“No. I have a heel lift and a cane.”

Baby Jake has fallen asleep inside my head. Time to go. “I’m kind of hungry…” I say.

“I get it.” Faith goes to pick up her book. Then stops. “I just thought of something else, Sister Beatrice said. Envy makes you cannibalize yourself. If you keep it up, you’ll cannibalize the people around you. After everyone is eaten, you’ll still be hungry.”

I wave good-bye, with my back turned and skip on my two legs of equal length, up the hill to the refectory. Unfortunately, it brings me no joy.

*  *  *

Inside the refectory and wow! The architectural monotony is amazing. The interior of the refectory is all wood like the buildings in the compound – wood paneling on the walls and one long wood table in the center of the room with wood chairs on either side.

Four girls in their 20’s huddle at the center of the table. Faith would fit right in if she was here – except for her leg. Maybe that’s why she’s not here. One of the Young Girls says, “My brother is bipolar and while in a manic state tried to stab me with a pair of scissors.” “Oh no,” “Horrible,” “How frightening,” say the three Young Girls, one after another, sounding like a perpetual canon. The last Young Girl who spoke adds, “Sister Beatrice says forgiveness is the best path to take.”

I’m seated at the end of the table and feel the need to puncture this reckless naivete. “Not so fast. The better path is anger,” I say. “Forgiveness makes you weak. Anger fuels you, keeps you alive. Without anger you’ll be depressed in two seconds, and that’s the pits. The laundry piles up. My personal style is waffling between the two. Anger. Depression. Depression, Anger. Drives my husband Danny crazy. One thing – you need to be careful with your anger. For example, I know I can’t take my anger out on my friends, because I won’t have any, or on the dog, that’s animal abuse, or the reference librarian because she won’t help me find the books I want. That’s why I take it out on my husband.”

I hear a Young Girl, the one in the sheer blouse who knows she’s pretty, and without a doubt the reason Faith isn’t here whisper, “Selfish.” Before I launch into my retaliatory attack, demonstrating my very strategy, a woman of a certain age, my age, sits across from me.

“Hi, I’m Lily.”

By habit, not interest, I answer, “Sara.”

“I know who you are. Your husband told my husband, and my husband told me that you would be here this weekend.”

“Was it my cheery demeanor that identified me?”

“Oh no, your husband, told my husband, and my husband told me what you looked like. Dark hair, middle-age…”

“I know what I look like.”

“How do you like the Abbey so far?” says Lily.

“I’ve found everyone that I’ve met rude, obtuse and deeply unengaging.”

“There’s a lot of that going around,” says the girl in the sheer blouse to the Young Girl directly across from her.

“You’ll get used to it,” says Lily.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Job is nice,” she says.

“Who’s Job?”

“The llama.”

“Why should I care about a llama?”

“I know. It’s hard to care about anything after you son dies.”

“Smooth transition. Yes, my son died. What of it?”

“My son died, too,” she says.

“Stop right there. That’s my story.”

“That’s our story. Lily reaches for my hand. I muster my resources and pull away. I can’t allow the spell to be broken. Jake, my baby boy and I may live in Narnia, but it’s the place where we can exist together. “My husband and I had a memorial plaque placed on a park bench for our son, outside his school,” Lily continues.

“That gave you closure?”

“Closure is a process.”

Which is another non-answer, a dubious forte of the Abbey. I cycle at Mach speed through depression and anger that culminates with my wanting to choke Lily. I don’t feel like forgiving anybody. Certainly not The Nuns, after I realize there is no table service in the refectory. Instead, I have to walk to the back of the room where a tray is shoved at me out of a dark hole in the wall. On the tray:  a hunk of brown bread, salad, and the Abbey’s world- famous cheese, a mass of large curds in liquid resembling an accumulation of cancerous cells.

The Young Girls are chatting away happily about Sister Beatrice’s invitation for tea and Sister Placid’s afternoon get-togethers and Sister Leonard’s lecture series on Spiritual Resilience. “Does anyone know when I’ll be invited to one of these events by The Nuns?” I say interrupting their flow. No one answers. No one even looks at me, although they do seem to find things of extraordinary interest in their laps. I look into my lap. Nothing is there – except my hands. Since the death of my son, I never know what to do with them.

The Young Girls leave en masse. Lily wants to pal around together. I say, “Your lack of closure is repugnant, and I need some space.” I think this may be what Danny means when he says I push people away. My usual dilemma starts as soon as Lily leaves. Alone, I’m lonely and have no idea what to do with myself. I wander the compound. That’s when I see Sister Placid. Where is she going – to eat, to sleep, to meet with someone who isn’t me? “Sister!” I holler. “Sister. My weekend package at the Abbey includes spiritual guidance and my spiritual mistress is MIA.”

“All in good time,” she says.

“I was supposed to meet with her as soon as I arrived at the Abbey. As a little refresher, I’ve been here for at least an hour. You’re on the brink of false advertising.”

“Interesting. As soon as you get frustrated you start swinging scallions.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m making an allusion to the Sephardic tradition at Passover, where Seder participants take turns whipping each other with scallions.”

“Why?”

“To mimic the lashes of the Egyptian slave drivers.”

“The bulb side?”

“Oh no, that would leave marks.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I have a Ph.D. in Comparative Religion.”

“You’re already a Nun.”

“I care deeply about humanity.”

“Well, if you care so deeply about humanity, I’m here to inform you I’m a human and I want to meet with my Spiritual Mistress.”

“I can’t give you what you want, only what you need.”

The Abbey seems to be full of esoterisms, which shut down my brain. I’m unable to generate even a single vicious repartee, and with my mental motor stalling, she makes her escape. I’m alone again. Synonyms please:  abandoned, deserted, ruined. I toy with purchasing a ticket for a production of Fiddler on the Roof from the community theatre down the road. I’d noted the sign advertising the production on my drive to the Abbey. I like musicals. Fantasy with humor or pathos expressed through song. Maybe that’s been my mistake. I should be singing my way through life. I retreat to my little hotbox of a room to sleep with the dead and soothe my inconsolable son.

*  *  *

“Here is your vacuum cleaner,” says Sister Beatrice.  She may have taken Faith into her arms when they first met, but not me. I “chose” to fulfill my work assignment because the Gift Shop is still closed. “You’re to vacuum the church for Vespers later today. Pay special attention to the bottom of the windows where you’ll find an abundance of insects.” The windows are floor to ceiling and as I look from the back of the church toward the front, they appear infinite. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”

“Yes,” I say, as I see with satisfaction, the Young Girl who wore the sheer blouse at the refectory, walk into the bathroom, a small bucket of cleaning supplies dangling from her arm.

“Sister,” I say, “Are we going to discuss my spiritual needs?”

“We are discussing your spiritual needs,” she says and walks away.

“Where’s the outlet? Sister?”

I vacuum thinking about jewelry classes and beading and making a bracelet with elastic thread, red bead, gold bead, red, gold, and my baby, Jake. In my mind he’s always perfect. In life, I don’t know who or what he would have been – troubled, rebellious or like Faith, with one leg shorter than the other, envying others with perfect limbs. I wonder what kind of mother I’d have been under those circumstances. What if he’d been a dwarf? What kind of mother have I been? If I’d been a good mother, Jake would be alive. Danny says, “That’s ridiculous.” Not to me.

Two hours later, I’m jerked back into the moment when Sister Esther taps me on the shoulder. “I see you had an excellent meditative experience,” she says.

“Not really,” I say.

“Put the vacuum cleaner in the closet at the front of the Church.”

“Not really,” I say louder.

The Sister walks away. People walking away from me seems to be a growing trend at the Abbey. Danny says I push… I think we covered that already. I briefly loiter in the lobby of the Church and then stand outside. As people begin to arrive for the Vesper service, I pretend I’m waiting for someone, trying to buy time to decide what I should do next. There’s nothing to do next so I decide to stay for the service.

*   *   *

Seated, I peruse the crowd. As usual, I spend my down time estimating the ovarian function in the room. The girls just at puberty have 300,000 plus ova; the four Young Girls together have about 600,000; the women at 40, maybe 5,000 a piece, and so on. I’m at about 5 million ova in the room, when I conclude with myself. At menopause I have 100 ova. I don’t need to say anything more about that. We hold these truths to be self-evident… Thankfully, at that moment my attention is drawn to the doors on each side of the altar which open. The Nuns file in. They’re singing in Latin, and I can’t understand a word they’re saying, but the chanting sounds nice. Synonyms please:  Restful. Relaxing. Hypnotic. The late afternoon sun comes through the insect free windows and casts a subdued light. Maybe Danny was right. This is just what I needed. My mind is quiet, and I forget about my childlessness, menopause, and endless grief. I think I’m meditating, was meditating because if I’m thinking the moment is gone. Samadhi. Sweet. Faith is on the other side of the room. Her lips and fingers move as her eyes travel through the rows of seats counting the legs in the room. I see we have something in common. She looks up and waves at me. She probably has special antennae for disparate leg lengths, prostheses, and limping. The Four Young Girls catch my eye and wave in unison. The one who wore the sheer blouse is waving the most. There must be something in it for her. The Holiest of the Holy. A hand is waving wildly at the back at the room in my direction. Lily. Of course. She’s patting the seat next to her.

When the service ends, everyone leaves, walking right past me, even Lily who has barnacled onto one of The Young Girls. That’s when Faith comes over. “He’s going to break my leg,” she says.

“Who is?”

“The doctor. My mom pleaded with him. Showed him a picture of me. He said I was a pretty girl.”

“That sounds…”

“Great! I know. Lots of physical therapy, crutches, maybe a wheelchair for a while, but I don’t care. It’s all going to be worth it. I can’t believe I’m finally getting what I’ve wanted forever. I love my mom so much.”

Someone deliberately breaking a leg sounds gruesome to me. Like being asked to give placental tissue after a stillbirth for research.

“Good luck,” I say.

“I don’t need luck. The Sisters are praying for me.”

Praying for her? I can’t even get a meeting, that was paid for in advanced.

What I need is a lifesaving infusion of anger. Nothing. I’ve got nothing. I feel depleted. Synonyms please: played-out, tapped out, beaten. I want to go home. No matter what hour I arrive, Danny will make me dinner, and no matter what he makes, oily or not, it’ll be better than any food at the Abbey. He’ll tell me my legs are beautiful. I’m beautiful and what a good person I am. I think I’m having an insight which is as painful as giving birth. Danny is the good person. His collection of annoying habits, most prominent the picking of his cuticles until his fingertips are bloody and raw is trumped by his kindness – at least for the moment.

As I trudge back to the guesthouse to collect my bag and prepare to leave, I bang into a black wall of fabric. I think I may have hurt myself. “Hello, I’m Sister Leonard.”

“Who cares,” I say.

“I’m your Spiritual Mistress.”

“Good for you.”

“Is something troubling you, my dear?”

You’re late,” I say.

 “On the contrary, it seems to me I’ve arrived at just the right time. Although I can understand why you might feel differently. Nonetheless, your anger does seem disproportionate to the actual circumstances.”

The woman is built like a brick, but there’s no way I’m backing down. “Let me tell you about my circumstances. Ever hear of Diane Nyland?”

“Do you mean the lesbian, atheist swimmer?”

“She’s also a motivational speaker and competed on Dancing with the Stars, but good enough. Sixty-four years old, she swims from Cuba to Florida. What’s the first thing she says when she gets out of the water? ‘You’re never too old to chase your dreams.’ A soppy, bullshit aphorism.”

“You’re right.”

“You’re damn right, I’m right. I finally get pregnant. Carry to term. My son is a stillbirth.”

“I understand.”

“That is an overused, meaningless, and simplistic platitude. There is no way you could possibly understand the loss of my only child, my one chance at motherhood.”

“I’m a mother, too. I joined the order when my husband died.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have five children. The oldest was also a stillbirth. My third child was killed in an automobile accident. He wasn’t driving. My youngest died from a heroin overdose.”

“You have two children left. I have none.”

“No matter, how many or how few we lose, ‘Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.’”

Have I finally gotten something I wanted? “Is that scripture? My very own personalized piece of scripture – The Book of Job, the Psalms, Ecclesiastes?”

“Norman Cousins.”

“What does he have to do with the Abbey?”

“Nothing really.”

“Who is he?”

“Does it matter?”

None of it matters, yet I’ve been acting like it does. Sudden understanding descends. The Nuns have been employing a rope-a-dope strategy since my arrival. Set-up, I’ve thrown my punches repeatedly and exhausted myself, while they’ve patiently waited for their knock-out moment.

“You win,” I say. “What does Norman Cousins mean?”

“What do you think he means?”
“Oh come on. You’re A Nun, not a psychoanalyst.”

“I’ve had some pastoral training.”

“Sister, stop! I’m worn out. I’ve been tested enough.”

“Try a little harder.”

“I’ve tried hard enough. Tell me.”

“It’s pretty obvious.”

“Not to me. What does it mean?”

“Lay down your scallions and let the dead rest.”

I begin to tremble. Sister Leonard puts her arms around my body and holds me like a baby.

Author Lauren Sharon was awarded Honorable Mention in Writer’s Digest 2023 writing competition (mainstream/literary short story category) and was a finalist for the Marguerite McGlinn Fiction Contest. Her short stories have been published or are forthcoming in The Madison Review, Portrait of New England, Glassworks and other literary magazines. She has a Certificate in Creative Writing from Fairfield University.

Artist Roger Camp is the author of three photography books including the award winning Butterflies in Flight, Thames & Hudson, 2002 and Heat, Charta, Milano, 2008. His work has appeared in numerous journals including The New England Review, Witness and the New York Quarterly. Represented by the Robin Rice Gallery, NYC, more of his work may be seen on Luminous-Lint.com.