|
Richard found out about Amemnos during the worst week of
his life. That Thursday morning, he was supposed to meet
with the hospital's attorneys at nine, but he couldn't
bring himself to head for the elevator. Instead, he milled
about the cafeteria, reading notices on bulletin boards
that he'd never bothered to glance at before. Over an ad
for libido-enhancing megavitamins, someone had pinned the
Amemnos Center's brochure. The group hosted retreats in the
wilderness west of Sedona. They promised room, board, and
insight, in exchange for manual labor. One sentence
resonated: "We're not interested in your past, only your
present." No one would expect to find a conservative
pediatrician there.
Richard arrived after a circuitous cross-country drive.
From the outside, the Center appeared to be a prosperous
lodge, but its sparse, poorly-lit interior reminded him of
a run-down summer camp. He'd planned to register under an
assumed last name, Errata, but just as he started to say
"I'm Richard Err--," the girl behind the front desk brought
up her hand to stop him.
"No need to divulge your full name."
"Really?" he asked.
"We equate last names with oppression," she explained,
forcing a smile. Then she bowed, as if she sought to model
proper posture for newcomers.
Richard adapted effortlessly, drinking in the Center's
regimentation and insularity. He appreciated the lectures
on ego reduction, the heavy chore load, and the meditation
sessions. He dined contentedly on meals devoid of salt or
second helpings, and spent each day's free moments
hand-washing one of the two uniforms they'd given him. It
soothed him to plunge the midnight blue coveralls into hot
soapy water.
One morning, Luke, who slept five beds down from him,
gently suggested he do a proper wash, and showed him where
to go. The basement laundry room reminded Richard of the
one in his son Charlie's apartment building, except that
these machines had no coin slots, and there were several
boxes of detergent lined up on the foldaway table. Richard
picked up one of the orange boxes and read the instructions
on its spine. I wouldn't want to put in the wrong amount,
he thought grimly.
He waited out the wash from a wooden bench. It felt strange
to sit there without a newspaper to read, or patient
treatment plans to review. Then he remembered what he'd
just been taught about the rewards of waiting. This moment
was a perfect opportunity for creed retention. Richard
moved down to the floor, and into the lotus position. It
felt more comfortable than it had at sunrise. He closed his
eyes to work on the equanimity chant: "I am safe and
reborn, filled with vigor. Blessings to all, wherever you
are in your own space. Special blessings to family and
friends who may not understand absence in pursuit of
presence. I neither judge nor intrude. I am neither judged
nor intruded upon."
Richard came out of his meditation when another man entered
the room.
"Hello," the man said. "I hope I did not interrupt you."
"Not at all." Richard said, standing up. "I hope I didn't
interrupt you." They shook hands.
"I'm Richard Eben," he said, forgetting both his assumed
name, and the Center's distaste for surnames. A frown
flickered across the other man's face.
"Sorry," Richard muttered, shaking his head. "I'm still
learning the ropes."
"Understood, friend," the man replied. "I apologize to you
for my passing-state of judgment."
"No problem," Richard assured him.
The man nodded. They looked into each other's eyes, and the
man began reciting a relevant shame-relief chant:
"Identifiers separate us. They are ephemeral." Richard
joined in: "We are complete as we are. We are entitled to
be free."
Later that night, lying awake on his cot, Richard recited
this chant over and over. During his first days at the
Center, both the meaning and the intensity of the
affirmations had held him in thrall. After that initial
stage, rhythm became paramount. The chanting's white noise
became psychic salve — emitting a buzz from the same part of
his brain that had ached since the day he learned of Jason
Newton's sudden death.
Oh my God, he thought. Tonight, even a shame-relief chant
was not strong enough. Remorse pierced his Amemnotic net.
He remembered the prescription he'd written for Jason:
Imipramine for bedwetting. No, saying he wrote it out was
an arrogant euphemism — he'd scrawled it. Despite the
importance of getting the dosage right, he raced through
the order without regard for how it would be deciphered by
the pharmacist off the lobby. He imagined conscientious Mr.
Cooper at his perch, reading over the instructions with
Mrs. Newton, offering Jason a lollipop. Richard couldn't
recall Jason's features, so he superimposed the
prepubescent version of his Charlie's face. The horror he
felt, for causing the death of another parent's child, made
him groan.
Oh jeez! In this darkness, he'd forgotten where he was. He hoped no
one else had heard him groaning. Perhaps they were all
asleep. Everyone here slept well.
He tried the chant again: "Identifiers separate us. They
are ephemeral. We are complete as we are. We are entitled
to be free."
As he mouthed the lines, he imagined writing them over and
over again on a chalkboard. It brought him back a million
years, to Mrs. Rose's favorite detention activity. Good
penmanship was her religion. As long as he executed his
cursive carefully — standardizing loops, spacing, and letter
height — she'd release him early. Clear punishment, followed
by a clear reward.
For a moment, Richard contemplated returning home to face
the disciplinary charges.
No, it was too late for that. He couldn't endure facing Mr.
and Mrs. Newton at the hearing, especially in light of his
cowardly response to Jason's death. He needed to stay here,
shrouded.
And now, if he could just get through a dozen rounds of the
incantation without interrupting himself, the momentum
might restore the chant's efficacy, and carry him toward
sleep.
|
