A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

Ben looks like Richard, like Richard and the ex-wife. He's the kind of combination that only DNA can make — a little bit of this, a little bit of that. He can hear himself in Ben's voice, but he sees her in Ben's mouth — Ben has her mouth. Richard bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying.

"When did you last see him?" Meredith asks.

"Not since September," Richard says. "Nine months."

THEY ARE STANDING around the computer watching, and the phone rings. His sister-in-law answers and hands it to him.

"Me?"

She nods.

Who would be calling? Ben, to say he's sorry — that, yes, he does want to talk to Richard every day, twice a day even?

"Hello?" Richard says.

"You're going to hate me," the crying woman says. "I did a really bad thing." He doesn't say anything. "Sorry to bother you," she says.

"It's fine," he says. He can't imagine what she could have done.

"I don't know what I was thinking," she says. "I invited my family to come to the hotel. The room was so big and luxurious — it felt strange to be here by myself, and I thought it would be a way of making up. I was feeling a little bit better, more hopeful. After the kids went to sleep I tried to be romantic; my husband couldn't have been less interested. He said there was no way you were letting me stay here without wanting something, and what was it? I told him it wasn't sex and he got paranoid and said you were going to try and get money from him. I said you had enough money and he said there's no such thing and in the morning he made us check out but only after they raided the minibar, had room service, and ate like pigs. I'm so sorry." She starts to cry. "They were like a herd of elephants."

"Don't cry," he says. "It's not worth crying about." He walks out of the room, taking the phone with him. "It's only money."

"I packed your salmon, thinking it shouldn't go to waste, and I got in the car with them. And then, a few blocks down, at a red light, I opened the door and jumped out. I ran all the way to Santa Monica, walked into the emergency room at St. John's, and said, I think I'm going crazy. They thought I was a homeless person. I'd tripped at one point and sort of fell off the road into some dirt, and so I looked gross. When I tried to explain that a man I'd met in the grocery store had put me up at the Four Seasons and that I'd invited my husband and kids to come for the weekend and it hadn't gone well, they asked if I had a history of psychotic episodes. Was I hearing voices or seeing anything out of the ordinary? And when I tried to leave, they said they weren't sure it was advisable. I signed out against medical advice. As I was leaving, a nurse said I should enroll in something called day treatment — apparently it's like being in a mental hospital during the day but you're home in time for dinner. She said it helped her son. I told her that being home in time for dinner never helped any woman with children and got the hell out of there."

"Where are you now?"

"Standing outside Ralph's, on the pay phone."

"Do you want to go back to the hotel?"

"I don't think that would work. When are you coming home?"

"I could come tomorrow," he says.

"That would be good."

"Are you going to be all right? I can make you a reservation somewhere else."

"I can take care of myself. Ralph's is open late — they know me here."

"Talk to you tomorrow," he says, hanging up.

"It's nice that you've got someone," Meredith says when he hangs up.

"It's not what you think; it's a crying woman that I met in the produce section."

"I should get the kids ready for bed," she says.

He is still thinking about the crying woman, still holding the phone in his hand. He calls his ex-wife. "What's the name of that place you go to in Los Angeles, the spa?"

"Which one?"

"Where you don't bring anything and they feed you based on your age and weight."

"Golden Door? It's about a hundred and fifty miles outside of L.A."

"It's a long story, but I have a friend who needs to get away."

"Call and pretend you're from my office — why are you whispering?"

"They've all gone to bed. I saw pictures of Ben, he's so big."

"He looks like you," she says.

"He has your mouth," he says.

"I should go," she says.

He calls the Golden Door.

"It's serendipitous. Normally I wouldn't know if there was space — I'm not the reservationist — but we just got a cancellation, someone who's afraid to fly. Can your friend get here by Sunday? Does she fly?"

"She drives. Can you put it on my credit card?"

"What's the guest's name — last name?"

"I'm going to have to call you back with that; her first name is Cynthia."

"Usually we send out a welcome packet a couple of weeks in advance, with health questionnaires, luggage tags, info on what to pack."

"That's OK, she's really healthy and doesn't have a lot of luggage. Is there anything special she needs to bring?"

"Whatever she likes to sleep in, a few days' worth of underwear, and a sports bra. We provide the rest."

"Great. Hold the spot, and I'll call you back with the rest of her information."

He is pleased with himself for doing something, taking action. He gets the number for Ralph's and asks if they can page a shopper in the store.

"Is it an emergency?"

"I wouldn't be calling otherwise."

"What's her name."

"Cynthia."

"One moment."

"Would shopper in the store Cynthia please come to the manager's desk at the front of the store. Cynthia, please report to the front of the store."

"That's funny," she says. "They must have said it three times before I realized it was me. I was just finishing a cake."

"Eating a cake?"

"Decorating — they were letting me try the icing bag. It's fun here at night; they set up a huge buffet from the day's mistakes — deli meats sliced wrong, bags of chips 'accidentally opened. Everyone munches. Nice people, a lot of them have other day jobs. I think I could work here; I mean, I do know a lot about food."

"I got you into a place called the Golden Door; it's a spa — hiking, healthy eating, massages. It's in Escondido. Can you get yourself there Sunday morning? Fly to San Diego, or take a bus?"

"I know what it is — that's where super-fancy people go, like Gwyneth Paltrow. Oh no, I can't go there, I don't have any clothes."

"You don't need clothing — three pairs of underwear and something to sleep in." He can't bring himself to say "sports bra." "They provide everything. Just go down the aisle at Ralph's and put together a little bag for yourself." He gives her the address. "It's better than being in a mental hospital."

"And what about you?"

"I'll come home tomorrow and start again. By the way, what's your last name?"

THE PAIN RETURNS. He is lying in the twin bed of his brother's son, hoping it is the same pain, and not the IT pain. In the morning the pain is still there; he says good-bye and thank you and drives to the airport.

The house is where he left it — stabilized. His answering machine is blinking. One message — Lusardi.

"I saw something that prompted me to think of you — a workshop, 'Transcending Suffering.' Here's the number. Let me know if you have any questions."

The pain is so intense that he'll try anything. "Hi, I'm calling about 'Transcending Suffering'?"

"Starts tomorrow."

"And what exactly is it?"

"This is what it says in the catalogue." She reads in a rapid monotone. "' "Transcending Suffering" — a seven-day intensive working with the complexity of our relationships to pain, grief, and loss. Conducted in silence. There will be daily teaching talks and private interviews scheduled at the discretion of the instructor. Geared towards those with previous meditative practice, but open to all. The fee is eight hundred and fifty dollars and includes dormitory-style housing and meals.' All other services are extra." She stops for breath. "Joseph, the instructor, is very inspiring, older, very in touch. Check-in is one to three p.m., and the retreat begins at three p.m."