“I haven’t signed up for any classes yet,” Lorna said. “What do you mean, concierge?”
“Morning meditation is not a class. We start each day by centering ourselves. Everyone on campus is expected to participate. Your concierge will explain all.” She pressed her palms together at her chest and bowed.
“Great, thanks,” Lorna muttered, but Xandra had already exited stage left.
With a sigh of annoyance, Lorna looked around the room. The beanbags were interesting, but there was no way she was going to humiliate herself by trying to get up and down from one of those. She picked a desk and chair in the corner of the room, as far from the door as she could be, and swiped the iPad to get started.
The first thing the form required was a name, which annoyed Lorna, since they already had it. Same for her address. She wondered if Driskill’s workflow design was responsible for this crappy interface. She would love to give that smug engineer Gordon her feedback.
She answered more routine questions, dashing off her yes-noreplies with little thought, until she got to a group of questions that gave her pause.Are you sexually active? What is your gender preference? Do you identify as LGBTQ+?
Wow. Nosy much? She couldn’t imagine what that information had to do with why she was here. Not that she completely understood why she was here, but unless they were worried about a venereal disease, she didn’t think it was germane. They had some nerve to ask.
From there, the questions became increasingly intrusive.Do you abuse substances? If yes, what substance and how often per week? Have you had any thoughts about harming or killing yourself in the last ninety days? Do you ever have any thoughts about harming or killing someone else? Do you ever hear voices? Do you sleep through the night?
She had the urge to harm somethingelse right this minute.
She continued down the list, dashing offno no no. Frankly, she wasn’t sure what embarrassed her more—that she was not currently sexually active or that she wasn’t cool enough to smoke pot. Why couldn’t they ask something that would give them real information about her, like did she have a dog? Everyone knew that dog lovers were generally better people than those who didn’t love dogs. Why didn’t they ask if she took care of her mother when she was dying with cancer? Didn’t that count for something?
By the time she finished, sharp pangs of regret for agreeing to this were shooting through her bowels.
A brisk knock on the door was followed by the entrance of a young man dressed in all white, his skin as dark as her suit. “Hello, Lorna,” he said.
“Hello... you.”
“My apologies, I should have said. I am Montreal.”
Lorna blinked. “Not Toronto?”
Montreal smiled. “Montreal. My sister is Toronto.”
“Seriously?”
“No.” He chuckled. “I’m an only child. Have you completed the intake?”
She handed him the white iPad.
“Wonderful. It’s time for the morning meditation. If you will follow me.”
With a grunt, Lorna got up. “For the record, I don’t actually do meditation.”
Montreal merely smiled.
She followed him down another white hall and into a gymnasium. At least here, there were people dressed in something other than all white. But there were a lot of those fluffy white bathrobes wandering about too. And she was the only person wearing a suit.Great, another fashion disaster. Just buy a few potato sacks and call it.
There were people handing out braided mats. Montreal handed one to Lorna and invited her to sit where she felt comfortable. “I’ll fetch you after our morning practice.” He smoothly disappeared into the crowd.
Lorna felt conspicuous. Like it was obvious to the dozens of people in here that she did not belong. She would have felt more comfortable in an office. But she found a space and put her mat down, then somehow maneuvered herself onto it, even crisscrossing her legs while praying her tight pants didn’t split.
There was a platform stage at one end of the gym, a lone ottoman the only thing on it. A man with a high bun of hair appeared through a side door, walked up onto the stage, then arranged himself in a seated position on the ottoman, his legs crossed, feet on his knees. He was not wearing white, but purple and green robes. A long gold chain with some sort of emblemLorna couldn’t make out hung from his neck. She sincerely hoped she hadn’t gotten mixed up with a cult.
“Good morning,” he said. He spoke softly through a mic pinned to his lapel, his pitch a little higher than she might have expected from looking at him. “Welcome, everyone, and a particular welcome to our newcomers. Could we have a show of hands?”
Lorna didn’t raise her hand. She didn’t want any attention. She mentally tried to squeeze herself into a smaller frame.
The man with the bun looked at the few hands that had gone up, clasped his hands in a prayer pose, and bowed his head to them. “Our morning meditation is designed to help alleviate stress and center one’s thoughts for the day’s work ahead. Please close your eyes and empty your mind. Let your breath be your guide.”
Lorna closed her eyes. Emptying her mind was impossible. All sorts of thoughts were pinging through just now.Will they let me leave here or is this a “Hotel California” situation? How long do we have to keep our eyes closed? Is anyone looking at me? What’s the deal with his sorcerer robes?
