The Second Chance of Theo St Clair

 After a failed suicide attempt, Theo is forced into a rehabilitation retreat but finds an unexpected reason to stay in Finch.

The dining room of ReMind Retreat smells like fresh-cut kale. 

You wouldn’t think kale smells like much, but in the humid gloss of the cafeteria, I can almost reach out and stroke the aroma of verdant organic greenery dancing through the air with my fingers. I haven’t eaten kale since my mother made our whole household subsist exclusively on it during one of her more fadish diets. Even so, I get the sense that kale will be a regular experience at ReMind.

I’m sitting at one of the low tables dotting the dining hall. I say sitting, but it’s really more like kneeling because the retreat has opted for plush colourful floor cushions instead of chairs. The thick plumes of sandalwood incense drifting from the centrepiece of our table is making my nose itch and coaxing a fledgling headache into existence. I am numb and hot and tired. But because we are here and because I am trying, I smile at my parents and accept a bowl of wilted kale with fresh tahini. Health, as my mother says, starts in the stomach. 

“It's nice here, isn’t it?” she asks now, watching my face closely. I hate seeing her on this tightrope I’ve strung between our family, always teetering so as not to disturb my own balance. I mull my kale through the muddy sesame sauce and nod into the glazed ceramic bowl. 

“Really nice.”

“Remember, you can always call us. Any time. We aren’t going to be far away if you need a break. I know they’re strict about visits, but I’m sure we can sneak up for a few hours.” 

I watch her glance towards Dad and plead with her eyes for assurance. She sounds like she’s talking more to herself than me. 

“I know.”

She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand so hard I have to hide a wince. Dad doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are misty and he’s twirling zucchini pasta around and around on his plate without bringing the bite to his mouth. He’s barely said anything all day, so I catch his hand in mine and we sit there like a strange, sad starfish of silence. 

After lunch, Mum spends an eon fussing over my room – fluffing the lilac linen bedspread, checking for dust on the windowsills, darting out to the garden and bringing back a big bunch of wild daisies that she props up in an empty Sprite bottle. She looks at the listing flowers on the thatched bedside table for a moment, sniffs once, and then nods. She has put off the inevitable long enough. 

“I guess it’s time for us to head off,” she says and folds me into one of her signature hugs. I feel hot, silent tears dampen my shirt and I almost break then. She smells like soap and home and it's all I can do to ball my eyes shut so tight they hurt. If I let the tears come, I might drown in them.

“I’ll see you soon,” I whisper into her shoulder as Dad wraps his arms around us both. “Tell Teddy I miss him.” She laughs and nods, kissing the top of my head.

“He’ll miss you too. I can hear him barking from here.”

We sway for a moment, wrapped up in each other like tangled fairy lights, and then unravel. A flurry of movement, a scuffle of bags, another volley of hugs and then I am alone. 

Utterly, terribly alone. 

I pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands and take stock of the room. It's all warm oiled wood and burnished autumn light. A decal on the wall pronounces in nearly illegible calligraphy to ‘ReMind yourself that life is precious.’ I almost laugh.

Sessions don’t start till tomorrow. Six weeks of this; of group therapy, meditations, kale lunches and quinoa dinners. I know I should be grateful. I saw the invoice on Dad’s desk and the red figure at the bottom made my stomach do a sick little kickflip. 

If I were brave, I would walk out of this room right now, sit down with someone new in the dining hall and let my hair curl in the cafeteria’s steam – make an effort to connect like the pamphlets said I should. If I were good, I would go for a walk in the woods beyond the retreat and sink into a pile of dead leaves, watch the clouds scud across the sky and weep with the joy of being alive. If I were anyone but me, I would embrace the rare gift of this second chance. 

But I’m not, so I crawl under the dusky sheets and lie with them over my face till shadowed sleep takes me whole. 

Chapter 2

At exactly 7 am, there’s a tidy little rap on my oak door. I know it's 7 because I’ve been staring at the minimalist clock on the wall whizzing around for hours. It's one of those clocks with a little hand that doesn't jump from one second to the other, but spins smoothly with no interruptions. It only serves to heighten the feeling that time is slipping away like an eel in my clumsy hands. Then again, I remind myself (or ReMind myself, as the wall decal commands), time is all I have. I am wealthy beyond belief in a world where time is currency. 

The neat rap comes again and I sit up, letting out a creaking acquiescence. A woman opens the door and she looks like ReMind Retreat for Troubled Teens in the flesh. Floating kaftan of purest white, prayer beads wound around her neck like a noose, long auburn dreadlocks piled high on her head. She’s young, maybe 35, but her eyes crinkle with kind crow’s feet as she smiles at me. 

“I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself when you arrived, did I?” I almost answer because she’s posed it as a question, but there’s no need. “I’m Tempest, the director here at ReMind. We’ll have a more in-depth catch up soon, but I just wanted to pop in quickly and let you know it's time for morning meditations. You would have seen that on your schedule, of course.” There’s a subtle command in her serene voice and I wonder if I should have been waiting in my yoga gear, ready for my chakra aligning, instead of counting the seconds. “Meet you in the temple in fifteen!” she says, and moves to wake the unlucky inhabitant of the next room down. A thought catches her and she looks back over her shoulder. 

“Oh, Theo? I just want to say, I’m so glad you’re here. I have a feeling this place will really suit you.” 

I nod, not sure whether to lie and agree or stay quiet. She crinkles her eyes at me and then flutters out the door, leaving a scented gust of mint tea leaves and something vaguely earthy – maybe mushrooms? – in her wake. I hear another prim knock down the hall and a groan from whoever’s inside. 

In five minutes I am berobed in new workout shorts and a vintage t-shirt that I dug up from the thrift store years ago with a picture of a hotdog eating a person. 

‘See how you like it!’ the hotdog proclaims, mouth wide as the terrified human waits, wrapped in their bun, for death. I thought it was funny when I bought it, but now it just makes me sad.

The temple is in the garden; a sprawling, lofty cathedral of skylights and ready-rolled yoga mats. I must be the first one Tempest woke, because I am alone in the space. Beyond the walls, a mossy Japanese zen garden with a slow-moving river winding through it muffles all sound. Even the birds are silent, scuffling noiselessly around in the trees and shaking dry autumn leaves from their boughs. It strikes me that this place is beautiful, and I might never have seen it. The idea is not as comforting as I know it should be. 

In time, a few stragglers trickle in. ReMind is small, only hosting 20 ‘Troubled Teens’ in total. The waitlist, I hear, is long. I only got bumped up because of what happened – Teen in Crisis, they call me. 

A beautiful girl with long braids walks in first, trailed by several others. The girl’s skin glows luminescent in the morning light, almost the exact shade of the temple’s oiled wooden walls. 

She radiates an inexplicable sense of health, and a secret bitter part of me wonders what landed her in here. She flicks her eyes over me and I feel my spine curl involuntarily. Pretty girls always make me scared. 

She takes a position at the back of the temple, and it is not too dissimilar from the cool kids claiming the back seat of the bus. The other girls fan out around her – one small and blonde, another tall and dark-haired – with the practised ease of a ballet recital. 

I remind myself – sorry, ReMind myself – that I know nothing about them. They could be the loveliest, kindest souls to walk this earth and clearly, by virtue of being here, we share some common experiences. Still, I cannot shake my fear, my hesitance. Pretty girls and I have a history. 

A boy walks in then, lanky and freckled. He smiles at me, gap-toothed and wide, before taking a mat in the front. The hall fills up, slowly then all at once. I have no idea what to expect of this meditation, of this place. Are we supposed to become friends with each other? Are we supposed to stay quiet and work on ourselves? Do we learn about each other's trauma or keep our own closely guarded, shared only with the specialist on-site psychiatrists? I am reminded of how sullen I must look in my little corner and try to school my body into a welcoming pose. 

I am trying. I will try. 

Tempest billows into the temple, carried by a cloud of good energy, and swirls to a halt at the front of the room. We face her and she us; our guide through turmoil and into the valley of what I imagine she must call ‘good vibes’. I want to trust her leadership, but I am an untrusting thing. 

“Ok team,” she says, melodious voice echoing off the rafters. “Welcome to ReMind, or welcome back to our repeat guests.” That’s what they call us, their guests. Patients is more accurate, but doesn’t sound so nice on the brochures. “A sunrise salutation is on the agenda for today. I want each of you to greet the dawn, and each other. I know that many of you are feeling lost and out of whack in a new environment, but we are all here to help. At ReMind, we grow together. We heal together.” She emphasises the word together and my earlier questions are answered. We are expected to bond.

“So let’s begin with a quick tone setting, shall we? Please sit on your mats and repeat after me.” We all shuffle into a sitting position. I cross my legs beneath me like I did in primary school during reading time. 

Tempest faces us, face serene and eyes closed. She starts humming, and then the sound transforms into words. She has the voice of a guided meditation. 

“I welcome love into my heart,” she says. 

“I welcome love into my heart,” echoes the room, a cacophony of voices melted into one river of sound. The temple walls drink up our affirmation. Tempest smiles, eyes still shut, and begins to rock gently on her yoga mat. 

“I will heal my soul with the universe’s energy.”

“I will heal my soul with the universe’s energy,” the room repeats. I haven’t uttered the words yet, but the temple is begging me to. Join me, it calls. Don’t you want to be well?

“I offer my love to others and heal alongside them.”

“I offer my love to others and heal alongside them.” Like love is the currency for some get-well-quick scheme. What do the rest need with my love? I need it for myself. I am time-rich and love-poor. 

“I open my soul to the hand of peace.”

“I open my soul to the hand of peace.” Does the hand of peace wear gloves in winter? Is it manicured? 

“Beautiful,” breathes Tempest, slowly opening her eyes. She beams at us, her little garden of wilted sunflowers, and vows to water us with her love. It’s written all over her face, this need to nurture. I hope she doesn’t realise my stomach is full of herbicide. 

She bows to us and gracefully stands. “Now, time for some yoga.”