Page 18 of Racing Hearts

“You…” I stare at her, then sigh and pull forward the stand mixer, which seems to be made of pure steel as it weighs approximately a metric ton. “Never mind. Can I put this out of the way? Maybe on top of the cabinet?”

Mom materializes next to me with an antique chair and clasps the neck of the mixer. When I try to wave her off, she flexes a twiggy arm. “Yoga has made me strong.”

“Yeah? How many push-ups do you think you can do?”

“Pfft, push-ups. Yoga is about functional strength.”

I step back. “Let’s see it, then.”

To my surprise, my graying mother hops atop the rickety chair, lifts the mega stand mixer, and presses it on top of the cabinets. She spins, crossing her arms with the triumph of a gold medalist.

“Impressive,” I say. “I guess owning a yoga studio has more practical benefits than I’d realized.”

“The studio isn’t quite profitable yet. Something about paying bills with loans—I don’t know the details. But it certainly has nourished my soul.” She puts a hand on my shoulder, at first to steady herself as she descends from the chair, but then to pull me in close for another inspection. “One of my classes might be just what you need to restore your spirit.”

I break away so I can yank up shriveled brown plants from their chipped pots behind the sink. “My life isn’t just about this breakup, you know. I have training to think about, too.”

“I don’t just mean the breakup. There are serious athletes in my classes. Yoga could be the key to unlocking your inner strength.”

“Yeah? What kind of classes do you have?” Even though I doubt vinyasa is going to be the secret ingredient that helps me beat the Canadian powerhouse, I’m happy to visit her studio. She opened it six months ago or so—right after my last visit home. I doubt it’ll be around much longer, so this will probably be my only opportunity to see it firsthand. “We have power yoga at the center, and something like that might work for…”

When I turn to toss a wilted basil plant into the countertop compost bin, I see that Mom’s lips are curled, like she smells something bad.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Power yoga.” She says it like it’s a synonym for corporate or factory farmed.

“And power yoga is bad because…?”

Mom yanks a cabinet open and shoves her slow cooker in front of a stuffed elf that I think I won at an arcade in middle school. I guess I’ll reorganize that one later, then.

“Our classes are a sacred journey of the soul,” she says. “A dance with cosmic energies that transcends this mundane realm. We stretch, we chant, we sing, and through that harmonization, we unlock the hidden chambers of our souls.”

I blink. “So…not really yoga at all.”

She wheels on me. “It is more yoga than some boot camp regimen of squats and lunges. You would like it if you gave it a chance. Plus, there are nice-looking men there.”

I bottle up a sigh and turn to the refrigerator. I’m somewhat surprised it’s taken her this long to bring up her latest man. I’ve been home for at least four minutes, so she’d usually have found a way to tell me about the new Leonard, Javier, or Magnus in her life. That is, if he wasn’t hanging on her arm when I arrived.

“Tell me about him, then,” I say.

“Who?”

“The guy,” I say as I riffle through the fridge. To my surprise, instead of candles and sweaters, I find actual food. Not the array of high-quality proteins or fresh vegetables that I’ll need, but two kinds of nondairy milk, hempseed hummus, and a glass container filled with a sprouted grain that doesn’t seem to have molded yet. Odd. “The new man in your life. The one who you are meeting up with at the yoga studio.”

“Why do you think that?”

I bump my hip against the fridge door to shut it. “The thing you just said. About the men.”

Plus, she’s not currently cocooned on the couch clutching a paper napkin soaked in tears, so that means she’s in a new relationship, not getting out of an old one.

“I was talking about you,” she says.

I eye her, noticing, for the first time since I arrived, the healthy glow in her cheeks and the confidence in her posture. Come to think of it, I can’t even remember the last time Mom mentioned a boyfriend or even a casual date. Months, at least. Maybe even a year. Could Mimi Rose Parker possibly have been single for all this time? “You’re not dating anyone?”

“You don’t need to sound so impressed.” She purses her lips and, only because I’m her daughter, I can read the hurt in her eyes.

“Right. Sorry,” I say reflexively. “I’m just a bit negative on this whole ‘relationship’ thing right now.”